The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Piscator]

Sight: Sky blue
Sound: Raspy
Scent: Jasmine
Taste: Garlic
Touch: Silk

November skies, which should be
grey with a cold east wind,
cold rain and sleet
remain disturbingly
clement, azure and sunny.

I venture out to the garden,
to harvest the last of the leeks
and carrots; then to plant next year’s
garlic and maybe seed some spinach.

Too soon the sun will set and as
dark descends, I’ll retreat to my
lonely abode to sip her flowery tea
watching the rising supermoon
while I listen to his rough hewn
voice on scratchy vinyl and run
her favourite scarf across my
flaccid member.


Sight: lighthouse
Sound: children’s laughter
Scent: wood smoke
Taste: salt
Touch: granite

 

[greenmountaineer]

Vanderbillt


He shipped him in later than others
to make the stone lighthouse his Gladys
could play in with her dolls
in the backyard overlooking the sea.

Why, you could even taste salt in the breeze
on a hot summer's day, arriving by train,
to the Breakers, the granite mansion's name,
100 stone cutters built for him,

but only Luigi remained
as he listened to Gladys while she played
by the stove the servants would tend to
when the family visits for Christmas

and Luigi is sent back to Italy
where ninety-nine other stonecutters stare
at the gaunt faces of families
because what stone is left cuts to the bone.


Sight: pine tree
Sound: car engine revving
Scent: pig roasting
Taste: corn fritters
Touch: pet dog

 

[Angeline]

Sight: pine tree
Sound: car engine revving
Scent: pig roasting
Taste: corn fritters
Touch: pet dog

American Song

Now we know destiny
delivered a Thanksgiving for the Ages--
Neil with a Helpless coke booger,
Joni, Bob, Levon-- angels all
faded out out brief you know
Bill Graham hung silver candelabras,
fed turkey dinner to the masses

whilst a continent away
engines skidded a-revvin
up the Parkway into the smoky
stride of Gotham hustle belching
free of the Tunnel hell bent for 6th
and Second Avenue, the other house
where Frisco took Manhattan
and Jerry burst fireworks like bells
in his strings singing grounded sounds--
organic and the light show
tries to make your head go reverb

geez

how can you not believe
in miracles if you lived before
the Internet before we were
well met among the dark pine trees
north of north and each carrying
whole histories of song, mobile unit
south to hippie Mayberry where pig
is done right smokehouse blue skies,
sunshine cobbled and corn frittered
like hand pies is how we do.

I got a hairy dog, silky like Bobby
Weir and I named her Chinacat
just to be contrary.

~~~


Sight: neighborhood
Sound: wild turkeys
Scent: juniper
Taste: ice
Touch: satin

 

[todski28]

Sight: neighbourhood
Sound: wild turkeys
Scent: juniper
Taste: ice
Touch: satin

the wheels turn over the rolling road
potholes jostle and bounce
graffiti scrawls proud defacement

wild turkey clinks glass bottle
to glass bottle
imitation satin soaks up the bleeding
defiance of moving on
somewhere the scars
are ice in my mouth

she lays
in the hands of the mended
aches of clawing away layers
of hate

she lies swaddled in coos
and baby speak
the past rolls on the highway
council filled in the potholes
black splotches
that don't jar your teeth together
no more

she squalls out injustice
and I shush her
whispering
I know
but the future smells of juniper

sight: something distant
sound: door handle turning
taste: chilli or peppers
touch: muscle
scent: something intoxicating

 

[greenmountaineer]

Angelina Rodriguez


I'm four days from Christmas in Newark
on the darkest day of the year
at five o'clock late for an office party,
paperwork stuffed in my pockets,
as Angelina, knowing what for,
signs her name in the form of a cross
"para la vagina," Angelina
reads on the bottle she'll take tomorrow
"sí, sí a la farmacia"

whom I imagine once in the life,
working the bars ten until three
with a razor blade inside her cheek
for beer breath muchachos who wouldn't pay,
and if a night's work meant only renta
to pay a landlord who looked like a priest,
she'd find some way at four a.m.
still looking for a little con carne
to add to her chili, onions, and beans.

She dead bolts the door as we listen
coincidentally to some Don Juan,
putting muscle into the mattress
and Soñia Martinez, once on el Welfare,
until we found out how much she made,
cashing in above the ceiling
during an otherwise dark silent night
when you lock your car and take your thermos
of Jameson's, coffee, sugar, and cream
because all the men who hang on the street
have the same look sun, snow, or rain.

"Un poco café, Doña Angelina,
con un poco de whiskey?"
who smiles at the honorific
and primps her snow white hair before
she goes to her kitchen, one of four walls,
where she opens a package of Twinkies
she puts on a tray with five and dime mugs.
"Feliz Navidad, Señor."

sight: snow
sound: bells
taste: chestnuts
touch: any fabric
smell: exhaust from an automobile

 

[UnderYourSpell]

4 am a cold Christmas morning,
before even car exhausts can sully
the crisp, breath stealing air.
He strides through the snow
not even shivering in the denim jacket,
so inadequate for anyone, let alone
a man with no home.
He hurries onward, past the now
cold ashes of the hot chestnut stall
eager to hear the bells of St. Margaret,
calling the faithful to prayer.
For them an uplifting of pious voices,
for him a fleeting warmth
on a day the same as any other.

sight: a fallen child
sound: raised voices
taste: blood
touch: coal
smell: freshly cut oranges.

 

[rawsilk]

sight: a fallen child
sound: raised voices
taste: blood
touch: coal
smell: freshly cut oranges.

Watched her scoop up a fallen child
Lick your lip no more blood
Listen child to the raised voices
Christmas Carols will flood
Streets with people rushing about
Coal dropped down with a thud
Roasting chestnuts are such a joy
Snow and dirt turn to mud
Stop, smell freshly cut oranges
Buy lilies still in bud
It's Christmas Time with all its treats!

sight: a flying kite
sound: singing birds
taste: chocolate mint
touch: cat's fur
smell: fresh cut grass

 

[KatieJones]

sight: a flying kite
sound: singing birds
taste: chocolate mint
touch: cat's fur
smell: fresh cut grass

At the window she watched
the cat bathe its fur and giggled
at the idea of licking her hair
instead of showering. After
a poorly timed minute
she surprised no one but herself
by eating the chocolate
mint instead of melting it
slowly on her tongue. Summer
days started with the sharp
starter’s crack of the screen door
slam and she flew off the top step.

A kite in the wind headed
nowhere and everywhere
waving at blackbirds, flying
over piles of grass, smashing
over-ripe blueberries into jam,
in search of her own rabbit hole
and perhaps a wild rumpus.
Her mind drifting
between the good and the better
but never ahead. Senses absorbing
no more than the moment.

Now

the girl is grown and she wonders
when the looking glass shrank
and who killed the wild things.
Whether we don’t actually lose
our senses with age
but trade them away for watches
and a palm full of gold.
Whether we paint the world
in black and white and march
along looking for tomorrow
amidst drudgery and screams
repeating that we have no choice
when in reality
we all wear ruby slippers
and the power to see
over the rainbow is with us all along.

sight: a line of birds on a telephone wire
sound: something quiet
taste: sweet
touch: snow
smell: water

 

[todski28]

sight: a line of birds on a telephone wire
sound: something quiet
taste: sweet
touch: snow
smell: water

Kookaburras line the lines
dacing on swaying cables
their laughter
chills
cuts the quiet
till it bleeds
an echo of derision


Holding snow
hoping it wont melt
into wet tears
that taste sweet

I hold tight to silent stoicism
a shield of silence
that hides the screams

Sight: dust
sound: creak
scent: electricity
taste: grit
touch: flesh

 

[JoanneA]

Kookaburras line the cables
Dancing on decaying labels
Their laughter cuts the silence. Chill and break an echo
bubbles through the stew and brews a scream holding
pity in a stoic's dream - the ozone leaks down in their gritty eyes
long since rubbed raw gushing scraps of contacts like the TV
that only plays the news they want to hear.

sight: pale blue sky
sound: rushing air
scent: cold air
taste: almonds (or nuts of any kind)
touch: envelope

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight: dust
sound: creak
scent: electricity
taste: grit
touch: flesh


The sky opened and we danced
naked in the rain
wet skin sliding against wet skin
the shower washing the sawdust kiss
of your lips
stripping the remnants of the day
until it all falls away to free
laughter rises to the sound of thunder
flashes bring the scent of ozone
to send us running inside
where a storm rages

drifting into the calm
cradling you as sleep comes
gentle creaks of the bed
commune with rumbly snores
as fairies float and swirl
through a ray of sunlight
shining across your feet




(from the post above)

sight: pale blue sky
sound: rushing air
scent: cold air
taste: almonds (or nuts of any kind)
touch: envelope

 

[Remec]

sight: pale blue sky
sound: rushing air
scent: cold air
taste: almonds (or nuts of any kind)
touch: envelope

Autumn


She asked what season I liked best,
and I paused,
unsure if she meant time of year
or kitchen additive, but
figured those would be seasonings,
and then I paused for real,
like, to think about it,

I mean,
there's only four, true, but the way
they blend one into the next,
often within the same day,
makes it hard to really pick one
over another,

So I closed my eyes and let
heart and brain fight among themselves
with memory and rationale
until each sense had its say,
and the rapid echoes of the wind
resounding in my ears, leaving
the scent of its chill in my nostrils,
ridding the sun of cloud cover to
hide in--nothing but azure emptiness
as far as the eye can make out--
made me think it had to be
the tail end of Autumn, when we
would have steaming mugs of cocoa
with freshly ground nutmeg to sip
while munching on those warm
pecan wheels from the corner
bakery (and, yes, she'd have baklava,
but she always did prefer walnuts
and almonds) and, before I actually
said a word, she produced a small
envelope and held it to her forehead
and pronounced "Fall" in her best
Carnac the Magnificient voice

How she did that, I never did find out.
~~~~~

sight: burlesque performance
sound: crunching
scent: Avon
touch: lace
taste: flopsweat

 

[Piscator]

sight: burlesque performance
sound: crunching
scent: Avon
touch: lace
taste: flopsweat

It’s not the Folies Bergère, just a down on its luck strip mall strip bar, but the beer is cheap and the women, flexible, at least in the moral sense sometimes physically too as they prance on stage and grind against the pole.

There are two types of men here, the hockey guys, who all have team jackets and arrive en masse, the first ones ordering enough draft to cover the table, always, one located next to the stage. They'll whistle, hoot and holler at the girls, sometimes stuffing dollar bills in their g-string. Occasionally after a few drinks and if one of the guys has a birthday Rosie or another of the older gals will pull him up on the stage and dry hump him on her third song, which usually gets her another dance or two at their table.

The second type are the loners like Don who come in alone after work and sit in the back. He’ll order a beer and a bag of peanuts and drink it slowly throwing the shells to the floor where they crunch underfoot. Must be hell for the girls in their heels but that’s not his problem. When he’s on his second beer, Rosie or one of the other girls will come around and they’ll go to one of the booths downstairs for a private dance. On the first number shell rub her lacy brassiere in his face and then pull it off and he’ll suck her tittie even though all the Avon she wears cannot cover the taste and smell of sweat. By the second number, she’ll have everything off and rub his cock through his slacks. It’s dark, warm and decadent and he almost always cums. She’ll giggle and take his money and he’ll go home to his dinky apartment and his laptop.

sight: starry winter night
sound: Great Horned Owl calling in the distance
scent: wood smoke
touch: ice
taste: Scotch



Started as a poem, ended up more as prose. So it goes.

sight: Big Dipper on a clear cold winter night
sound: Great Horned Owl calling in the distance
scent: wood smoke
touch: ice
taste: Scotch

 

[Remec]

sight: Big Dipper on a clear cold winter night
sound: Great Horned Owl calling in the distance
scent: wood smoke
touch: ice
taste: Scotch

Winter Holiday

I would have preferred an
enclosed porch, it being winter
and all,
but the patio wasn't terrible
once we had the fire pit up
and running,
a strong roaring blaze that I am
sure could be seen for miles
on such a clear night,
so crystal that I think I was able
to spot the Big Dipper without
any problem at all,
usually Orion is the only thing I
can simply pick out of the
sky,

But I settled back on one of the
lounges, breathing in the warm
woody smoke, and sipping at
a similarly woody glass of Scotch.
I know friends who would fuss
at me terribly for having it on the rocks
instead of neat, but I like playing
with the ice as I drink,
plus I usually dislike Scotch and
the slight watering down helps
make it more
palatable,

This has been a nice break in a
routine that has become almost
a rut, nothing but the same
wake, dress, work, sleep each
and every day, with moments in between
to catch a little tv or game
with friends,
maybe write a snippet of this
or that,
here it's just chill and relax,
the only thing to listen to
his the fire, the crickets,
and the occasional call of
the Great Horned Owls in
the forest out
back.
~~~~~

sight: political figure
sound: static
scent: cheap cologne or perfume
touch: pull of one's heartstring
taste: bitterness

 

[KatieJones]

sight: political figure
sound: static
scent: cheap cologne or perfume
touch: pull of one's heartstring
taste: bitterness

Fucking through the Foils

I wondered why it was called missionary
and smiled at the irony
of the implied saviour while I licked
his shoulder and we waited to die.
It was bitter
from a coat of drug store body spray
and youth that would never age.

His hands were rough, his fingers
greedy and rushed while he consumed
me like a man who knew his meal
was about to be taken from his plate.
I thought about showing him
what I needed but what did I need
when nothing would ever be repeated
and everything seemed as pointless
as this act of fruitless procreation.

I could see a soundless image
of Kim Jong-un undulating
on the television, a static drone
replacing the patriotic notes
of his parade while we fucked
in time to his marching soldiers. I knew
the time for hope had ended
but still I wanted him to come.

Taste: coffee
touch: glass
scent: baked goods
smell: burning
sight: a sign

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

I really like that, KatieJones.

Was that you behind the steamy glass?
You, cradling a coffee protectively,
double double doubtlessly, while I
stood burning in the rain waiting
for a sign that you needed me.
The brioche was untouched...no appetite?
Then you stood and I realised
I didn't need you at more.


sight: meercats
sound: rap
scent: Fabreeze
touch: tickle
taste: peppermint

 

[Remec]

sight: meercats
sound: rap
scent: Fabreeze
touch: tickle
taste: peppermint

I was lounging in the shade of the grand pavilion tent we had brought along. It had seemed a bit of an extravagance that we barely even needed, but I thought a first safari should, by all rights, look like one. Besides, it gave the porters something to be hauling around.
On the day of the incident, as I said, I was lounging and enjoying a bit of Jäger with Cheryl and trying my best to ignore some sort of rapping in the distance. It was an off and on sort of noise; nothing I recognized but I got up to look around.
Whatever it was was unnerving the local fauna, as well, as several of the nearby meercat colony were also standing and looking. We all stood and did this for several minutes, until they decided it was nothing and Cheryl decided she needed me to tickle her with my moustache.
Somehow, she tasted more of peppermint than the Jäger had.


(Too prosey?)
sight: fish
sound: train
scent: fresh cut grass
touch: reptile scales
taste: brackish water

 

[Tzara]

I was lounging in the shade of the grand pavilion tent we had brought along. It had seemed a bit of an extravagance that we barely even needed, but I thought a first safari should, by all rights, look like one. Besides, it gave the porters something to be hauling around.
On the day of the incident, as I said, I was lounging and enjoying a bit of Jäger with Cheryl and trying my best to ignore some sort of rapping in the distance. It was an off and on sort of noise; nothing I recognized but I got up to look around.
Whatever it was was unnerving the local fauna, as well, as several of the nearby meercat colony we also standing and looking. We all stood and did this for several minutes, until they decided it was nothing and Cheryl decided she needed me to tickle her with my moustache.
Somehow, she tasted more of peppermint than the Jäger had.


(Too prosey?)
sight: fish
sound: train
scent: fresh cut grass
touch: reptile scales
taste: brackish water

Cabo San Lucas

We winched up the marlin Arnold caught
to serve as backdrop. No selfies, here--

the captain took a proper picture of us, all
cigars and too-long hair,

as if we were still so far young
to drink too much and ogle

the thin, suntanned prostitutes
who hovered like hungry seagulls

all about the boat.
I wanted to just lay there in the sun,

a few days longer to avoid edging Marilyn's
perfect lawn with its cloying scent of harvest,

the smell of Suburbia, its cheap
tonic water salting my gin,

the snake-like slip of skin on skin
our sex has finally settled on.

My sunglasses here are like ears, listening
for an imaginary train. The one

I can ride away to happiness. To someplace
that is always, always fun.

Sight: Tall building
Sound: Street noise
Smell: Vape or cigarette smoke
Taste: Acrid
Touch: Something soft, like skin or fur

 

[greenmountaineer]

Sight: tall building
Sound: street noise
Smell: Vape or cigarette smoke
Taste: Acrid
Touch: something soft, like skin or fur

Gentrification

A barista wafts Sumatran steam
up his nose in a storefront scene
above which Cha’rell et alia lived
and through open windows heard all the shouts
and cuss words of smelly unemployed men

before the eminence of domain
painted the den and living room green
whose new bow window lets in the light
on a nose, a bill, and a razor blade.
Oh look, you can see the New World Trade!

They won’t let you park on the street,
and with mass transit Mercedes farts
her diesel just one day a week
each Sunday on her way to the Hamptons
sucking on a Virginia Slim
in a sundress and a bikini
that wear as smooth as a second skin.

Go west young women with children to Newark
where sour milk and Wheaties are cheap,
and if there’s a window facing east,
the Arthur Kill has storage tanks
of oil that look like wedding cakes
they sell at “The Power of Flour, Inc.”

Smell: cigar
Sight: bungalow
Sound: traffic
Taste: hot dog
Touch: any pet

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Penny Street

On the corner lives a couple in a bungalow
and in their garden is a copper coloured pug.
It likes to bark at all traffic as it passes by,
I wonder why.
On the other side a fat man runs a hotdog stand,
his regulars all call him by his name.
He often has a Famous Smoke, but not lit up.
Such a shame.

Smell: vinegar
Sight: church steeple
Sound: Eleanor Rigby
Taste: chicken soup
Touch: fingers

 

[Remec]

Stakeout

Smell: vinegar
Sight: church steeple
Sound: Eleanor Rigby
Taste: chicken soup
Touch: fingers

He sighed and had another sip
of Martha's chicken soup,
she'd given him an entire thermos
of it when he left their flat,
was barely even a cold, just a sort
of dull congestion in his nose,
but not so much that he couldn't help
but be tempted by Rogers' chips,
all hot and steaming and smelling
of salt and malt vinegar, but he
just left them alone, impatiently drummed
his fingers on the dash, and returned
his concentration to the local parish,
idyllic little vicar's cottage and
vaguely Gothic church with its
great stone steeple, not sure what
they hoped to discover here, but
it was bound to be something urgent
for the case, until they found it, though,
he had his soup and a copy of Revolver
"Now, what track is Eleanor Rigby, again?"


sight: shooter
sound: pop music
scent: fresh baked pizza
touch: rough
taste: happiness

 

[KatieJones]

sight: shooter
sound: pop music
scent: fresh baked pizza
touch: rough
taste: happiness


Doughy waves of heat
swirled with sun-warmed basil
and tomato beckoned
to our stomachs as we walked
by the pizzeria. I could hear
George Michael on the owner’s radio
singing a happy sounding song
that contrasted with the doubt
that darkened the lyrics.

Your hand was rough around mine,
calloused from your work
on our home. Our lips met
in the middle of my ice cream,
you called it stealing a small taste
of happiness and smiled
before you fell to the sidewalk
and everyone screamed, shooter.

sight: a stone wall
sound: something loud
scent: dust
touch: rock
taste: water


P.S. Thank you, GuiltyPleasure!

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

The quake lasted three minutes
seeming more like fifteen.
The low rumble grew to a roar,
the racket of falling china and glass
deafening and, in the silence after,
the sound of water gushing
from broken pipes. When we ventured
out the whole side of the church's stone
wall was a pile of rock, the empty pews
begging for prayers, too late. Neighbours
helped those needing it, some wandered
aimless, directionless until some in less
shock took the trembling hand.

sight: old growth forest
sound: distant gunfire
scent: hot tar
touch: silk
taste: tears

 

[Tzara]

The quake lasted three minutes
seeming more like fifteen.
The low rumble grew to a roar,
the racket of falling china and glass
deafening and, in the silence after,
the sound of water gushing
from broken pipes. When we ventured
out the whole side of the church's stone
wall was a pile of rock, the empty pews
begging for prayers, too late. Neighbours
helped those needing it, some wandered
aimless, directionless until some in less
shock took the trembling hand.

sight: old growth forest
sound: distant gunfire
scent: hot tar
touch: silk
taste: tears

Ecotopia: Revolution

We could still hear the gunfire
as we hiked, double-time,
ascending into the redwoods.

Willow cried as I kissed her,
and the salt on her cheeks
made me think

of blood. Of Jason, felled
by a sniper's bullet
as he lit the kerosene

we had spilled over the roadway.
The melted tar stuck to his body
as he burned

and the smell followed us
most of the way up the ridge.
When we were under the canopy,

we went well off-trail
and bivouacked
on the high side of any path

the Federals might have taken
if they even pursued us
at all. Later, I wept

as we coupled, at how her skin
had roughened during our trials.
Nor satin, nor silk,

yet so, so resilient.
We only had to move our rifles
once in that peaceful night.

Sight: An open plain
Sound: A low murmuring
Smell: Burning vegetation (e.g. leaves or grass)
Taste: Something with a strong aftertaste
Touch: Something very dry

 

[RubiDia]

Axes and Owes

Paint thinner - pipes taste like a winner!
Medicine man roasting - over an open fire
and ready for dinner.

A steady walk over the rocks blocks
the talk that retires - his generation
can't tenure a political prisoner.

Hugs and kisses, my Mrs.
You're pissed quicker than that shaman's trick is.
The light in his eyes is your only surprise?
Remind me to tell you when you run out of space
for the look on your face.
Find a spirit to chase!
You won't like what it fixes.

Sound: ringing
Sight: blood
Taste: copper
Smell: baked potatoes
Touch: wood