The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Piscator]

Sight: some piece of furniture
Sound: any specific song
Smell: fried food
Taste: cola (in whatever form you choose)
Touch: something forbidden

This broken down leather covered Lazy Boy chair
which my wife bought from her 300 lb cousin
when he was moving to Texas doesn't fit
with the rest of our furniture, and I long to
junk it but she won't let me.

It still smells of onion rings and on hot days
it's sticky and I can almost taste the Royal Crown
and Crown Royal whiskey that his highness
sipped while watching WWF on the tube or
listening to the Stones' " Paint it Black" over
and over again on his too loud stereo counsel.

I'd love to junk it but she won't let me
because it's all she has left of him.


Sight: the downstream vee as you approach the rapids
Sound: rushing water
Smell: ozone
Taste: electricity
Touch: the paddle in your hand

 

[Tzara]

Sight: the downstream vee as you approach the rapids
Sound: rushing water
Smell: ozone
Taste: electricity
Touch: the paddle in your hand

Upper Clear Creek, Near
Idaho Springs, Colorado

the air smells sharp with ozone,
tastes like an electric shock—

one that runs along your limbs
like eagerness or anxiety

that you try to keep from turning
into dread at the churn

of the water, narrowing
down to a slot that will drop

you into the rush among the rocks,
the roar like a rough blanket

thrown over your ability to hear
Michael shouting dig hard,

dig hard as you cut and fin
the water, thick as gelatin,

clutching the paddle like it's your life
that the river is trying to suck

out of your wet and aching hands



Sight: abandoned machinery
Sound: something metallic, clinking in the wind
Smell: oil, kerosene, or some other petroleum product
Taste: either a cigarette or dust or both
Touch: something extremely smooth

 

[KatieJones]

Sight: abandoned machinery
Sound: something metallic, clinking in the wind
Smell: oil, kerosene, or some other petroleum product
Taste: either a cigarette or dust or both
Touch: something extremely smooth

Alone in the abandoned
fields of my grandmother’s farm
I lean into the wind, hoping
to hear my name
float through time. To see
familiar eyes
inside the glass
teeth and splintered crosses
of empty frames but there are no faces
only hollow darkness in the windows
of what has devolved
from home to house.

Without the living
anchors of life
dust blows
into my eyes and mouth
always moving
in contrast with the forever
parked tractors and rakes
whose exoskeletons have been claimed
by the unquelled green. Their metal bones
smooth and faded, faintly smelling
of the diesel they bled
long ago. Looking up
the rigging of the flag pole
clinks
clinks
clinks
without its sail, counting the seconds
until our narrative dies
and all our headstones sink
into the soil.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Dave's Fill'er Up Beeville, Indiana

They used to call it
“ Last Chance Outa Here”
before the ghosts took over.
Rusted jalopies, paint a memory,
litter the scrub behind the building
that’s barely there any more.
The two pumps, Regular and Premium,
stand side by side but distant
as if embarrassed to be seen together
in this state of dishevelment, still wrapped
in the perfume they didn’t choose that will
never fade. Premium’s nozzle hangs loose
playing a monotonous tune in the hot wind.
Percussion is provided by the flapping Camel
sign nearly worked free from its crucifixion
after years of trying. Here’s an antique stone jar.
Moonshine? Molasses? Sand blasted
to a satin finish. It is our souvenir.


Sight: a wedding
Sound: arguing
Smell: cooking food
Taste: fizzy water
Touch: something prickly
.

 

[Desejo]

The other woman's dream

There could have been
dancing
Men shimmying hips

joy punctuated in index fingers
stabbing
kebab scented air

We might have awoken
to sparrows
arguing in fig trees

sips of last nights Perrier
fizzing like salted alkaseltzer
on our tongue

our tongue

your morning beard
a thousand and one
needles

marking me
as yours

++++++++
Sight: sunrise
Sound: fan
Smell: heavy perfume
Taste: vinegar
Touch: Plastic

 

[Tzara]

Sight: sunrise
Sound: fan
Smell: heavy perfume
Taste: vinegar
Touch: Plastic

Lost Weekend

When I woke, the sun was just rising
above the horizon, round and red

as a glass of grapefruit juice. My left cheek
was stuck to the plastic sheet we'd laid

down on the floor and my mouth
still sour from the vinegar in the cheap dressing

I'd been drizzling over her hips
last evening like a tyro at a salad bar.

The smoke had cleared out, though—at least
she'd left a fan running with its little

white noise purr—but her Shalimar still wrapped
me in its heavy coat of scent,

giving me a headache and I knew I needn't bother
to check my wallet, if she'd even left it,

but that didn't really matter since I'd boosted
the credit cards anyhow and I could feel the screwdriver

still in my back pocket so I could hotwire
that Country Squire in the parking lot, switch

its plates and make it back to Pomeroy
at least in time for lunch.



Sight: A figure or figures in the distance
Sound: Wind or aircraft noise
Smell: Dust or pollen
Taste: Whiskey
Touch: Steel

 

[Angeline]

Sight: A figure or figures in the distance
Sound: Wind or aircraft noise
Smell: Dust or pollen
Taste: Whiskey
Touch: Steel


Stormy Weather

They're blurry in the distance,
these ghosts of late grow mythic

when the wind is blowing trees
to a frenzy of whipping branches.

The clouds are full. It's foggy
outside and in me so I can't see

my ghosts, just the outlines, vague
shapes I render clear in memory,

but we all know it's not the same.
If I drank I'd pour scotch neat

and let it burn some warmth
into me. I'd touch the sink, anything

made of steel, tell myself I can
be this strong again even as more

ghosts join the gray line
that has become my horizon.

Maybe pollen precipitates this fug.
Maybe it'll rain tomorrow.




Sight: Traffic sign
Sound: Music
Smell: Smoke
Taste: Water
Touch: Netting (mosquito net, fishnet, etc., you pick)

 

[greenmountaineer]

Mt. Marcy

The sign said 3 miles to the top,
too late in the day to go hiking
that far, but what did we care?

We had our transistor radio
and listened to Billy Joel
to no one there but the privy

where no one else smelled our brand of smoke
or tasted our canteen water
in our busted mosquito net tent

until the tequila sunrise
on this the shortest day of the year
whose night was long enough for delight.

Taste: hamburger
Smell: diesel
Touch: a shoulder
Sound: Mozart
Sight: sundress

 

[KatieJones]

Taste: hamburger
Smell: diesel
Touch: a shoulder
Sound: Mozart
Sight: sundress

No One Drinks at This Watering Hole

Four nameless strangers
have stopped for fuel
each aware
of the other
but no one speaks.

Deus Grievous Angel
leans on his bike
his helmet under his arm
Oakley’s making it hard
to guess where he’s looking
until his head fully turns
to watch two bare legs
swing from the little Honda
that just pulled in.

At pump two a grey door opens
releasing the notes
from Mozart’s violin
sonata No. 28. They fly
from the car as a flock
and circle Audi A4’s black suit
his Tom Ford’s completely failing
to hide that he’s also staring

as white accord flips
her drugstore sunglasses up
pushing summer-blonde wisps
from her face. With each movement
sundress straps slip
down freckled shoulders
until she leaves them
where they want to be

to the delight of Chevy Colorado
who is juggling a hamburger
and the diesel gas pump.
Distracted
he almost bites
down on the metal
which causes a small smile
as she flips her shades down
and slides into her car, leaving
everyone thirsty
for her superimposed perfection,
a disparity
in the face of the differences
in each of their eyes.



Taste: lemon
Smell: anything outside
Touch: wrist
Sound: metal moving
Sight: umbrellas

 

[todski28]

Taste: lemon
Smell: anything outside
Touch: wrist
Sound: metal moving
Sight: umbrellas

I am gears grinding against
the lemon tang of myself
as if you letting me in
the feel of hot breath
my teeth against your wrist

the way sheets needed an umbrella
to stay dry because I know wet
words that touch deep
because I know moves
that crack desires
a lure that glimmers passion
in murky water
a fresh scent amidst life's stagnation

I became your adicktion
losing sight
of the fact
you are deeper than I
can penetrate with just
my cock alone

that the skin is
only finite connection
and that once
cravings have passed
all I am is withdrawals
and a bad memory

sight; failure
sound: music that has emotional impact for you
scent: gas
touch: a cup
taste: syrup

 

[Piscator]

sight; failure
sound: music that has emotional impact for you
scent: gas
touch: a cup
taste: syrup

The fallen soufflé is but a
visible sign of our failure;
like us the egg whites
couldn't hold the air.

Dylan's Sad Eyed Lady
plays in my head
as the east wind brings
the smell of swamp gas
and though I never take
sugar, this cup of tepid java
tastes like syrup.

sight; sunlight through a dirty window
sound: incessant mosquito hum
scent: balsam
touch: peach fuzz or downy pubic hair (poet's choice)
taste: cream that's turned

 

[todski28]

sight; sunlight through a dirty window
sound: incessant mosquito hum
scent: balsam
touch: peach fuzz or downy pubic hair (poet's choice)
taste: cream that's turned


sight: someone needing help
sound: running engine
scent: cigarette
taste: bitter
touch: something hot

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

sight; sunlight through a dirty window
sound: incessant mosquito hum
scent: balsam
touch: peach fuzz or downy pubic hair (poet's choice)
taste: cream that's turned


sight: someone needing help
sound: running engine
scent: cigarette
taste: bitter
touch: something hot

Did you mime this one? I missed it.....

 

[todski28]

Did you mime this one? I missed it.....

lol, that was an attempt at a totally blank interpretation piece......

what I wrote was a little to expository so will be back to write something else when my brain stops hurting

 

[Tzara]

sight: someone needing help
sound: running engine
scent: cigarette
taste: bitter
touch: something hot

Tragedy in Five Acts

1.
Caught in the current
her limbs dipped and spun, helpless,
desperate, the flow
sweeping her quickly past us.
She was too far out to catch.

2.
He gunned the engine.
The tires squealed, bit; the car launched
into the alley.
There must have been screams. I heard
only bodies, like sandbags.

3.
When he opened fire
we were still for a moment—
in a theatre
that smelled of terror and blood
and his menthol cigarettes.

4.
Cyanide. The scent
of over-roasted almonds,
bitter on the tongue.
Not as bitter as my heart.
Not as broken as my love.

5.
I could not even
sift the ashes—they were still
too hot. There may be
some remains, the doctor said,
but sleep now. You need to sleep.



Sight: the horizon, however defined
Sound: birdcalls
Smell: ripening fruit (very faint and distant)
Taste: something tangy
Touch: frayed cloth

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight: the horizon, however defined
Sound: birdcalls
Smell: ripening fruit (very faint and distant)
Taste: something tangy
Touch: frayed cloth



Staring without seeing
sea meeting sky
the fall of night
answers the call of seabirds
obscuring the line
of distance
beginnings and endings

A disconcerting scent
out-of-season fruit
carried on the air
ripening somewhere not here

Ripened memories of sweet acid
on my tongue
a slow burn growing
in the back of my throat

Wrapped in the fabric
of circumstance
fingertips idly brushing tattered strings
of things I thought I knew



Sight: street corner
Sound: an echo
Smell: smoke
Taste: something greasy
Touch: scab

 

[Tzara]

Sight: street corner
Sound: an echo
Smell: smoke
Taste: something greasy
Touch: scab

Subtitled

It was weird. The sound,
we just kept hearing it, like an echo,
ingenting, ingenting

like it was telling us
it was all emptiness, everything was emptiness,
to hang around the corner

of University and 45th, picking
at the scabs on our arms,
toking weed until

Danny finally brought some more bags
of white girl and we tied off and shot.
I'm always so trim afterwards

I forget my spoon and have to lift one
from that café
we always eat at later,

where Marge's eggs slide down grease,
bam, into my gullet
and we can smoke until they chase us into the street.


Sight: Some kind of artwork or statue or mural or graffiti.
Sound: A random cellphone noise.
Smell: Licorice, grilled meat, or perfume.
Taste: Something unpleasant.
Touch: Upholstery.

 

[Angeline]

Sight: Some kind of artwork or statue or mural or graffiti.
Sound: A random cellphone noise.
Smell: Licorice, grilled meat, or perfume.
Taste: Something unpleasant.
Touch: Upholstery


Life and Lemons

I bought a couch.
You ripped the upholstery
enough for my hand to slide in
and somehow this, too, is my fault

along with your many jobs
that didn't work out, that noise
the car made, the day your cellphone
whined to a halt and shit I don't know

Thursdays? Am I to blame for Thursdays
as well? I had 22 years of your rage
and futility lingering in my mouth
like burnt popcorn, but now I sing

trouble no more, trouble go way
from my back door. Come in
mountains. Welcome woman
holler honey and chicken painted
bright red yellow streetside art
where bbq wafts blue.

Sight: eyes
Sound: bells
Taste: water
Touch: stones
Smell: pine trees

 

[Remec]

Sight: eyes
Sound: bells
Taste: water
Touch: stones
Smell: pine trees

Reunion

Hard and unyielding, the stones in his
hands were a distinct counterpoint to
the softness of her eyes as their inner
fire dwindled down to nothingness;

He stood in the rain,
the stale taste of droplets running
through his hair and down his cheeks
mingled with the sweat he'd built up
over the last several minutes and
eased their way over his lips;

She laid upon the space cleared around
the old ship's bell built into the
school's memorial to those lost in
the Great Storm, and the sound of its
peals still echoed in his head,
diminishing bit by bit,
even as she did
before him;

He didn't know what more he had
expected to experience, but the
odd wafting scent of the evergreens
surrounding them
was not part
of it.




sight: decline of something
scent: a coming storm
sound: dripping
touch: athletic gear (your choice)
taste: vinegar

 

[greenmountaineer]

sight: decline of something
scent: a coming storm
sound: dripping
touch: athletic gear (your choice)
taste: vinegar

The Fall of Carthage

With a desert storm fast approaching,
the young brides hastened their work
who would be allowed the ornate breastplates,
helmets and sandals but not the swords
of their generals whose heads were piked
to barter for food in the Roman encampment
but were forbidden to use their bodies
for fear of disease among the hastati.

Mazek and Hadl dragged a husband
to one of the many battlefield pyres,
smearing their night of nights henna nails
with what was left of his vitals dripping
before they joined the other brides
with sticks to chase the vultures away
while the hags there pissed and poured vinegar
to establish a safe perimeter
from dogs that no longer wagged their tails.

sight: a train
scent: something boiling
sound: jukebox blaring
touch: chiffon
taste: pretzel

 

[UnderYourSpell]

sight: a train
scent: something boiling
sound: jukebox blaring
touch: chiffon
taste: pretzel

I never was a one for pretzels
but sitting in the waiting room
not much else was on offer
from the vending machine on the wall.
Trying to read my latest downloaded novel,
my ears fending off the blare
of the jukebox as train after train
thrashed on by, but never yours.
Had I got the right message
from a distant voice, calling for help?
Wrinkling my nose in distaste
at the smell of of over boiled cabbage
that permeated these walls,
I fingered your chiffon scarf
all that was left of that far off Summer,
and kept my vigil.

sight: a dog cocking it's leg
scent: baking
sound: raucous laughter
touch: a bruise
taste: mint

 

[todski28]

sight: a dog cocking it's leg
scent: baking
sound: raucous laughter
touch: a bruise
taste: mint

I poke at the swelling contusion
on my left eye
look at the broken body lying
quivering curled up in a ball
at my feet

It's quiet in my head
aside from the wierd tinnitus ringing
and the laughter coming from the doorway
behind me

I dismiss this man crying with the contempt
of the victorious, if I was a dog
let just say I would have cocked my leg
pissed on him walking away as I scuff up dirt

I pop mint chewing gum
to try and hide the trembling of my jaw
adrenaline jitterbugs and tears
always there struggling
to find an inch of compassion
and if
if I let them fall
I lose their respect
the job
and most of all the crushing fear
that keeps these other fuckers in line....

It's lonely
here
I want to be held gently
not plucking teeth from my knuckles
pretending it's fun
pretending that I'm a tough guy

yeah I've got fast hands
a hard mouth
but inside I'm fresh baked bread
warm and soft

I can't deal with these contradictions any more
so I lay with the next woman
willing to spread her legs for an apex predator
that is really a kitten

sight: a struggle
sound: water splashing
scent: eucalyptus
touch: rough
taste: delicious

 

[Tzara]

sight: a struggle
sound: water splashing
scent: eucalyptus
touch: rough
taste: delicious

Voyeur

I hid
.....among the eucalyptus trees, bathed
.....in their minty, pine scent, touched
with honey and I watched
.....how Deborah fought with him.
.....In the river, the splash of water
as she thrashed even louder than the current
.....as it ran lively over the rocks.
.....I peeled a peach, its skin roughened
and bunched, its taste as I bit into it, so sweet.





sight: a sandy beach
sound: music of some kind, perhaps distant
smell: burning cannabis
taste: someone else's lips or skin
touch: the strings of a vintage guitar

 

[Piscator]

sight: a sandy beach
sound: music of some kind, perhaps distant
smell: burning cannabis
taste: someone else's lips or skin
touch: the strings of a vintage guitar

Nimble
fingers
caresssilk
wrapped
bronzed
steel strings
stretched tight across
the board of a venerable
Martin mixing minor chords
with quick, sharp arpeggios
which drift across the sandy
spit, knifing through the sweet
aroma of Mary Jayne as my lips
nuzzle your slender neck and I
savour the rich mélange of dry
salt and your rich warm blood.
​

sight: a bare light bulb
sound: the doppler of a departing siren
smell: curry
taste: a well hopped ale
touch :a hand moving up your thigh

 

[todski28]

sight: a bare light bulb*
sound: the doppler of a departing siren
smell: curry
taste: a well hopped ale
touch :a hand moving up your thigh

Last nights remnants of thai green
sit opened in the fridge
the clang of bottles
and suction of the seal seperating
crack the silence open

tequila binged eyes glare at the flii-ckering bulb
Its sickly bright palour of albino light
barely enough
to scare slinking shadows from
the room

they encroach with twisted
whispers barely discerned
as if in retreating they decry
my existance for cutting them in half
seperating them from full time black
a doppler affect to my indifferent

I knock the top off my last ale
guzzle it down
because somtimes a man thirsts for answers
hidden at the bottom of a bottle

her hand creeps up my thigh

Taste: gunpowder
Touch: cold
scent: pussy
Sounds: groans
Sight: male or female writhing in exstacy or death throes