The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Piscator]

Lizzie
sight: pool table
touch: a shoulder
smell: popcorn
taste: Scotch whiskey
hear: Do-Wap

"Pool is merely an exercise in applied Newtonian physics and trigonometry." intoned the Professor to Lizzie as he unwound himself from the green table after sinking the eight ball. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, his face so close she could taste the Johnny Walkers on his breath, like him, an anomaly in the bar's atmosphere of Do-Wap, beer and popcorn.

No one knew his real name, some called him the Professor, because of his tweeds and erudite speech, others Icabod due to his tall lanky frame and then for some reason she thought of those long legged flies that appeared at her window each summer. Whatever, sighed Lizzie as she felt the triangle between her legs moisten in anticipation of another lesson in applied geometry.

sight: basement apartment
touch: worn leather
smell: mint
taste: morning after night before
hear: Doppler of passing sirens

 

[greenmountaineer]

Foreplay

You asked that I wear that old sport coat
with the frayed suede elbow patches
while we listen to Beethoven’s moonlight
in your TriBeCa basement apartment.

Oh, we could see its reflection if need be
on the office windows across the street,
but sweet it is to imagine, eyes closed,
while holding hands here on the couch

amid the hurly burly of Manhattan
and dissipation of a siren uptown,
neither unsettling the harmony
of the sonata for us,

sipping our drams of peppermint schnapps;
discussing “The Second Coming”
by Yeats; Sunday will the Jets beat the Pats?;
and that schnauzer you loved as a little girl

before you tuck me in so to speak
on the couch with a good night kiss,
both knowing that tomorrow night
there’d be a fuller expression of lips.

Sight: two cats
Sound: radio
Taste: coffee
Smell: lilac through an open window
Touch: armrests on an easy chair

 

[champagne1982]

Foreplay
<snip>
Sight: two cats
Sound: radio
Taste: coffee
Smell: lilac through an open window
Touch: armrests on an easy chair

Lookin' For A Fight

You see your reflection in the window
and wonder where that other
cat came from, nose twitching
to catch the foreigner's scent.
Rival or insignificant?

Instead of pheremones, all you
catch in your whiskers
is the perfume of those soft
purple flowers, standing tall
on sturdy stems brushing
against the screen.

I watch you and take a sip
of coffee, relishing the sweet
and bitter roast on my tongue,
the noise of setting the cup
back down disturbs your intensity.
The stare and yawning game
of intimidation now lost.

Not willing to congratulate
the winner, you stretch out
on the arm of my leather recliner,
and your tail seems to keep time
with The Stray Cat Strut on the radio.

Sight: corn silk
Sound: bubbling water
Taste: bbq smoke
Smell: vinegar
Touch: paper napkin

 

[Piscator]

Lookin' For A Fight
Sight: corn silk
Sound: bubbling water
Taste: bbq smoke
Smell: vinegar
Touch: paper napkin

Foothills Tritina

Fingers pluck last corn silk
then plop the ears in boiling water
Taber corn, it’s the best.

Low voice whispers, “You’re the best!”
fingers wiped on paper napkin caress hair like silk
in Calgary, city of clear running water.

Mélange of smoky ribs and vinegar swept away by cold water
then to the bench where the river view’s best
fingers seek portal past damp panties silk.

Silk parts, waters flow, Alberta’s best.

Sight: water bombers overhead
Sound: droning engines
Taste: fresh fish
Smell: distant smoke
Touch: canoe paddle

 

[greenmountaineer]

Sight: water bombers overhead
Sound: droning engines
Taste: fresh fish
Smell: distant smoke
Touch: canoe paddle

Fire

There’s no buoyancy left the canoe,
tilted obliquely in the mud.
It’s paddle looks like a crutch.

Fish have ears that can hear water bombers
droning in the distance
that pulsates in the little water left

one beaver, too frightened to gnaw
the skunk maple on which one lone limb
stands a raccoon, nostrils flared,

facing smoke clouds sailing in the wind.
They know different because they are tired
of rainbows no longer fresh.

Sight: high noon sun
Sound: delivery truck horn
Taste: any kind of ice cream cone
Smell: Hibachi meat
Touch: porch railing

 

[Piscator]

Sight: high noon sun
Sound: delivery truck horn
Taste: any kind of ice cream cone
Smell: Hibachi meat
Touch: porch railing

An exercise to release writer’s block

Suddenly September reveals itself
steel grey clouds and dreary rain;
it’s twelve o'clock, but the sun is hidden.
I lean against the damp deck railing
a Brown truck’s backup horn pierces
the distant din of traffic, but at least
it's not one of those damned drones.

Too wet for the Hibachi but
the propane grill will work.
Chicken roasted on the rotisserie,
beans, late summer corn and
apple crisp with vanilla ice cream.
I can taste it now.

A feast for the return of
a non-prodigal son, briefly back
from the Arctic before he’s off again
this time to Berkley, leaving us alone
again but at least there won't be leftovers.


Sight: a paunch that won’t go away
Sound: labored breathing
Taste: tepid water with a hint of lemon
Smell: sweat
Touch: a puff of air from a rotating fan

 

[Polranny]

It certainly wasn't a martini, nor was it a g and t,
But after a night with him
A large tepid water with a hint of lemon
Tasted like heaven

His idea of foreplay
Was to please himself not me:
His self obsessed neurotic watch
a fat bastard with a paunch
That wouldn't go away
Was hardly an erotic watch.
His laboured breathing
Heralding a rank and sweat encrusted stain
Ejaculated into a kleenex
Discarded
Like some puff of air
From a rotated fan
Did not impress
Nor was it quite a Casablanca remake
On a budget

Sight: an alpine ski resort
Sound: parakeets
Taste: whisky sour
Smell:burning turf
Touch : molasses

 

[Piscator]

Sight: an alpine ski resort
Sound: parakeets
Taste: whisky sour
Smell:burning turf
Touch : molasses

Late fall and a few tourists
trickle in to ride the chair lift
to see the alpine larch, golden
against the first wisps of snow.
Some even hike down to the lodge
but most return they way they came
to the new Irish style pub and sip
a whisky mix which really isn’t sour
and inhale the smoke of imported peat.

Time’s passage feels like molasses
yet the glaciers are melting.
Soon enough our grandkids will rise to
mountain parakeets rather than chickadees
but at least they’ll be above sea level.

Sight: clouds of more than fifty shades of grey
Sound: an overhead airliner
Taste: pumpkin
Smell: fall woods
Touch : fingers

 

[greenmountaineer]

Sight: clouds of more than fifty shades of grey
Sound: an overhead airliner
Taste: pumpkin
Smell: fall woods
Touch : fingers


Fifty-one Stars

There are fifty-one stars
half-hidden tonight,
one of which is the moon,

as if they were falderal above
a loosely woven gossamer shroud
darkening our universe.

On my back porch I count them
with fingers like a little child,
somehow fitting with the last

of Margaret’s pumpkin pie
before I open an IPA
while the buzz of an airplane flies by.

I smell the rotting leaves of birch
and maple in the woods,
presaging gestational birth

which comes full term in April
with as many billions of things
as there are stars in the universe.


Touch: concrete sidewalks
Sight: snow-capped mountain(or mountains)
Sound: car door opening or closing
Taste: gum
Smell: diesel

 

[todski28]

Touch: concrete sidewalks
Sight: snow-capped mountain(or mountains)
Sound: car door opening or closing
Taste: gum
Smell: diesel


Flowers bloom from the cracked sidewalk
sun bleached crumbling dust blows
across the surface
the way I imagine
snow capped mountains might look
in a place where heat doesn't sink into
your bones
burying you in a lethargy of too hot
to breathe

where spittle flecks the side of your mouth
the gum's flavour is now charred mush
And the creeping diesel fumes
smell of resignation
after the dull thud of the car door closing

it feels like floating

sight- melting ice
Sound- a song you hate
Scent- melted plastic
Touch-metal
Taste- tang

 

[Lyricalli]

sight- melting ice
Sound- a song you hate
Scent- melted plastic
Touch-metal
Taste- tang

Power Outage Aftermath

Holding tight to the stainless
freezer door
half-emptied of non-frozen food

Your hands slipping up my thighs
and I'm dripping
more than the ice melting off the shelves

And you think you're funny
whispering that fucking song in my ear

"Lightning and the thunder
Thunder, feel the thunder"

Sliding into me
a metallic tang on my tongue
from bitten lip
stifled laughter
turns to gutteral groans

Things are turning back on
and the faint scent
of burning plastic
might concern us
when we're done



Sight: hole in the wall
Sound: distant clanging
Scent: stale air
Touch: denim
Taste: alcohol

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Today is the day of clearing out,
it's been put off too long.
In the long shed I hear Patty Sue clad
in denim dungarees, squeal
then a distant clanging.
Opening the door to what was once
the chicken shed, I'm met by a rush
of stale air and a smell
difficult to decipher, sort of a cross
between fruit and rubbing alcohol,
and there's that hole in the wall
where Grandpa (God rest his soul)
proved giving hammers
to kids wasn't his best idea.

Today is the day of clearing out,
throwing out is another matter.

Sight: geese flying
Sound: sneezing
Scent: lilac
Touch: sand paper
Taste: liquorice

 

[butters]

Sight: geese flying
Sound: sneezing
Scent: lilac
Touch: sand paper
Taste: liquorice

all these years later
i recall the geese flying
shades of buff, cream and liquorice,
landing on the lake in the park
water drops thrown into sparkling air

and the train ride into london town
where the traveling gay
american violinist met me
before his AA meeting

how we strolled the banks of the thames
in april sunshine,
intoxicated by the perfume of lilacs&
ignoring people sneezing around us
complaining of sandpaper throats,

him reading aloud
from his sheaves of poetry,
how he called me sister


okay, i didn't necessarily use liquorice there as a real taste, more a colour but with its taste associations


sight: roadkill
scent: pomegranates
touch: ice
sound:wind chimes
taste: roast lamb

 

[Piscator]

sight: roadkill
scent: pomegranates
touch: ice
sound:wind chimes
taste: roast lamb

It seems there’s always frost, cold
against your fingers as you scrape
the windshield, prior to the drive
through Michigan to Grandma’s farm
on our annual Easter Pilgrimage and
I’m always surprised at the number
of deer revealed as the snow
disappears with the spring thaw.

Uncle Jim, who hunts, will comment
that if fresh, a deer leg tastes a lot
like the leg of lamb, which we’ll
have for dinner with Annie’s special
cheese-stuffed potatoes, Jane's rolls and a
fragrant pomegranate-coconut oil syllabub
made by Margaret, who used to be Meg
before she married that professor from Ann Arbour.

After which, if the weather’s fair the ladies
will go out to the front porch to sip Prosecco
laced with Lorraine’s sour cherry hooch and
listen to the tinkling of Sarah’s wind
chimes while the menfolk do the dishes.


sight: first crocus of spring
scent: fresh prairie wind
touch: burrs caught in boot lace
sound: mandolin
taste: cumin

 

[Kadyia]

sight: first crocus of spring
scent: fresh prairie wind
touch: burrs caught in boot lace
sound: mandolin
taste: cumin

He called it The Wildfire,
quilted on the side with
mother of pearl inlay and
bright of tone as
he played under the tree
where mother died.
The breeze off the plains
carries hints of meadow saffron,
poisonous first flower of spring.
I breath deep, remembering,
but then continue to press out tortillas
and ladle mole over chicken,
smiling as my brother whines
how mother used more cumin.
Later, I lace my boots,
wincing when burrs
sting my hands; I want to cry,
but not from the the burrs.

Sight: river
Scent: aromatic
Touch: rough
Sound: a cry
Taste: bitter

 

[AmericanTrash]

Sight: river
Scent: aromatic
Touch: rough
Sound: a cry
Taste: bitter

Peru maps sleepy plans
December? Maybe then.
We'll save when we save
spend what we spend but
breathe the hope of spices
unknown. starch the slack
romantic fantasies with bitter
irony, aspirin swilled down with just
enough blood to flood the tongue.

Probably it wasn't just the one time
you cried. Slack and guilty, I crumble.
Surrender. Listen to you weep. .
Obviously I wear
the rough hands like someone
else's gloves. I wash them. Tell myself
gloves are not skin. Skin
is not flesh. Not blood. Not me.
Every day I love you is a day more near
to naked. More nearly true.

Sight: flag
sound: distant laughter
smell: cotton candy
taste: lip gloss
touch: frayed denim

 

[todski28]

Sight: flag
sound: distant laughter
smell: cotton candy
taste: lip gloss
touch: frayed denim

flags flapping is supposed to be patriotic
never learnt it in the scrabble to survive
in the dirt of someone elses homespun dreams
it was all distant laughter at the thoughts linked to a misfire
of sequences when I begged to be hurt
to feel something akin to darkness that spills
from midnights rotten mouth

and later when the past was but a trauma of
skinned knuckles and a lonely agony of wanting
of bearing my teeth at hollow echoes
the meaty splat of human flesh sloughing off
concious reality

much later

when you are cotton candy in my mouth
the scent of desire sweet and ripe with offering
the turmoil of beast brought to heel
beneath a man in control of leashed demons
when frayed denim under the coarse rasp
of cracked knuckles, work worn fingers
is the gentle act of accepting
having found a cliff from which
to leap from and hope
your lipgloss lingering

Sight: traffic
sound: curse words
scent: rain on asphault
taste: something delicious
touch: cold

 

[Piscator]

giving this challenge a bump

Sight: flag
Sight: traffic
sound: curse words
scent: rain on asphalt
taste: something delicious
touch: cold

The sky’s pissing on the dark road
which muffles the sound of cars and trucks
yet amplifies the coarse profanities the
fans shout at the cops and those fools in
the wrong team’s sweater as they leave
the stadium.

Deep down they know that one team
has to loose and their time had come.
The only recourse is head to the bar to
savour the terroir of Lonestar on ice
as they wonder what could have
happened if only

Sight: red fox
sound: train whistle
scent: gunpowder
taste: bitter lemon
touch: wind in face

 

[todski28]

Sight: red fox
sound: train whistle
scent: gunpowder
taste: bitter lemon
touch: wind in face

red fox leaps over the lazy dog
is nothing more than a dog whistle
to a catcher in the rye
and its bitter lemon sqeezed
on the cracked lips of decadent trevails
wind in the face of a sixth floor balcony
the smell of cordite
and sulfur
your tits against the glass
gunpowder kegs waiting to blow
and the train whisltes
as the driver got a show

but its all just bitter memories
these days
mixed into the concrete discord
as I try to right the crazy ship
without a gyroscope
and levers dont work without a fulcrum

Sight: aging
sound: rasp
scent: home made cookies
Taste: bread
touch: grass

 

[Piscator]

Giving this thread and my indolent mind a bump

Sight: aging
sound: rasp
scent: home made cookies
Taste: bread
touch: grass
______________________________________________________________

Once the belle of the ball
now noted for her mature
taste and elegant style.
Her once sexy contralto
now a raspy whisper
but no one listens anyway.
And God how she hates
the word mature.

Yet she can’t help smiling
at the grandchildren’s happy
faces as they inhale the aroma
of her home baked cookies
and savor still warm bead
swathed with melting butter.
But is her smile for the kids
or her special brownies
with that touch of grass?
_____________________________________________________________

Sight: swallows
sound: wind in trees
scent: pickling vinegar
Taste: season’s first crisp apple
touch: bare feet on lawn

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Sight: swallows
sound: wind in trees
scent: pickling vinegar
Taste: season’s first crisp apple
touch: bare feet on lawn.
.......................................................................
Sitting here what else is there to do
but to let my mind drift back
to those days so long ago,
days of innocence and the tickle
of grass between my toes
as we ran screaming with delight
into Summer, much as the Swallows
and House Martins screamed overhead,
seeking insects on the wing.
Daddy exiled to the kitchen, pickled
in vinegar shallots and red cabbage,
bottled for the days of Autumn,
when trees troubled by unexpected
gusts whistling through their leaves
drop green apples, tart upon the tongue.
.........................................
Sight: waving goodbye
sound: revving motorbikes
scent: jasmine
Taste: marshmallows
touch: rain drops
.....................................

 

[todski28]

Sight: waving goodbye
sound: revving motorbikes
scent: jasmine
Taste: marshmallows
touch: rain drops

She waved goodbye by whispering
it's time,
tears choking her voice
betrayal
loss and thorns
curling from her exhaled sob
her back to me

I remember the scent of earth and jasmine
the weight of her life balanced
on a sword of Damocles
my shoulders slumped
hands raised
lowered
then raised again

arterial spray as a bullet
tore in
biting deep as an animal tearing into prey
the roar of the gun
its kick resonating in my wrists
in my elbows

white roses stained
in red rain
it's delicate sprinkles landing on my hands
as if dew drops from a sun shower

the bike throttle opens
the road tries to claim my centre of balance as
I murder the corner
trying to outrun the devil
looking for redemption
and finding the loss of charred marshmallows
burning the back of my throat
as if bile and blood
are a cocktail for the fool


Sight: a phone
sound:car passin
scent: paper
Taste: sour
touch: carpet

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight: a phone
sound:car passin
scent: paper
Taste: sour
touch: carpet


It sits silently
unringing
a taunt of voices unheard
words unsaid
time passes to a metronome
of cars on the street
their white noise reality

I ink my unseen letters to you
on fresh paper
breathing in the ironic scent
of promise
an ache in my knees
from the fall
no carpet could cushion

how quickly sweet can turn
as one fights rising bile
to choke down what was
what could have been

this inevitable impossibility
of goodbye



Sight: waves
sound: song that stirs a memory
scent: rain
Taste: bittersweet
touch: just out of reach

 

[Piscator]

Sight: waves
sound: song that stirs a memory
scent: rain
Taste: bittersweet
touch: just out of reach

The humid air presages rain
in my mind Sweet Georgia plays
yet a rebel flag briefly waved over Capitol Hill.
Together we strive for better days
but inside lies a bittersweet pain.

Sight: sunrise/sunset
sound: solitary trumpet
scent: smoke
Taste: lack thereof
touch: cold fingers

 

[Angeline]

Sight: sunrise/sunset
sound: solitary trumpet
scent: smoke
Taste: lack thereof
touch: cold fingers

Morning opens like an envelope
and out comes the Sun, bright
comes the empty light. No words
to accompany this dawning
stretch of time, Reveille yawning
me awake, a lone line sans bop
or botheration, sans any taste
of wakey wakey coffee,
eggs, bacony, only water here
sans alluvium.

God I miss you. The ache never
leaves but days keep on rolling.
Morning again. Warm skin, cold
fingers. I wish I had
a cigarette, smoky rich
and acrid in my mouth,
lips tasting of your kiss,
lingering.

Sight: something purple
Sound: coffee being made
Scent: sex
Taste: plums
Touch: glass