The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Piscator]

Taste: ice-cream,
Touch: hot tarmac
Sight: reflections
Scent: hose pipe water
Sound: train


1960’s Family Road trip

Heat waves shimmer from
the asphalt road ahead but
the false promise of rain
ahead is a mirage, caused by
bending of light due to
differences in temperature
of the air above the road as
we’re all packed into the station
wagon driving through Alberta,
Saskatchewan, North Dakota,
Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri,
Kansas. Colorado, Wyoming,
Montana, and Alberta again.
Around four thousand miles in
all, with the obligatory stops
at all our relatives along the way.

Even with the windows open
the air is full of cigarette smoke.
Dad is relentless in his driving,
never letting Mom take her turn,
and not bothering to respond to
her request for a bathroom break
as the whistle of a passing train
masks the rest of the argument.

When we get to Illinois, I’ll have
to check in all the town bars
and bring Dad back to Grandma’s
for supper but first all us kids will get
to play in the lawn sprinkler and
tomorrow there will be fried chicken
and homemade lemon ice cream.


Taste: garden radish
Touch: wind
Sight: threatening sky
Scent: rain
Sound: local baseball game on the radio

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Taste: garden radish
Touch: wind
Sight: threatening sky
Scent: rain
Sound: local baseball game on the radio

Responsibility

He was alone for an hour
before Mum got home from work.

Fridays were always tricky. with school
emptying its charges earlier than
convenient for working mothers,
so she trusted him for one magical hour.

Today a brisk breeze bustled
laden clouds overhead, rain was inevitable
so he quickly pulled a plump radish
from the raised bed relishing its peppery crunch
and went indoors to catch the Jay’s on the radio
until Mum got home with supper.


Taste – burnt sugar
Touch – fleece
Sight – nakedness
Scent – Night Jasmine
Sound – slow jazz

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Taste – burnt sugar
Touch – fleece
Sight – nakedness
Scent – Night Jasmine
Sound – slow jazz

Heat flowed in on gentle wings
when the night set its tender paws
down upon the blazing ball
and my words filled the air
with the blossoming aroma
of the magic Dama de Noche
and you
giving way to the petals
covering your ethereal curves
adorned by the fading light
of old Facundo's fireplace

Guess, he's lost in thoughts again
his Aurelia gone for another year
celebrated with the last sin he has
the doctor won't be happy about
what the wind carries through night
and by the window
where our tongues rejoice
in every molecule of creme brulee
stronger and stronger by the minute
until we can't stand the sweetness anymore

Dive into the grottos of our terrene existence
along to the smooth fingers on the strings
caught for Facundo's record player
usually off by sunset, but today...
we rock to the twenty beats per minute
never rush, but make merry in the 11th hour
of our rusted lives
connected where we've been beasts
along time ago
and still warm lovers by tomorrow morn'

Wilted hand in wilted hand we go
awake by sunrise
and the record's dead end
to find the blaze amiss
the stary flower breathing it's last
and the spoon cold
like the fleece sweater
soon next to its maker
when we lay him to rest
side by side
with his golden bride.

touch - hands
taste - milk
scent - happiness
sound - fabric
sight - nakedness

 

[Lyricalli]

touch - hands
taste - milk
scent - happiness
sound - fabric
sight - nakedness

Early morning awake
listening to you in the en suite
the low rumble hum
of some unknown song
plays to the applause of the shower

The concert ends
to the rustle of a towel
against your skin
and there's a moment of amused envy
because it gets to soak you in
but I'm patient
awaiting my turn
now sitting on the edge
of the bed

I breathe in your silhouette
admire the shape of you
artfully framed by the door
there's something
in the way the light lies
on your shoulders
that makes me sigh
from someplace deep inside
where there's no explanation
for my fascination with you

The air between us thick
with the giddy scent
of your soap-fresh skin
and the few feet from bed to door
is an excruciating distance

I bid you come hither
(this is poetry, remember?)
and reach for your hand
to kiss each fingertip
trail my tongue across your palm
then guide it to my hair

My cheek first caresses
the smooth, hot skin
of your shameless desire
before I bathe it
in exuberant lust
drinking you in
while you pace your thrust
making me wait
teasing my frustration
until you finally allow me to taste
the milk of creation

Rearrange until I'm reclining
against the pillows
slowly parting thighs
my invitation for you
to quench your thirst too



Taste – pineapple
Touch – metal
Sight – sand
Scent – rain
Sound – drums

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

This could have a home in the Everyday Erotica thread.

 

[Lyricalli]

This could have a home in the Everyday Erotica thread.

Thank you. I take that as quite a compliment

 

[todski28]

Taste – pineapple
Touch – metal
Sight – sand
Scent – rain
Sound – drums

There was a time when
I tried to hone myself into steel
into an object that could crash

deal blunt force trauma in
a face-altering-blink
but the underbelly of it
metal doesn’t feel
I was trying to beat
a sense of emotion from myself
the way samurai swords were
folded in a high pitched drum solo
of fire and hammer

and I realise now it was a fools errand
I’ve loved too fast
too hard
too often because I tried to sever ties
with my softer side

standing at the edge of an ocean
the scritch of sand collapsing
under each step
as I walked from the forge into
the cooling patter of rain
you pull me in

run your fingers over the ridges
of battered knuckles
slide fondue pineapple into
my mouth
we laugh

I realise I need to feel
and so I let go

Sight-tiles
Sound-train
Scent-donuts
Taste-salty
Touch-cold

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight-tiles
Sound-train
Scent-donuts
Taste-salty
Touch-cold

Keep losing count
of the tiles on the wall
forget where I stopped
as the trains that aren't mine
rumble through the tunnels
come to a stop
wait for the trade
of shuffling cargo
before groaning
and moving on

So I start again
with the blue one
in the upper left corner
of the porcelain sky
in this underground world

The kid on the bench
half seat down from me
sits a paper bag between us
begins furiously thumbing his phone
and the undeniable scent
of fried dough and powdered sugar
teases my nose
makes me almost wish I felt hunger

He's oblivious to me
so I make no effort to conceal
the salt water
that gently rolls to my lips
each little drop taking its time
waiting its turn

My fingers are still icy
wrapped around a drink I bought
on the way in
thought it might help
but it still rests unopened
clenched between my palms
the chill long gone

Your goodbye was warm
though oddly distant
after the heat
of the last few days
and I felt our detachment begin
forcing my feet to stay
in place
studied the planes of your back
the pace of your gait
as you walked away
not knowing if I'll ever hear
another hello



Taste – something too spicy
Touch – pebbly
Sight – colored lights
Scent – fire
Sound – running water

 

[todski28]

Taste – something too spicy
Touch – pebbly
Sight – colored lights
Scent – fire
Sound – running water

surrounded by
coloured lights in a spec
of time
eating curry thats almost
too spicy
one that burns more after every
forkful fills the outer edges of my
almost too much

if fire had a smell
it would be you

I reminisce
explore my mind
shuffle it like a deck if cards
dismiss thoughts
you would be the scent of acrid smoke
fire is consuming

I mean the flame
you are the scent of fire to me
you morph the way it does
burnin orange in a slow sizzle
flare to blue when you want to cut
through my bullshit
want to slide through me like I’m butter
white hot when you were
on me
I was in you
burned green when someone else
caught my eye

I used to have two pebbled shells
so I could scoop up
your embers
take you with me
to hold through
cold lonely nights

somewhere in there
I lost you in a river

my last memories of you
a fizzle
the sound of running water
and now
I’m cold


Sight- two or more people arguing
sound- clunk
scent- ammonia
taste- rage
touch- concrete

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight- two or more people arguing
sound- clunk
scent- ammonia
taste- rage
touch- concrete

It was the sound of a vault door
shutting tight
all in my head
but loud enough I still felt vibration
shoot through the whole of my body

I was done
no more chances
two, three, four...
every ounce of patience exhausted

There are memories of his whimpers
and cries
the smell of withdrawals
an indescribable mix
with hints of ammonia, vomit
and desperation

We shared a wall
so I couldn't escape it

I remember the small glimmers of hope
that maybe
just maybe...

But it never played out that way

The cycle of relapse
and disappointment
finally collided with the reality
that he might as well be dead to me

I watched him and my father
sitting on the stoop
on the other side of the door
in heated discussion
over his most recent transgression

My mouth filled with bile
and fury
the tang of contempt
to a degree I'd never known
and haven't since
as I stared at the bank statements
of my deceased mother
the withdrawals and withdrawals and withdrawals
that started within the hour of her passing
because my goddamned brother needed to "cope"

And I wondered, I did
what it might feel like to bash his head
into the concrete steps
scraping my knuckles raw
as I rubbed his nose
in his own blood

Then that turned to numb
because I had to move on
write an obituary
plan a memorial service
go through all the motions
of mourning
begin the grudging march
to a new normal
where I never spoke to him again




Taste – nuts
Touch – wax or something waxy
Sight – some form of artwork
Scent – some sort of fruit
Sound – rustling

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Taste – nuts
Touch – wax or something waxy
Sight – some form of artwork
Scent – some sort of fruit
Sound – rustling

Whoever had picked his name,
The Reverend Mother of St Mary Child's Hope,
the pastor of the fading village down the road
or even the ever-smiling gardener,
amateur adept into Renaissance nudes
- Leonardo -
had messed with his fate

Coughing, still from last year's cold
the moment his lung rest
is the worst
when the morning breeze
ignites a hoarse death-rattle
in the sketch archive - black
charred by the candle pack
the last pennies spent
for another night of work ahead
all of his wax friends now dead
melted runaways spoiling
next week's potential meal

A Stilllife of Shortlived Sweetness

covered in white strings
steel-hearted under his touch
the picture tells a different story before
roasted apples' breath hangs in the air
their withered skin way beyond delicious
on the cheap, broken plate
- a silver tray on the ruined painting -
offers one last snack
a chestnut
smoked in its own skin
taste buds on fire

"At least something I did right."

---

taste - the ocean
touch - goosebumps
scent - exhaust fumes
sight - a light
sound - footsteps

 

[todski28]

taste - the ocean
touch - goosebumps
scent - exhaust fumes
sight - a light
sound - footsteps

Her heels click
click, click, click
the sound of her makes me shiver
raises awe and lust in brailled flesh
and salivating want

happiness is diving head first
in to her
as if she’s the ocean
the taste of salt
as waves crash over me
drag me under
leave me scrabbling for the surface
for air
driving toward the setting sun
and its

gone now
like the car in front of me
leaving the noxious odour of car exhaust
as it accelerates away
the blare of a horn behind me
so I drive
and try to figure out
why I gotta keep moving
prove that I’m no good
at anything except running

Taste- meat
Touch- paper
scent- alcohol from a texta
Sound- loud noise
sight- red letter

 

[Lyricalli]

Taste- meat
Touch- paper
scent- alcohol from a texta
Sound- loud noise
sight- red letter

I've gone through so many pages
in this tattered old notebook
trying to write a poem
that won't appear
dizzy from sniffing
this red-ink marker
that refuses to spell
anything but your
goddamned name
in capital letters
ruining every inch of fucking paper
matching the blood in my teeth
from chewing the inside
of my cheek
and I can't escape the screaming
that keeps ringing my ears
even though it's coming
from me



Taste – something briny
Touch – leather
Sight – blanket
Scent – meat
Sound – a low hum

 

[butters]

Taste – something briny
Touch – leather
Sight – blanket
Scent – meat
Sound – a low hum


as you spread the blanket
i tell myself the low hum in my skull
is the art of honey-bees at work
not a body needing medication
tired of summer's sauna

we strip and i feel sickened
by the scent of my sex
—meat too long in the sun—
olfactory in hyperdrive.
who said women smell of fish?

your mouth's wet leather as you feast
and i am distracted enough
you smell only of salt—fresh, lickable
your shuddering cum
brined olives on my tongue








----------------------------------
taste - pine nuts
touch - snow
sight - roadkill
smell - oranges
sound - voice memories

 

[Lyricalli]

taste - pine nuts
touch - snow
sight - roadkill
smell - oranges
sound - voice memories

Munching on toasted pine nuts
as they cool
while prepping the basil and garlic
grating the cheese
making my mise en place
for the pesto

It's so damn hot this summer
and we only half-joke
about having a snowball fight
scraping the frost
from our far-too-old freezer

He's cutting cold oranges
into wedges
and the scent of them
creates a heady blend
with the herbs
and aromatics
on my cutting board

Familiar fingers offer
the tangy treat
as he's stands behind me
closer than necessary
rumbles in a voice
that instantly recalled the night before
and as I start to melt
from more than the weather
he gestures to the whirring blender
says it smells good enough
it could make the dead raccoon
we passed on the way home
edible

Still not sure I've found
all the bits of orange
spit from my mouth
in that burst of shocked laughter

Hours after citrus kisses
and testing the effects
of melting ice on skin
there was pesto chicken
and salad for dinner



taste - something bubbly
touch - string
sight - dark clouds
smell - coffee
sound - comfort

 

[todski28]

taste - something bubbly
touch - string
sight - dark clouds
smell - coffee
sound - comfort


I love the rain
the way tumultuous clouds
cling together and darken
the promise of rain a cold lick
of air on exposed skin

you said it was your favourite weather
because you don’t have to
string together your mask
for the public the professional
or bubbly,
none of the

“smile baby, it makes you look nicer”
bullshit

you can strip
down to bare bones
drink champagne
let the buzz of alcohol
the effervescence of bubbles
go to your head, settle in your
loins like an underwater volcano

the rustle of
blankets
its weight and warmth slide
on bare flesh
you settle into my
warm embrace
our breath synchronised
we conspire to ride out
the storm

we thrash
looking for warmth
and sustenance
as the flash of our silhouette
marks dark Eros on the walls
your hands on my chest
you ride me with
the pace of a glacier
claim a stake on my disillusionment
that I’ve had everything sex can offer
the sound of you
comfortable in letting go
screams into the night
twice before you drag me
grunting into my own surrender

later on the lounge
my body a mass of scraped flesh
and hypersensitive goosebumps
we sip coffee blacker than our sins
its scent barely covers
the allure of your sex
and after baby I want a second helping
because it’s still wet
we don’t have to work tomorrow
and we don’t have any expectations
except to each other

Sight- water streaming over something
Scent- petrol
Taste- sauce
touch- something sensitive or fragile
sound- a specific piece of music

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight- water streaming over something
Scent- petrol
Taste- sauce
touch- something sensitive or fragile
sound- a specific piece of music

It was storming in sheets
creating waterfalls on the windshield
that challenged the wipers
and occasionally won

The tension of our slow drive
broken by a turn into the station
when the fuel gauge got as low
as the visibility

I relaxed into the back
of the passenger seat
and contemplated our history
all the roads we'd traveled
the vast unknown of the path ahead
how volatile it all felt
much like the weather

There was something comforting
about the smell of petrol fumes
because refueling
meant we were still moving forward

Your key turned in the ignition
and the radio came back on
not quite in the middle of that song
the one you once said reminded
you of me, when such things came
more easily, your love
still on the tip of your tongue

With a glance, I knew
you were in that moment too
and reached for your hand
brought it to my lips
kissed the scars on rugged skin
that revealed both fragility
and resilience

When we closed the distance
between us, our mouths meeting
with feeling that had felt fleeting
for too long
I giggled first, then you followed
both very aware
we'd chosen kebab with garlic sauce
for lunch

We kissed again to the sound of thunder
and a honk from behind
from the guy who had no patience
for our reconciliation

Seatbelts fastened, we continued driving
in rain that seemed less threatening
my fingers resting on your thigh




taste - green apple
touch - a musical instrument
scent - overly floral
sight - hiding hands
sound - notification sound from a phone

 

[Piscator]

taste - green apple
touch - a musical instrument
scent - overly floral
sight - hiding hands
sound - notification sound from a phone

Eroica


His fingers which pounded
the ivory keys through
a Beethoven crescendo
slide softly between
his thighs and although
his mouth tastes of
sausage and unripe apple
and the air freshener cloys
the bathroom stall, he
ignores the moronic ring tone
your brother installed on his
cell phone and dedicates the
rest of your lunch break to
pleasure
self.​

taste - a ripe peach
touch - fuzz (your choice of location)
scent - charcoal
sight - Perseid shower
sound - wave lapping beach

 

[Voboy]

taste - a ripe peach
touch - fuzz (your choice of location)
scent - charcoal
sight - Perseid shower
sound - wave lapping beach

I remember times
Alive and whole in the outdoors:

Hearing my feet paddle in the water while the waves suck back the sand.
Watching the skies catch fire, inspired like John Denver by the falling lights up there.
Closing my eyes and remembering the smell of cooking over an open charcoal fire.

I remember these times
When I'm stuck at a child's birthday party:

In the city, cursing
The prickled fuzz of drought-stricken grass beneath my inadequate blanket
And the way flies are drawn to the peaches the kids took just one bite out of.


taste - meringue
touch - goosedown
scent - mold
sight - an oncoming storm
sound - birds

 

[butters]

taste - meringue
touch - goosedown
scent - mold
sight - an oncoming storm
sound - birds

that long-abandoned cabin
high on the hill
3-sided by fir, maple
black walnut and wild cherry

ignore the tang of mold
the patches of black damp
remember, instead
the joy of meringue
its dry, sweet crunch
its crumble chew
how it made your tongue laugh

stroke the faded comforter
its colour a ghost you understand
its goosedown a paradox of silky lumps

stare beyond the curtain scrap
dust on the pane shades air
an agitation of birds wheel on distant cries
menaced by bilious thunderheads
silent streaks of lightning






taste: peanutbutter
touch: a raw egg
smell: chlorine
sight: a closed-off bridge
sound: theme tune to Hawaii Five-O


(sorry, but had a bit of fun with those prompts!)

 

[Voboy]

taste: peanutbutter
touch: a raw egg
smell: chlorine
sight: a closed-off bridge
sound: theme tune to Hawaii Five-O


(sorry, but had a bit of fun with those prompts!)

Some money for a baggie:
Mouth cotton-dry,
The thick grip of phlegm
Like peanut butter on the tongue,
With no jelly to relieve it
And a filthy couch reaching up,
Raw-egg sticky
In this shitty part of town.

The rush hits then,
Spastic but antiseptic
Like a car chase featuring
Glitzy people. Magnum, maybe, or NO!
It's Jack Lord, with that song bongo-ing in your brain,
Hammering like your heart as the drug seeps along your blood,
Eyes watering like an overchlorinated hotel pool without goggles, because
You forgot to bring the motherfuckers. And you forgot a towel. And a suit. And you're totally bare.
Exposed...

Just like you forgot what a hit felt like.
Until you remembered.
It always feels the same,
Like pointing your car toward a roadblocked bridge.

"Fuck. That's some potent shit, dude."



taste: buttercrunch ice cream
touch: weeds in a streambed
smell: gasoline when you're a kid
sight: sunset over the desert
sound: a loon

 

[29wordsforsnow]

taste: buttercrunch ice cream
touch: weeds in a streambed
smell: gasoline when you're a kid
sight: sunset over the desert
sound: a loon

Can you feel it fly
the time that passes by
your years like seconds
running away, one reckons
to a final stop

all this speed
maybe you need
and take
a break
and stop

Like back then
years ago when
long distance travel
over dust and gravel
came to a stop

every few hundred miles a gas station to visit
shaken, sleepy eyes ask this is it?
but your nose already aware
of octane and leads too we ain't yet there!
just another stop

where they've put another dead horse to the ground
and you walked away to a lonely loon's sound
down to the river - now, nothing more than a creek
so cool and just what you seek
no stop

but running through your hand
green blades under water send
the endless agony of youth away
your time will come is what they say
and never stop

the best of years melt like the buttercrunch
ice cream was your breakfast and lunch
served in places you'd elsewise forgot
here out where the sand is so hot
you couldn't stop

wishing you'd been already
old enough, able and steady
to walk alone to the magic place
where the sun's leaving without a trace
don't you dare to stop

dreaming!

sight: darkness
scent: moisture
sound: night time
taste: sweet
touch: smooth

 

[Remec]

sight: darkness
scent: moisture
sound: night time
taste: sweet
touch: smooth

I am holding a sweating bottle,
standing beside the balcony chairs
where we can kick back, relaxing
as the people play in the pool and
on the deck below, or just taking in
the soft, somewhat silent sounds
filtering through the edges of another
red-gold sunset--breezes passing by,
setting off windchimes, crickets playing
their chirping tunes in counterpoint to
bullfrogs and the occasional hiss of
feral cats challenging one another;
I am pouring us fresh glasses, savoring how
the wine's bouquet mingles with the smell
of dew on the fresh cut grass below and leaves
me with a scent off liquid--nothing specific,
just the aroma of the aquatic, even the pool water
joins in and I wish we were closer to the shore.
I am carrying our drinks in to you,
sipping on the sweet red wine, then setting both
on the nightstand and sliding a hand along
the smooth softness of your body as I settle in
to sit beside you on the bed and just enjoy
your presence as sunset slowly dims itself
into night.



sight: something frozen
sound: something repetetive
scent: something repulsive
touch: something sodden
taste: something savory

 

[Voboy]

sight: something frozen
sound: something repetetive
scent: something repulsive
touch: something sodden
taste: something savory

Again and again I hear the babel:
Kitchen, bar, table;
Kitchen, bar, table,
Endlessly cyclic, endlessly boring.
The "guests" here pay three figures
For food I wouldn't feed my dog:

Rosemary chicken, balsamic reduction:
A savory mess of overcrowded pullets
And the kind of vinegar you get at
Wal-Mart;

Spinach with slivered cashews and garlic:
Grossly sodden green rags,
Squishy, served over rice that was
Cooked in a bag;

Panko-crusted Chilean sea bass:
Wet. Fishy smelling. Frankly repulsive.
Worse? "Sea bass?" Bullshit.
It's scrod.

And "fresh" butternut squash with cinnamon,
But you never tell the guests
That you saw ice crystals
On the packaging.

But it all costs a lot. Because the chef is
On TV
Sometimes.
Meanwhile? This place pays me
Five bucks an hour.
And none of these rich assholes tips well.
Not really.




sight: a clock.
sound: a grumpy child.
scent: newsprint.
touch: a dry leaf.
taste: black coffee.

 

[Winter_Fare]

sight: a clock.
sound: a grumpy child.
scent: newsprint.
touch: a dry leaf.
taste: black coffee.

A funeral on the front pages
Of all the rags today
There isn't enough coffee
To keep somnolence at bay
The TV is no better
It's enough to turn me grey

I'll take you to the rainbow park
To while the hours away.
In little boots and raincoat
To run and dance and play
In piles of crispy autumn leaves
That tumble in our way

The clouds run like your eyes
Upon your cheeks and on the clay
Turning gifts of autumn gold
To ochre and decay
And what use is a sundial
On a late September day?


sight: cumulus clouds
sound: distant voices
scent: burning
touch: hand made paper
taste: glue of envelope or stamp