The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Guest]

See: Seahorse
Hear: a cheering crowd
Smell: beer breath
Feel: scratchy
Taste: Bijou (hope she doesn't mind.) In my head/out my mouth. That's me.

I should've stopped
with that last Corona, but . . . tequila chased
me right over that edge.
The crowd cry as sea horses sail the sky
and this Cirque du Freak is complete
with a hirsute lady.
Kissing her is scratchy.
I can smell my beer breath in her face,
and it's horrendous, but . . . wait, that's no beard,
that's bijou's clam and she's New England!




See: Dust devils
Hear: Howling
Smell: Melted plastic
Feel: Static charge
Taste: Ozone

 

[Guest]

That poem about bijou was funny when I wrote it.

I have a weird sense of humor when I'm lacking sleep.

 

[sassynyc]

lol. quirky humor is a good thing

 

[sassynyc]

Sight: shadows
Sound: popping embers in a fire
Taste: sweat
Touch: erotic
Smell: leather

shadows dance wickedly
to the snap, crackle, pop
of licking flames
fingertips stroll erotically inside
the trench of my spine,
peeled from perfumed leather
sweat welling in hollowed spaces
leaves me craving your salted earth




taste~citrus
touch~carpet fibers
smell~lemongrass
see~work of art
hear~bass

 

[Guest]

Thanks for continuing with this thread sassy, I guess my last list didn't appeal to anyone. I hated seeing the thread fall/die to the next page.

 

[sassynyc]

Thanks for continuing with this thread sassy, I guess my last list didn't appeal to anyone. I hated seeing the thread fall/die to the next page.

I swear, I tried.....but hell if I could figure what the Ozone might taste like.

So I just went with retro-J

 

[Guest]

I swear, I tried.....but hell if I could figure what the Ozone might taste like.

So I just went with retro-J

Something like rain and lightening I think. Anything I can smell and I can taste it too . . . hmmm/same as sticking your tongue I light socket!

 

[sassynyc]

Something like rain and lightening I think. Anything I can smell and I can taste it too . . . hmmm/same as sticking your tongue I light socket!

My.....the lengths you'll go to for poetry. I'm not that brave. How 'bout you try it, and spin it into verse.

*cowers, watching from the sidelines*

 

[Guest]

My.....the lengths you'll go to for poetry. I'm not that brave. How 'bout you try it, and spin it into verse.

*cowers, watching from the sidelines*

Rain check? I haven't been feeling too poetic lately, I've been writing porny-type stories for the AH's Kink Bingo.




Here's your maverllous sensory list again for whoever in need of inspiration:

taste~citrus
touch~carpet fibers
smell~lemongrass
see~work of art
hear~bass

 

[champagne1982]

taste~citrus
touch~carpet fibers
smell~lemongrass
see~work of art
hear~bass

we sat lotus-wise
waiting for the soup
jute fibres sting my thighs
and lemongrass scented broth
fights for dominance
with the painting of a cello
humming over bass notes
you feed me limes
and I kiss you oranges.

taste: fuel
touch: vibration
smell: creosote
see: contrails
hear: rumbles

 

[sassynyc]

taste: fuel
touch: vibration
smell: creosote
see: contrails
hear: rumbles

charred matter hung in the air
fuel flavoring every breath
i watched his caligraphy
scrawled in the sky
an ode to my love
and his adoration
i tried to quiet the rumble
of that omniiscient voice,
that says, this moment is fleeting,
and so is his love
i've pressed it down
until it is just
the fluttering vibration
of butterflies' wings



taste~honeydew
smell~ fresh flowers
touch~wrought iron
hear~a stringed instrument
see~a tower

 

[sassynyc]

I'm a little short on inspiration, so I'm going through some of the old lists here, to get a flow going again.

From Jamison

See ~ crocuses
Hear ~ furnace kicking on
Feel ~ cold
Taste ~ green tea
Smell ~ simmering soup


He felt the night
happening around him.
Blistering bitter snaps of wind
numbed his limbs, slowing his gait.
He shuffled memories of winters past.
Waking, curled around her, yin and yang
as the ancient furnace click-clacked to life
Closed eyes remembered the flavor of her
favorite green tea, resounding, delicate
like her, it lingered on the palate.
That was forever ago.
Wafts of corn chowder and comfort
jarred him, painfully present. The mission
doors lay ahead, open like welcoming arms.
He would eat. He had lived another day.
His breath curled before him, in suspended animation.
He imagined he breathed crocus blooms.
For a moment, it was spring.


Taste ~ regret
Smell ~ coconut
See ~ ocean
Hear ~ timpani
Feel ~ rose petal

 

[sassynyc]

From Jamison

Taste ~ vanilla
Touch ~ something itchy
Smell ~ coffee
Sound ~ traffic
See ~ tail lights


The aroma of fresh brew
nearly muted the vanilla notes
of skin beneath his tongue
Her back made contact with
the chilled window pane
as lace tore from her writhing frame
Over licks of bare shoulder, he spied
garlands of red light, amid dismal traffic hum



taste ~ gin
smell ~ almond
touch ~ something creamy
hear ~ dripping
see ~ a clock

 

[sassynyc]

I was aiming for a poem that just wouldn't cooperate. This is what came out instead.

From normal jean

Taste ~ cinnamon
Touch ~ wet
See ~ trees swaying
Hear ~ train whistle
Smell ~ freshly baked bread


She heard the sharp whistle, slicing through wee-hour darkness. Instantly she knew, the last train had gone. The recurrent theme of her life, always one step behind. She had become a cinnamon flavored metaphor. Just spicy enough to garner interest, but no recipe ground to a halt without her. Yes….she could be replaced.

The last time she was this late, she had been. She’d walked ten blocks from the nearest bus stop, in the rain. After taking a taxi as far as she could afford to go. A cab ride to her front door would have left her broke, for the rest of the week. Whenever she missed the commuter train, this was her cross to bear. She would have called Charles to pick her up, but he was working late. He kept such long hours.

The ten block trek was fresh in her mind. Rain came down in torrents. She was a sodden mess. Trees bowed and swayed in the wind. In retrospect, it seemed, their flailing limbs were warning her of the shit storm ahead.

She could still smell the old fashioned baked bread from the bakery next door. The details of that night never faded. Thinking about it made bats, not butterflies, flutter in her stomach. A brief elevator ride saw her to her front door. The air felt different. There was an ineffable static charge looming.

She slipped her key into the lock, and reality slipped off kilter. Charles was not working late. He was here…naked….and he had company.


Taste ~ margarita
Touch ~ wicker
See ~ palomino
Hear ~ conch shell
Smell ~ ripe fruit

 

[Angeline]

I was aiming for a poem that just wouldn't cooperate. This is what came out instead.

From normal jean

Taste ~ cinnamon
Touch ~ wet
See ~ trees swaying
Hear ~ train whistle
Smell ~ freshly baked bread


She heard the sharp whistle, slicing through wee-hour darkness. Instantly she knew, the last train had gone. The recurrent theme of her life, always one step behind. She had become a cinnamon flavored metaphor. Just spicy enough to garner interest, but no recipe ground to a halt without her. Yes….she could be replaced.

The last time she was this late, she had been. She’d walked ten blocks from the nearest bus stop, in the rain. After taking a taxi as far as she could afford to go. A cab ride to her front door would have left her broke, for the rest of the week. Whenever she missed the commuter train, this was her cross to bear. She would have called Charles to pick her up, but he was working late. He kept such long hours.

The ten block trek was fresh in her mind. Rain came down in torrents. She was a sodden mess. Trees bowed and swayed in the wind. In retrospect, it seemed, their flailing limbs were warning her of the shit storm ahead.

She could still smell the old fashioned baked bread from the bakery next door. The details of that night never faded. Thinking about it made bats, not butterflies, flutter in her stomach. A brief elevator ride saw her to her front door. The air felt different. There was an ineffable static charge looming.

She slipped her key into the lock, and reality slipped off kilter. Charles was not working late. He was here…naked….and he had company.


Taste ~ margarita
Touch ~ wicker
See ~ palomino
Hear ~ conch shell
Smell ~ ripe fruit

The salt of sex circled
the rim of papaya peach
delight and the silky black
seeds. I watched you
through melon tinted sun
glasses of lemony margaritas
your eyes hidden behind
a wicker fan. The ocean
whispers in a shell. Splits
of skin scented like ripe fruit.
You rode in on a palamino
and then you disappeared.

Taste ~ scotch
Touch ~ satin
See ~ neon
Hear ~ bass
Smell ~ perfume

 

[sassynyc]

The salt of sex circled
the rim of papaya peach
delight and the silky black
seeds. I watched you
through melon tinted sun
glasses of lemony margaritas
your eyes hidden behind
a wicker fan. The ocean
whispers in a shell. Splits
of skin scented like ripe fruit.
You rode in on a palamino
and then you disappeared.

Taste ~ scotch
Touch ~ satin
See ~ neon
Hear ~ bass
Smell ~ perfume

Glenfiddich loosely slips
down my throat and spreads
warm wings, satin plumed
Clef notes fill the spaces
between smoke furls and glass clinks
Night air perfumed with jazz
A string god graces the stage
Strums my religion with calloused fingertips
His bass echoes cool blue through
my vertebrae. Salvation found in the treble.


taste ~ chipotle
smell ~ lotus blossoms
touch ~ wax
hear ~ splash
see ~ koi

 

[Neonurotic]

See: Dust devils
Hear: Howling
Smell: Melted plastic
Feel: Static charge
Taste: Ozone

Faraway on a planet
much like Earth, programmed
dust devils howl, tear up the valleys,
while carving dry red beds.
An army of bots scurry
like a river, sanitizing the country side
covering the tracks of civilization
In their wake a static charge
fires the rock until it glows.

Hours later, a rocket ship touches down.
A camera mounted on wheels
rolls down a ramp, over sunburned
sand, recording as burnt rubber
and melting plastic taints the air.

"Mars is still a dead land."
Earthlings go home
and we Martians come out to play.
It rains, we taste ozone fresh,
party, party until UFO's come again.




See: candlelight
Hear: hail
Smell: baked bread
Feel: cozy
Taste: butter

 

[champagne1982]

See: candlelight
Hear: hail
Smell: baked bread
Feel: cozy
Taste: butter

Yesterday

In the kitchen she kneads
heel of hand
push, roll, fold,
heel of hand
push, a shoosh
broken at the patter
of heavy drops
splattered on the walk

Their talk floats
from the table
broken by the scrape
of chair on floor in haste
to make it to the bedroom
and close windows
and stand to catch a glimpse
of the fall of ice rumbling
on the next door's tin shed roof.

No lights to see the fumbles
Fingers struggle to ignite
a flame to light those hollows
cast in shadows elongated
with the flicker of a candle

As one they tumble
where the push, roll,
fold swaps to a slap
to match the groans
of thunder and trees
moan with sudden gusts

Until they slip together
the taste of butter
spread on fresh baked
bread infusions of morning
forgotten as the shoosh
of exhaled climax
collapses to melt like the fury
of the storm. Cozy in bed
while outside, nature
droops in exhaustion,
pummelled to submission.

______________________________

How wonderful to read you once more. And how awful to learn how rusty I feel at turning words to poetry. A welcome exercise, thanks for reviving this thread.


Hear: Blades on ice
Smell: Locker room
Taste: Blood
See: Red light
Feel: Victorious

 

[Neonurotic]

Hey, champy. ♥
This thread in the past helped me stumbling blocks and I hope it does again for me now.

But

I have nothing for your list right now, but I'll return if I do.

Hear: Blades on ice
Smell: Locker room
Taste: Blood
See: Red light
Feel: Victorious

 

[Neonurotic]

Taste ~ regret
Smell ~ coconut
See ~ ocean
Hear ~ timpani
Feel ~ rose petal

Kaze no Regret

A rose petal soft kiss, whispers along,
stirring; arousing a pull of breath.
I see ocean blue in the middle of my eye,
have coconut suntan oil imprints of her,
the tropics. We were happy then,
I was happy, but like a typhoon,
it all whirls away when we are young.

And careless are we,
we don't realize what it is really gone.

The strong timpani of last days,
my heart striking slow against her breast,
its a requiem of love. I've regret
on my lips day after day, alone,
remembering, I left, she stayed.




Hear: Blades on ice
Smell: Locker room
Taste: Blood
See: Red light
Feel: Victorious
(sorry champy, can't seem to get a poem going on this one.)

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

By god! There are some gems in here!

 

[respeito]

i'd like to try champagne's list if it's okay.

Yesterday
Hear: Blades on ice
Smell: Locker room
Taste: Blood
See: Red light
Feel: Victorious

she tasted blood,
warm and metallic;
the way she imagined a glass of champagne would taste
if someone dropped a penny in it.

fighting. coach would verbally punish her later in the locker room,
but it was worth the five minutes in the box.

allowed to join her teammates,
she can only hear the sound,
of blades on ice; rasping
gracefully across the arena.

she glides into the opposition's zone,
and speeds into open ice, ready to recieve.

puck nestled gently against the wooden blade,
she closes in on the net.
the red light comes on,
her team reigns victorious.



hear: fireworks
smell: charcoal
taste: lobster roll
see: sailboat
feel: guilty

 

[BooMerengue]

2nd posting in 8 yrs. I love good challenges.

hear: fireworks
smell: charcoal
taste: lobster roll
see: sailboat
feel: guilty



Why do I feel this way -
guilty?
I was compliant, complacent
giving what doesn't belong to me
"Wait!" I scream, words carried on the waves
coming back to me, not out to him.
I trip in the dark, seeing what isn't there
and missing what is, burning my toes
on the charcoal. Did we start that
or was it spontaneous?
like the fireworks I know I heard,
and felt shiver through me
again and again.
It was just a simple picnic
of lobster rolls and laughter
and mojitos on ice
but now I kneel here empty
naked and ashamed and in the distance,
following the Suns path, a single sailboat.

It should sink from the weight of its
stolen cargo.


hear: church bells
smell: lilacs
taste: dry mouth
see: something (your choice) in the mist
feel: happy and frightened

 

[UnderYourSpell]

2nd posting in 8 yrs. I love good challenges.

hear: fireworks
smell: charcoal
taste: lobster roll
see: sailboat
feel: guilty



Why do I feel this way -
guilty?
I was compliant, complacent
giving what doesn't belong to me
"Wait!" I scream, words carried on the waves
coming back to me, not out to him.
I trip in the dark, seeing what isn't there
and missing what is, burning my toes
on the charcoal. Did we start that
or was it spontaneous?
like the fireworks I know I heard,
and felt shiver through me
again and again.
It was just a simple picnic
of lobster rolls and laughter
and mojitos on ice
but now I kneel here empty
naked and ashamed and in the distance,
following the Suns path, a single sailboat.

It should sink from the weight of its
stolen cargo.


hear: church bells
smell: lilacs
taste: dry mouth
see: something (your choice) in the mist
feel: happy and frightened

Even the sound of Sunday church bells,
or the scent of lilac wafting on the breeze,
couldn't release the dread
from my heart.
Never go back they say,
but here I was
dry mouthed and helpless
trying to remember,
afraid of what my mind
had blocked in the mists
of the past.
There were happy times, I knew that
but would this place
of childhood memories
reveal much that was best buried
forever?

hear: horses hooves
smell: new mown hay
taste: bacon
see: large bird (your choice)
feel: tired

 

[Neonurotic]

Weee! This thread is going again! Thanks Boo, UnderYourSpell and respeito for participating with your marvelous sensory poems.