The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[GuiltyPleasure]

You've still got it N, erotic as ever!

In the dim daylight,
the little that sneaks in
through small grimy windows
the joint looks sad.
The long stretch of the bar
Seems vulnerable bereft
of the usual suspects.
The place smells of beer and
stale cigarette smoke with a
hint of lemon polish.
The day staff is hard at work
swabbing, polishing, sweeping,
trying in vain to remove last night
and, in the darkest corner lit
only by the lights of the juke box
a tiny blond sways to the
music of Eric Clapton acoustic guitar.

Smell: stale sweat
Taste: wasabi
See: a small mob
Hear: opera
Feel: cold

 

[champagne1982]

Smell: stale sweat
Taste: wasabi
See: a small mob
Hear: opera
Feel: cold

An Unlikely Balance Outside the Winspear

A hungry mob lined up at the sushi
bar creates an incogruant clash
of Verdi and harsh voices that grumble
about cold dampness as it infiltrates
their unwashed coats and rehydrates
the stale sweat of nearly three winters
competing for attention with the bite
of bright green wasabi from inside.

Smell: Oolong tea
Taste: Salty caramel
See: Tear-stained cheeks
Hear: Hisses
Feel: Anger

 

[Neonurotic]

You've still got it N, erotic as ever!

Smell: Oolong tea
Taste: Salty caramel
See: Tear-stained cheeks
Hear: Hisses
Feel: Anger

Battle Cry

The next booth over a little towhead
all red-face with anger and tear tracks,
hushes while Mama hisses, "Wait
until we get home". But it's moot, Mama's lost
this skirmish, this baby's gonna blow.

Blow, her heated oolong breath warms
my ear as she leans across the table
to catch an eavesdropper, "Wait
until we get home." And it's moot too,
I'm sucking down a caramel machiatto.

Wondering, why wait? I win this time,
I already have her surrendering. Triumph rings
louder than any temper tantrum. She howls.



Smell: Dusty air
Taste: Tears
See: Ghosts
Hear: Crying
Feel: The damp

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

Smell: Dusty air
Taste: Tears
See: Ghosts
Hear: Crying
Feel: The damp

his soft whispers released
the powdered yesterdays
that had gathered on her neck
freeing them to float into the room

in the spotlight of a broken window
puffs of chaos worked to organize
themselves into swirls of strangely
familiar apparitions of love

she drags a breath in while turning
to ask him why he is here but
instead her voice crackles into
a tired and raspy choke

frantically her bloodshot eyes
beg for sweet mercy
on behalf of her body
that seemed bound to the floor

slowly and steadily he comes at her and
begins to scribe his answer on her lips
smiling warmly he works to quench
their thirst on her dampening relief


Smell: cinnamon apples
Taste: cream
See: yourself
Hear: laughter
Feel: skin

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

his soft whispers released
the powdered yesterdays
that had gathered on her neck
freeing them to float into the room

in the spotlight of a broken window
puffs of chaos worked to organize
themselves into swirls of strangely
familiar apparitions of love

she drags a breath in as she turns
to ask him why he is here
instead her voice crackles into
a tired and raspy choke

frantically her bloodshot eyes
beg for sweet mercy
on behalf of her body
that seemed bound to the floor

slowly and steadily he comes at her and
begins to scribe his answer on her lips
smiling warmly he works to quench
their thirst on her dampening relief


Smell: cinnamon apples
Taste: cream
See: yourself
Hear: laughter
Feel: skin

Wow! Just wow, where have you been 'til now?

 

[Maria2394]

Taste: Pomegranate
Touch: Sand
Smell: Sandalwood
See: Red
Hear: Breathe

She rests on her sandalwood scented
sheets plump as the flesh of pomegranate
with sweet ripeness those globes hang
pendulous and fertile with seeds
as plentiful as the sand that moulds
to footsteps on the shore and lips
stained red with the juice she tempts
with words like kiss me on her breath.
_______________________________

write this poem:

Taste: grapefruit pith
Touch: vinyl chair
Smell: bleach cleanser
See: stained formica
Hear: a radio program

It's beautiful, Champ, but made me HUNGRY!!!!

 

[Neonurotic]

Smell: cinnamon apples
Taste: cream
See: yourself
Hear: laughter
Feel: skin

Grandma's Golden Pie (serves 8)

The small apartment kitchen decorated
in black & white checks and apples too
had her Golden pie cooling,
steaming sugar and cinnamon.

I can follow a written card
in a spidery hand, her heart
and brilliant mind, like aged skin alive
guiding. Peel and core, slice,
knead the dough, crust, then bake.

I can see myself with her, laughing
and say I miss those days
and taste tears with ice cream
as it melts over a blue ribbon recipe.



Smell: rain
Taste: sweat
See: a penny
Hear: robins
Feel: garden dirt

 

[champagne1982]

Grandma's Golden Pie (serves 8)
Smell: rain
Taste: sweat
See: a penny
Hear: robins
Feel: garden dirt

Spring!

It's exciting to see the early spears
of hyacinth and daffodil pierce the mulch
which answers with a labial embrace
around the thickening stem

Sun-warmed fertility of damp richness
prepared with peat and composted life
clumps in thick furrows as fingertips
rake the earth over early seeds

A prayer sung by robins in the birch
in a hope that last week's snows
are merely remnants of the winter
not harbringers of too cold spring

Low slung clouds portend afternoon
precipitation and smell of fresh rain
the day too hot for snow unlike frost
scented nights that bite twitched noses

The dust boils around childish ankles
as sand and broom replaces snow
and shovel for a ten dollar allowance
a copper sparks unwanted, worthless

The flick of tongue across thirsty lips
gathers salt and minerals from heated
skin and reminds that the labour earns
no more or less than 1000 pennies saved.

But still, tulips press through yeilding earth
and trees bud with impetuous disregard
that snow weighs heavy on fragile green
and breaks the spine of hasty blossoms.

Smell: celery
Taste: roast chicken
See: carrots
Hear: bubbling pot
Feel: warm comfort

 

[RedButterflySlut]

Spring!


Smell: celery
Taste: roast chicken
See: carrots
Hear: bubbling pot
Feel: warm comfort

Snick, snick,
The celery splits under my knife,
Onto the cutting board he bought me
Three weeks ago today.
The smell is crisp, like the budding trees outside,
A few feet away, my lover and my roommate
Play some game with explosions, and
Laugh about their day.
Burble burble,
A pot boils behind me
Two onions, potatoes some vegetable stock,
Bright orange carrots all waiting
For the left over roasted chicken in my hand.
Hungry, I sample
The product of my labor from two nights before.
Seasoned perfection entangles my senses,
Trying to please them, I have become talented.
It's all so simple,
They play while I cook,
Yet I feel content, happy where I am.
While the covered pot simmers,
I join my boys in the living room
Click click,
The controller sounds like a beating drum,
My voice is a flute, high and light with laughter.
I ignore the fact this cannot last,
And wait until the food is done.

Smell: Wet concrete
Taste: Fresh apples
See: A kiss
Hear: A woman singing
Feel: Rough hands

 

[Remec]

Smell: Wet concrete
Taste: Fresh apples
See: A kiss
Hear: A woman singing
Feel: Rough hands

They were paving in front of
Armstrong's today, but I didn't care
since the scent of wet concrete was
overwhelmed by the taste of a new
caramel apple. I usually prefer fresh ones,
the really bright yellow kind that
crunch just so with every bite and
fill each corner of my mouth with
a savory sweetness somewhere
between red and green, but I made do.
The way Bobby makes do without
Sarah's company since she didn't come
home for Spring Break this year.
I watched him kiss her Skype image while
across the room listening to some
wannabe on Idol and wondered if
the rough patches on my fingers
and palm were remnants of caramel
or concrete or something else entirely.
~~~~~


Smell: toothpaste
Taste: salt
Sight: dinosaurs
Sound: rumbling
Touch: silky

 

[Azalea]

The Preserve

Small grey pebbles skitter ahead of us,
thrown as you kick at the path
playfully, eager to share what you've found,
hoping he will come today.
Our fingers loosely entwined,
you pull me deeper into the preserve,
off the well-worn trail into tall, soft grass
where tiny flowers, pinks and lavendars,
shimmer in a late afternoon breeze.
Nearing the copse of willows sheltering
the waterfall, you sink to your knees,
gently pulling me down next to you
and "shushing" us both with
a finger pressed against noiseless lips.

We wait in a stillness broken only
by our soft breathing and the
distant chatter of birds.
Far in the distance, the low growl of
thunder echoes across the glade.
We are content to wait in silence,
sharing the simple joy
of presence and anticipation.

After a while, your hand tightens around mine
as a small, honey-brown deer
emerges from the trees to graze at the water's edge.
I see your eyes watching, like tiny sapphires
reflecting the lowering sun.
Later, I will recall their brightness as I softly kiss both lids,
shut in the drowsiness following our pleasure.

sight: one ex. "shimmer in an afternoon breeze"
sound: "stillness broken only by our soft breathing"
touch: "You hand tightens around mine"
smell: "tiny flowers, pinks and lavendars"
taste: "I softly kiss both lids" (borderline, I know)

 

[Azalea]

November Morning

We crawl beside the ghost bayou
shrouded in icy steam
inching onto the pontoon bridge
on creaking wood past fuzzy green lanterns,
the opposite bank framed in
timid sunlight;
sitting beside me in the old pickup
you are warm sugar against brisk air.


sight: "opposite bank framed in timid sunlight"
sound: "on creaking wood"
feel: "brisk air"
smell and taste: "warm sugar"

 

[Azalea]

Once in a Thousand Years

I have known the beauty of fjords
in the sharpness of icy winter,
in the sun-brilliance of golden summer,
and I have seen meadow flowers
and tasted honey-wine and
aged winter ale that sets
bones afire.

But only once in a thousand years
have I known beauty such as yours.

I have fought with shield and broadsword,
hewn through flesh with my axe,
cleaved enemies as if they were
made of parchment,
heard the beserker cry of battle frenzy.

But only once in a thousand years
have I surrendered - sweet conqueror.

I have watched friends and foe alike
caught within the unstoppable
webs of time and fate, vanish down
into the darkness and dust of the grave,
and marveled that I could still walk
this earth and feel - anything.

But only once in a thousand years
have I truly wanted to feel, just feel you.

I am ancient and jaded and weary
with the boredom of tedious,
pointless existence,
a walking corpse of deadly attraction,
women and men alike wanting to
die for one taste of my gift.

But only once in a thousand years
have I wanted to give in return, to you.

My lover, I live for the day
you finally understand my need, my obssession
my burning for that which you alone
can bestow upon this weary traveler
through endless time.

Joy. Lover, you are my joy.
Only once in a thousand years.....



sight: "beauty of fjords"
sound: "heard the beserker cry"
smell: "meadow flowers"
feel: "hewn through flesh"
taste: "tasted honey wine"



(Can you guess, this is a poem about Eric Northman.)

 

[Azalea]

Silver and Vermillion, Part I

Frantic, the full moon at her back,
She tore through the briars,
Sharp pinpricks piercing tender flesh
As her eyes peered into the night
For a flash of silver fur.

The scarlet drops, trail of tears and blood,
Led her ever deeper into the forest,
And she trembled when she heard
His maddened roar of despair,
Form shifting despite his deepest groans.

Red and silver, colors of despiar, colors of his night
Of outrage at the Soul-less gods
Who so shaped him.

Weeping, she thrashed further inside
The tangled briars and branches,
Searching, longing, wanting oh, so much more
Than the sleek fur, the pained eyes shining through the bleak night.

Part II

A night full of sorrow
Silver-furred wolf thrashing
Deeper and deeper into the
Moonlit grove, leaving a
Crimson trail, hot blood
Fallen on the tips of leaves
On the fallen, dead, brittle leaves

She follows, her heart
Pounding on the edge of despair
Listening for the cries of pain as
Cruel briars, leaf-stripped branches
Rip into his thick, silky fur
Leaving beaded lines of dark red
Clotting, his fur matted
With blood and sweat

The moon sinks low,
The lavendar dawn breaks
Slowly, awakened birds
Chatter and trill their
Greetings to the newborn day
She almost misses the
Reclining form of a naked man
Sleeping amid the trampled leaves
His eyes closed, breathing slowly

She stops cold, stunned by
The sight of the blood-drawn
Tracks violating his flesh, pale
And cold in the morning dew
Without a sound she drops
To her knees beside him
And weeps, hot tears falling onto
The cold ground, a few tears
Falling onto his wounds, the warm salt
Reviving the old blood, sending
It is narrow, pink rivulets
Down his flank.

What will he remember when he awakens?
Will the pain and fear remain
Etched cruelly into his memory?
Will he know she has followed him
Through everything, desperately
Seeking to offer solace, peace
To offer some semblance of joy
Where it has been all but killed?
She kneels beside him, watching
The rising of the sun,
Listening to his soft breathing,
Ready to offer life, warmth,
Benediction.
*****************************************


sight: "red and silver, colors of despair"
sound: "his maddened roar of despair"
feel: "sharp pinpricks piercing tender flesh"
smell: "fur matted with blood and sweat"
taste: "warm salt reviving the old blood"

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

A reminder of the "rules of play"

Personally, I'm on a dry spell and need a little muse goose so I thought this could help. I can't think of anything clever to start this challenge thread so I'll just state guidelines. Write a poem that includes the five senses. Use any form, any length. That's it. Easy enough, eh? Here's the kicker. You have to use the five words assigned by the poster before you then you write your poem and assign another five senses words to the following poet. However, if the poet so chooses, they can use any form of those words and if they don't particularly like the chosen word, they can use their trusty thesaurus.

Let's go...

Taste: Pomegranate
Touch: Sand
Smell: Sandalwood
See: Red
Hear: Breathe

We seem to have lost the path................

 

[champagne1982]

We seem to have lost the path................

They were paving in front of
Armstrong's today, but I didn't care
since the scent of wet concrete was
overwhelmed by the taste of a new
caramel apple. I usually prefer fresh ones,
the really bright yellow kind that
crunch just so with every bite and
fill each corner of my mouth with
a savory sweetness somewhere
between red and green, but I made do.
The way Bobby makes do without
Sarah's company since she didn't come
home for Spring Break this year.
I watched him kiss her Skype image while
across the room listening to some
wannabe on Idol and wondered if
the rough patches on my fingers
and palm were remnants of caramel
or concrete or something else entirely.
~~~~~


Smell: toothpaste
Taste: salt
Sight: dinosaurs
Sound: rumbling
Touch: silky

Remec posted the latest list quoted above. The first post on this thread outlines the participation outline for the challenge, Azalea. Your poems are lovely but you're not giving anyone the opportunity to challenge you to write about their five senses lists or to write one in reply to yours. It's fun to write with friends and this thread is a great way to do that. Once again, I appreciate your offerings but perhaps you could try writing a response to Remec as well?

Take Care,

 

[Azalea]

Champagne, I just went to the last page and started posting my poems, and finding the imagery in them....I didn't go to the first page and find out how the challenge worked......sorry I mess it up; I'll go read the first page and try to follow the spitir of the thread. Thanks for catching me on it.

 

[Azalea]

Smell: toothpaste
Taste: salt
Sight: dinosaurs
Sound: rumbling
Touch: silky


From a distance,
the thunder growls and rumbles
like a hungry raptor

As we watch the darkening sky
Your salty tang is still
on my tongue

The thought of banishing it
with minty flouride is nowhere near
as appealing as remaining entwined

*******************************
Sight: cedar tree
sound" crackle
feel: ridges
smell: lavendar
taste: licorice

 

[Tzara]

Sight: cedar tree
sound" crackle
feel: ridges
smell: lavendar
taste: licorice

Sequim

The cedar that wants to fall on my house
crackles and creaks in this wind.
I pray it stands, of course, I pray

that its trunk is as limber
as a licorice whip
I remember I once ate

on a warm afternoon when school
finally was out. I was looking at the lavender fields,
those soft mauve ridges running out toward the Sound.

Brenda had already moved
and I was bound only until September.
The small flowers brushed my legs

as I walked the rows, but
even the sweetness of the candy failed
to absolve me of my cancelled love.



Sight: An urban environment
Sound: A low hum
Feel: Something irregular, or uneven
Smell: Burnt wood or paper
Taste: The sharp bite of white wine

 

[Azalea]

Sitting on the terrace
skin irritated by broken wood slats
tangy coolness of Chardonnay
refreshing in the early summer haze

the hum of distant machinery
erupts in a blast of smoke
and my nose suddenly
burns with an acrid scent

we really must consider
a move to the suburbs



sight: snow
sound: cracking
feel: itchy
taste: syrupy sweet
smell: perfume

 

[Neonurotic]

Sight: An urban environment
Sound: A low hum
Feel: Something irregular, or uneven
Smell: Burnt wood or paper
Taste: The sharp bite of white wine

Fuck Progress

The concrete cubes and smoke stacks
obscure the view as does the low hum
of urbanization. The stink of pulp mills
burning, are a red light at a 4-way in
an alfalfa-and-sheep nowhere.

This sprawl scars the country,
where Starbuck's pock main street
giving the locals a taste of modernization.

It feels uneven, I mull this sitting
in a new bodega with sauvignon blanc
sharp on my tongue, longing
for this small town to stay small and
iced sweet tea in a jelly jar.



oops was 10 minutes too late, here's Azalea's list:
sight: snow
sound: cracking
feel: itchy
taste: syrupy sweet
smell: perfume

 

[Tzara]

sight: snow
sound: cracking
feel: itchy
taste: syrupy sweet
smell: perfume

Paradise

When she stood before me naked,
skin bright as a snowfield
of fresh powder,

my resolve cracked
like an icicle in the sun.
Suddenly I tasted mangoes

and rich, lush papayas
on the island of my tongue,
bathed in the sweet scent of Hibiscus

at her neck, behind her ear.
Later, when I began to itch, I found
she had staked me to the ground,

painted with the honey
of her careful words, and that swarms of ants
were busy devouring my guts.




sight: An old photograph
sound: A sigh or sob
feeling: Fatigue
taste: Bitter
smell: Lemon or other citrus

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Fatigue sighs from my shoes
even before I am fully in.
Calendar screws up
its face at me (June even
sticks out its tongue!)
but there are friendlier
frames. In back I find it
tucked under mom and dad.

We emerge in a thin
Woolworth Photo Booth
Strip. I sat on your lap.

Vogue. Vogue. Vogue. Vogue.

Here I sigh as I sighed before.
If I were Mata Hari.
If you were Ingrid Bergman.

This is the one I cut for the locket
One side for Mata, the other for Ingrid.
They are hung from my neck
like hiccups. My throat opens
for the cure: when we talk it is always
lemon and bitters. I borrow
the face of May. But I can breathe.




sight: boots
sound: squeak
feeling: water evaporating on the skin
taste: mint
smell: something burning

 

[Remec]

sight: boots
sound: squeak
feeling: water evaporating on the skin
taste: mint
smell: something burning

Interrogation



Unfocussed, my eyes
close once more but not
quickly enough to avoid
the vertigo. The barest hint
of fire--a match? a cigarette?
tells me I'm not alone but
reopening one eye shows me
nothing but an inverted boot

tapping impatiently as the nylon
whines with every breath--still
curiously cool and reassuring
with the remnants of juleps and
aspic from our meal together,

simply the last one or was it more
of a Last Supper attended by only
two instead of thirteen? No matter,
I relax and await what comes next,
feeling both sweat and tears
slowly evaporating
~~~~~


sight: cobblestone
sound: hammering
scent: the sea
feeling: leathery
taste: garlic

 

[Neonurotic]

sight: cobblestone
sound: hammering
scent: the sea
feeling: leathery
taste: garlic

That "cobblestone" is really fucking with me. I can get everything in but that word.