The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Remec]

Sight: someone walking alone
sound: waves
scent: nostalgia - whatever that means to you
touch: gritty
taste: Tropical fruit

Rodeo


tap, tap, tap

Granted, I can't hear them,
stilletos moving across
marbled, gilded stars, but I
have heard them enough that
imagination suffices while
I watch her on her rounds,

jingle, jingle, jingle

She manuevers herself along the
street, weaving through the
crests and troughs of cars,
music blaring from shops and
clubs or just locals trying to draw
in some cash from passersby.

I have no idea where she is in her
day, but our schedules are in sync
since I always manage to see her
when I am on my break. I savor
how my coffee seems to add an extra
...I don't know, something...to how

the street corner must smell,
exhaust mingled with sweat swirled
with perfume entwined in a blend of
thai take-out, burgers and pizzas,
and that unique aroma that seemingly
wafts from the corner bodega at all hours

Smells like yesterday, somehow,
when I walked a similar beat, the
gritty sensation of glitter on my skin,
of mango and papaya in my lip gloss.
~~~~~



Next:
Sight: a fan
Sound: a big dog
Smell: a house (interpret as you will)
Taste: water
Touch: a chair

 

[Angeline]

Rodeo


tap, tap, tap

Granted, I can't hear them,
stilletos moving across
marbled, gilded stars, but I
have heard them enough that
imagination suffices while
I watch her on her rounds,

jingle, jingle, jingle

She manuevers herself along the
street, weaving through the
crests and troughs of cars,
music blaring from shops and
clubs or just locals trying to draw
in some cash from passersby.

I have no idea where she is in her
day, but our schedules are in sync
since I always manage to see her
when I am on my break. I savor
how my coffee seems to add an extra
...I don't know, something...to how

the street corner must smell,
exhaust mingled with sweat swirled
with perfume entwined in a blend of
thai take-out, burgers and pizzas,
and that unique aroma that seemingly
wafts from the corner bodega at all hours

Smells like yesterday, somehow,
when I walked a similar beat, the
gritty sensation of glitter on my skin,
of mango and papaya in my lip gloss.
~~~~~



Next:
Sight: a fan
Sound: a big dog
Smell: a house (interpret as you will)
Taste: water
Touch: a chair

Whining, whining
the big fan in the hall window
the little fan on the desk no

breeze and everywhere
the night is melting. Friday
grinds thunka thunk winds
into Saturday a slow metal
whir somewhat

cooler on the white stone
morning the steps of Saint
Anthony's where I sit,
watch cars pass industrious
and grey sisters walk by.

They never sweat.

"Holy water," Judy says
touching a bead to my scabby
elbow. I imagine it burns
but it's just water.

Even her house smells
Catholic, last night's fish
on the air and everywhere
a crucifix, her frayed father
at his chair and paper,
Frankie the dog thumping
his tail on the linoleum.

Sight: a sculpture ( a real one that's named)
Sound: chime
Smell: a season
Taste: orange
Touch: something hard

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Sight: a sculpture ( a real one that's named)
Sound: chime
Smell: a season
Taste: orange
Touch: something hard

Dancer Looking at the Sole of Her Right Foot

Nothing is so hard as holding
serenity within this plaster as I lift
and wait for the chime telling Him

we are ready to break the seal, these muscles
captured in their delicate pull
while I check the source
of the prick
that stays my step.

Mother will not call for me
nor worry until well after night has fallen.
Summer bakes the hours left
me to stand in the wet until it dries
hard enough to cast.

Cut me out! Let me share
the lunch of kittens, a little milk
and tender petting to wake
the blood in these legs. Nothing

today to eat for He is occupied
with the newer, sleeker
model. I am expected
to slip quietly from this shade
into the dying sunlight.

I pluck an orange from His
small tree as I leave,
tongue wet already for its
brief, bright comfort.

(Sorry, used kitten instead of dog. Not much of a dog person, me.)

New Words:
Touch: cooling sweat
Taste: bacon
Smell: car air freshener
Sight: armadillo
Sound: gossip

 

[Tzara]

Touch: cooling sweat
Taste: bacon
Smell: car air freshener
Sight: armadillo
Sound: gossip

Twin Buttes

Everything’s hot in Texas, even at night
when you’re lying across
the bench seat

of a ’66 El Camino, sweat
slowly merging into the humidity,
barely cooling your skin

more than the menthol
smoke you drag deep into your lungs
chills your throat or the fake pine

scent of those ineffective trees knotted
on the rear view mirror
clears the cab’s dulled air.

You can hear Mary Lou peeing
in the ditch
from too many Pearls,

and you’ve already heard the talk,
those little nasty murmurs
when you and she split

with a cold half rack
leaving Nancy to find her own way home
from Chase’s Bar.

The stars are as bright as broken glass
in midday sun
and you wonder

whether you should stop
for eggs and bacon
at that old diner out on 277,

the one with the faded armadillo
on its sign, maybe after
one last go

with Lulu when she’s through pissing—
gal gives such great head,
a guy never feels like he’s quite done.



Sight: An empty bus stop
Sound: A news report, through an opened window
Scent: Tar or asphalt
Taste: Some kind of soda, preferably flat
Touch: Dust or dirt

 

[greenmountaineer]

Homecoming

My father was a third degree Knight
without the plumes and capes drinking Schlitz,
the ones they used to call half pint dimeys

down at the bar at the Knights of Columbus
where dog August streets bubble up Amboy
and Jimmy comps me a left over Coke

who remembers the kid that left long ago
in K Mart jeans, looking for mountains
and snow pea tendrils fingering maypoles.

I dreamed of streams you could drink from then
drinking my beer by the Outerbridge Crossing
where tankers spilled bilge unloading crude.

Amboy Transit disrupts my reverie
as it empties a bench of old black ladies
with sores on their hands from the second shift

Holiday Inn or Amboy General
whose steam spews headlines of sex, life, and ashes
dust to dust in the dirty bedsheets.

Choo Choo, my girl, on those hot summer nights
could sing My Guy like Mary Wells once did;
Choo Choo was pale as the full moon was white

when we necked near the oak trees on Park Street
where Uncle Charley each time we went
said colored kids always pissed in the pool.

To think I thought the neighborhood rats
were slowly eating up Perth Amboy, Jimmy,
who hands me a dimey, now fifty cents,

which ain't a bad price for the memories,
and I think that maybe Candide was right,
I mean, about tending one's garden, Jimmy.

I can buy snowpeas at the A&P
whose slender tendrils that wilt in the heat
wrap around maypoles, no longer phallic.

Taste: mango
Touch: door handle
Sight: beach
Sound: car horn
Smell: french fries

 

[Remec]

Taste: mango
Touch: door handle
Sight: beach
Sound: car horn
Smell: french fries

Lunchbreak

The scent rises above it all,
not sure how it manages it,
the beach is aflood in odors

from lotions and oils, the barest
hint of bargain-bin Newports--no
one seems to smoke, even in public,
as much any more--and the food

greasy goodness mingled with hot
and spicy while rolled together and
slathered in pizza sauce and melting
cheese, fried and baked and broiled
fish and squid and shrimp--anything
and everything that one might think of

but I pause in the parking lot, hand
upon the door, ignoring the profanity
being covered by incessant car horns,
savoring the taste of fresh mango shake
and the warm aroma of newly made fries.
~~~~~
scent: flowers
sight: television
sound: child crying out
taste: cheese pizza
touch: smooth

 

[Desejo]

~~~~~
scent: flowers
sight: television
sound: child crying out
taste: cheese pizza
touch: smooth

Coming to America

The six foot high television
in the center of his living room
smooth, plastic
gleaming there triumphantly
A symbol I do not understand.

Well. He did say that he knew it was over
When I got a cat without his permission
The instinct is strong to revert
reassert who you are
Not who you accept to be.

This family should be wounded
in memories of last ditch effort roses
decaying in the trash
and the uncontrollable sobbing of a child
saying goodbye to her father
Thanks to his utter stupidity
And my own line in the sand mentality.

But it works. Somehow.
So tonight we will speak English
And eat American pizza
Probably even in front of that ridiculous TV.

Sound: sleep
Sight: bird
scent: candles
taste: freshly picked produce/fruit
touch: low quality sheets

 

[Tzara]

I think this

Coming to America

The six foot high television...

is really good.

Sound: sleep
Sight: bird
scent: candles
taste: freshly picked produce/fruit
touch: low quality sheets

Willcox, AZ

At sunrise, Laura shifts
a bit in bed, sighs,

and settles back into sleep.
I'd like to think

it was the birds that woke me,
that crow perched on the telephone wire

cawing to his kin
about last night’s roadkill

spread red and wet
over the westbound lane,

but their few odd cries
do not explain

that knot, lodged
deep in my gut like a stone.

My knees are red—a little chafed
from the cheap Chinese sheets

of this crap motel. Hell,
she was good last night. At least

we still have that, anyway.
I shake out a cigarette,

light it from the low flame
of the one candle still burning.

Spice scent. Better
cinnamon than disinfectant,

she laughed, lighting two or three.
The orange, plucked

from her sister’s yard in Riverside
is plump and richly sweet.



Sight: Something in a trash can
Sound: A gate or door rattling in the wind
Scent: Turpentine or something like that
Taste: Stale bread
Touch: A cyclone fence

 

[Desejo]

Sight: Something in a trash can
Sound: A gate or door rattling in the wind
Scent: Turpentine or something like that
Taste: Stale bread
Touch: A cyclone fence

James, over Bintang

You know, James says
Pushing his lank hair from his brow
I lived like a bum in those years
I was obsessed with restoring
World War II jeeps
I had parts of them soaking in gasoline
In big metal trash cans
All around my house
I mean
I used to bring women there
God knows what they thought

One time I bought this girl home
And she actually had to run to the bathroom
in the middle of it
And throw up because of the fumes
Then she apologized, the poor thing
We sat there on my mattress on the floor
The door falling off its hinges and rattling in the breeze
I fed her stale cubes of bread to calm her stomach
Later I kissed her goodbye through the netting of the cyclone fence
And I wondered why she never came back.

sight: pine trees
sound: car driving up a driveway
touch: first kiss
taste: candy
smell: baked something

 

[Angeline]

James, over Bintang

You know, James says
Pushing his lank hair from his brow
I lived like a bum in those years
I was obsessed with restoring
World War II jeeps
I had parts of them soaking in gasoline
In big metal trash cans
All around my house
I mean
I used to bring women there
God knows what they thought

One time I bought this girl home
And she actually had to run to the bathroom
in the middle of it
And throw up because of the fumes
Then she apologized, the poor thing
We sat there on my mattress on the floor
The door falling off its hinges and rattling in the breeze
I fed her stale cubes of bread to calm her stomach
Later I kissed her goodbye through the netting of the cyclone fence
And I wondered why she never came back.

sight: pine trees
sound: car driving up a driveway
touch: first kiss
taste: candy
smell: baked something

This is a driveway for you,
lit up like a runway.

We slide over gravel,
no headlights. I can almost
touch the moon anyway;
the night is backlit the pines
gathered looming shifting
with the wind in a dark
dumb show.

That first kiss was pure
candy soft wondering caught
on the breath of desire,
blinded as the airport streams
but your big eyes like that moon.
There is nothing but to fall,
no parachute just wings

fully spread your skin
your sheets undone
in your scent and bled into
the very heart of you,
lulled with dawn warm
bread rising at the grate,
the willow looking away.

sight: classic car, your choice
sound: radio
touch: bird's egg
taste: salt
smell: smoke

 

[Tzara]

sight: classic car, your choice
sound: radio
touch: bird's egg
taste: salt
smell: smoke

19

All summer, we buffed Jeff's car
with rubbing compound, trying to resurrect
that new car shine

with the idea that we'd all share
time in the driver's seat,
parking with girls

on some disused road
that trailed back into the trees.
But there was a problem

with those bucket seats—
a ’62 T-bird is not built for love,
other than for the road,

which it wraps onto itself with big soft springs.
So I guess that didn’t matter.
Cruise control meant

the Stones’ Paint It Black
on AM, my foot held steady, even while
Lori went down on me

at 75 or 80 and I tried
to hold a straight line
even as I came. Later,

parked in the back lot of some dive
we were both too young to enter,
I licked her neck

and tasted sweat. Salt. Good times.
We always smoked afterwards, everybody
did so then. When I finally got

back to the house, I looked out
at the nest. The eggs were so, so blue,
and then I saw that one was cracked.



sight: An artwork, either a famous one or any other
sound: People talking, perhaps on cellphones around you
scent: "Careful air," whatever that means to you
taste: A tea, a cheese, your lover's skin
touch: rubble, of any kind

 

[PandoraGlitters]

19

sight: An artwork, either a famous one or any other
sound: People talking, perhaps on cellphones around you
scent: "Careful air," whatever that means to you
taste: A tea, a cheese, your lover's skin
touch: rubble, of any kind

When in Philadelphia, we peep through Duchamp's door,
eat vegan Cheesesteak, we walk past
shop girls smoking and gossiping
to the narrowest street
with a bidi and never write postcards.

We buy lockets and vow to invest them with photos
or some captured DNA. Who needs the whole
dress, Monica? Just snip a satin heart at the
sweet spot and lock it up for later.

I will plant it in a poultice on the side of a gravel
road you walk home, in a pillow over which
you make a wish bone. Exhale tea leaves
from the balcony.

This is a careful air, an invisible moon,
But I know right where it is, I spoon it
and look over its shoulder at the sun.

The blistering love! How they adore
one another when they face
away from us. In the dusk below

the city of brotherly love embraces
kisses salt from its shoulders
and drinks mightily from the cup.

Sight: Airplane landing
Sound: some sound made by the narrator (tap, cough, whatever)
Touch: something metal
Taste: champagne
Smell: shoeshine

 

[Desejo]

Sight: Airplane landing
Sound: some sound made by the narrator (tap, cough, whatever)
Touch: something metal
Taste: champagne
Smell: shoeshine

Siege

We walk the last 11 kilometers
Picking our way through packed mud dikes
in abandoned rice fields violently green
rusted zinc roofs with in evil gleaming shrapnel edges
patches marked danger with crossed palm fronds

I gasp as I begin to recognize things
Cafe imperial, where they served beer in mayonnaise jars
In portions called Bazookas
This is a bit more poignant now that guns line every street corner.

We come to the road to the airport
The road we would have driven in on
had we arrived on a plane.
But of course the airport is closed.

The the smell of fuel wafts over
the wild grass bordering the road
It smells almost of shoeshine
I wonder what its being used for.

A mangy dog sleeps stretched out on the asphalt
A girl sells hard boiled eggs balanced on her head
People are leaving in droves with mattresses, buckets and
children on their backs

Anyone with any sense has already left.

We, the stubborn and stupid
converge that night
in the local shipping container bar
Someone breaks out champagne
pillaged from an abandoned house.
We all drink, and wonder what will happen.

Sight: wall decoration
Sound: sliding door
Taste: yoghurt
Scent: wind
Touch: vinyl

 

[Remec]

Sight: wall decoration
Sound: sliding door
Taste: yoghurt
Scent: wind
Touch: vinyl

Waiting for a friend


Some places are like
holdouts from another age,
islands of timelessness,
that just seem to fit no
matter what and always put
me at ease.

Ted's mother's kitchen
was one of those. Spotless,
a blended mix of blue and white
with bits of wood and lace and molded
black plastic in the
frou frou around the edges,

Or smack dab in your face,
like the black cat clock hanging
opposite of my seat, its tail ticking
the seconds in perfect sync
with the way those overwide
eyes monitor the action on
and around the table below.

I help Ted's sister to her feet,
trusting the table to hold her,
and settle down once more,
the touch of hard vinyl at my forearms,
cold but softer against my knees.

She always smells of fruit;
although the tangy taste is more
like fruit-on-the-bottom Dannon,
but the whine of sliding glass and
the smell of the summer breeze
slipping in from the carport break
the mood and she's off and gone.

For now.
~~~~~

sound: happiness
smell: hopelessness
sight: fear
taste: anger
touch: joy

(Yes, I'm in an abstract sort of mood. )

 

[greenmountaineer]

The Southern Baptist Farmer Beseeches

the Walmart Superstore man
to buy what's left of his Georgia peaches.

Oh, Joy in his handshake when he says yes
until the bile of seventeen cents
on the dollar rises up in his stomach.

"Dios Mio, ciento dólares!"
he says when he pays both his Josés
to feed their kids in Nuevo Laredo,

lost in his thought of profit and loss,
farmhands his great great grand daddy had,
and Israelite bondage in Eqypt.

He saw the drought before it was coming
in spring, he's sure, like the pharoahs once did
when locusts came out of the ground

and thought to himself better a frost
and fear when fifty-five gallon drums
spew like the many rings of hell.

"Ándale, ándale, my muchachos
and maybe I'll pay you cinco more dólares,"
he says while he swallows two Tums.



taste strawberry jam
smell autumn leaves burning
sound an airplane overhead
sight an airplane overhead
touch flannel

 

[Desejo]

taste strawberry jam
smell autumn leaves burning
sound an airplane overhead
sight an airplane overhead
touch flannel

First, I was enormously relieved that Greenmountaineer used those last words. I started something but it was about a serial killer...disturbing to say the least! Well done, Green mountaineer.

Exotica

I wear jackets from Kashmir
Wrap myself in pashmina shawls
rim my eyes in kohl out of a small brass flask

But when I am with you

eating whole grain toast with fresh strawberry jam
on the creaky front porch
I don't even glance at the jet overhead
The roar does not make me think of
a farm I had in Africa
The contrail doesn't draw my mind to
an English patient I loved in the Sahara

I am completely here

Content that the wafts of smoke
come not from garbage, tires or bodies burning
but crisp autumn leaves that Mr. D has lit in a bonfire
And God, it's cool enough to wear soft flannel

Your heart beating through that plaid
when, after breakfast
I lay my head on your chest
in a pile of leaves Mr. D has not yet gotten to

is the most exotic experience I've had years.

Sound: screech
Sight : classroom
Smell: shampoo
Taste: junk food
Touch: satin

 

[greenmountaineer]

Sound: screech
Sight : classroom
Smell: shampoo
Taste: junk food
Touch: satin

Junior High Humor in the Sixties

Devil Dogs ain't junk food with white milk
and eighth girls wear satin blouses
white to school on every First Friday.

Johnny who says he likes them that way
when the rest of the eighth grade boys won't,
screeches white chalk over the blackboard

so Joanie with "the big effin' you knows"
laughs, and Johnny knows Sister Benigna
will make him wash blackboards after school.

"Where in hell'd she get that name?" he says
far away from the classroom at recess,
placing two cartons of milk on his chest,

and after the girls hear him shout "Damn!"
he furthermore says "I can smell her poo,"
and all the boys laugh when he says "sham."


Sound: violin
Sight : television
Smell: furniture polish
Taste: cheese
Touch: any fabric

 

[Tzara]

Sound: violin
Sight : television
Smell: furniture polish
Taste: cheese
Touch: any fabric

After Hours

Even a sports bar becomes civilized
some hours after closing
when you can pick some culture off the satellite
and put it on ten screens at once—
Hilary Hahn playing Bach’s Chaconne,
for example—loud, but not too loud
because the cops wouldn’t understand.
You pour out a little of the port
that one old Brit drinks during the Ashes,
eat some almonds and that gouda from last week,
the wedding party of Packers’ fans, then lock away
the bottles, put a bit of oil on a worn flannel cloth
and polish the taps until they shine.



Sight: Smoke, or something like it (e.g., a dust cloud)
Sound: The distant sound of voices
Scent: Gasoline, or something similar
Taste: Blood, sweat, or tears
Touch: Something slightly oily or greasy

 

[bogusagain]

Sight: Smoke, or something like it (e.g., a dust cloud)
Sound: The distant sound of voices
Scent: Gasoline, or something similar
Taste: Blood, sweat, or tears
Touch: Something slightly oily or greasy

she was hot stuff
sex rose from her like smoke
you knew damn well
if you got too close you'd burn

never expected this though
sitting in a pile of ripped up car
petrol pooling beneath my seat
and she wanting to light a cigarette!

while disembodied voices
twittered on about some dumb blond
not seeing the bend ahead
or missing the brakes

I slap the cigarette from her mouth
she punches me in the face
I taste blood and think
at least I'm still alive

for the moment at least
while she tries to light another cigarette
and the disembodied voices scream
you always pay for prefering blonds!


Sound: This Picture
Sight: Stiletto heels
Smell: stale sweat
Taste: schnapps
Touch: Something abrasive

 

[Tzara]

Sound: This Picture

This link always seems to fail for me.

 

[Desejo]

This link always seems to fail for me.

Ditto. It almost worked one time but then just died....

 

[Desejo]

she was hot stuff
sex rose from her like smoke
you knew damn well
if you got too close you'd burn

never expected this though
sitting in a pile of ripped up car
petrol pooling beneath my seat
and she wanting to light a cigarette!

while disembodied voices
twittered on about some dumb blond
not seeing the bend ahead
or missing the brakes

I slap the cigarette from her mouth
she punches me in the face
I taste blood and think
at least I'm still alive

for the moment at least
while she tries to light another cigarette
and the disembodied voices scream
you always pay for prefering blonds!


Sound: This Picture
Sight: Stiletto heels
Smell: stale sweat
Taste: schnapps
Touch: Something abrasive

Try this link for sound: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRvRO20kvx8

 

[Tzara]

Sound: This Picture
Sight: Stiletto heels
Smell: stale sweat
Taste: schnapps
Touch: Something abrasive

Remorse

I watched her from the floor.
She put a song on repeat
and we listened to its steady beat
sing of ashtray girls and open sores.

We shared several slugs of schnapps
and the alcohol made us sweat,
the scent stale in the small room, yet
it made her kisses taste of apricots.

She tied my hands behind my back
with a rough jute cord that bit
deep into my wrists.
She wore only black—

an open jacket, heels, nothing more.
When she picked up the crop,
I knew she’d use me until I dropped.
Never date another German girl, I swore.



Sight: An open box of chocolates
Sound: Glass on glass
Scent: Arpège, Chanel No. 5, or some other famous perfume
Taste: Citrus
Touch: Something very smooth and cool

 

[champagne1982]

Remorse
Sight: An open box of chocolates
Sound: Glass on glass
Scent: Arpège, Chanel No. 5, or some other famous perfume
Taste: Citrus
Touch: Something very smooth and cool

Until You Love Me

You plucked my lip free of my teeth
sucking with your lemon drop kiss
until I bled my concerns out
through my swollen mouth

The dew-glamoured dazzle
glints on crystal toasts
and celebratory chocolate truffles
melt like the ice held on the wound

Until the musk of sex drowns
the fresh air scent of No. 5,
and the champagne goes flat
while an open heart stales


Sight: A weeping birch tree
Sound: wind chimes
Scent: peonies
Taste: blue berry pancakes
Touch: sticky syrup

 

[Desejo]

Sight: A weeping birch tree
Sound: wind chimes
Scent: peonies
Taste: blue berry pancakes
Touch: sticky syrup

Petit dejeuner a Giverny

Claude has thoughtfully placed
A vase of peonies on the breakfast table
Their perfume is like a drug
He feeds me a bite of crepes a la myrteille
I am greedy and lick the purple syrup off his fingers
Biting the fleshy tops sharply
He has such beautiful hands

He asks if he can paint me
Reclined under the weeping birch tree
Near the bridge
I lay there naked for hours
dappled with shadows from the leaves
Listening to clay wind chimes
And his breathing as he paints
He tells me : you will always be the most beautiful flower in our garden
The one I show to no one.

Sight: pillow
Sound: whistling
Scent: wood shavings
Taste: something sweet
touch: something cool or cold