The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Piscator]

Bumpity bump

Taste: gunpowder
Touch: cold
scent: pussy
Sounds: groans
Sight: male or female writhing in exstacy or death throes

Things that go bump in the night

There’s something about the hour
after midnight, when the moon is
full and the metal cold against your
finger as you pull the trigger and fire
a round of blanks, leaving a bitter acrid
smell and the taste of cordite in your
mouth but at least it covers the smell of
her cunt which lingers on the sodden pillow
under your head, which was under her
ass, when you heard her rapturous cries and
entered unexpectedly to see them
cavorting in your marital bed.
Maybe next time they’ll use a motel.



Taste: cherry pie
Touch: footsie
scent: lavender
Sounds: muted polite conversation
Sight: church supper

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Assembly hall Soul brunch
Served up in Riverside all denomination
International church is rich.
This bite of sour cherry pie
Stings water up around the teeth
That grazed the long finger of that
Fine man serving. Across from me,
South African artists
Displaying sculpture on the 9th floor,
Above the second balcony, murmer
Sexy somethings. Then her stockinged toe
Snakes my calf to hem.
I wink but rise. I know the man who breaks
Ache like watermelon. His strong
Long hands around my waist, still felt.
The powder room puffs lavender and mango
Welcome. Just cool water on my neck
Straight hem and walk out tall.

Sight: lipstick
Sound: waves
Scent: bay leaf
Feel: marble
Taste: primativo

 

[HarryHill]

Sight: lipstick
Sound: waves
Scent: bay leaf
Feel: marble
Taste: primativo
..
She applies lipstick, eyes darting to mine in the mirror,
rapid speech washes over defective ears like heavy surf,
lunch simmers on the stove,
dried beans from Guatemala,
bay leaves, sage from the iron pot beside the kitchen door,
chorizo, chicken broth,
I imagine her seated on the smooth counter top, naked,
silent,
waiting for my mouth and dessert .

<all to kill the e-mail notification>

eta:
sight: pastoral
sound: rural
scent: wet dog
feel: air
taste: fruit

 

[todski28]

sight: pastoral
sound: rural
scent: wet dog
feel: air
taste: fruit

We were contracted to clean up
17acres
the thee of us,
well it was supposed to be three of us
but the others had called in sick
so today its on me.......

Hours crunch bye under the blade of the shovel
the thunk of the pick axe
sinking into the moist soil
the sun ticking away behind slow building clouds

its freaking heavy now
the atmosphere itself
crushing with the pressure of being
fathoms below sea level
the sky rumbles
a distant purr,
almost like a woman promising
to curl around you
make you sweat
ride in the rain for release

the vine rows spread
across the green hills
the tractor bores onward, constant
clanking as it lurches back to the vinters
readying for the crushing vats
i place a grape between my teeth
slowly bite down
it pops a sweet rush over my tongue

I see Max running full pelt up the rows
tail wagging
he leaps up licking and whining
his fur saturated

I laugh dragging him back upto the farm yard
lock him in his pen
decide to try ease the cramping muscles
in my shoulders and arms
head into the showering shed

groaning against the tin wall
cold water falls
eyes closed

I feel her press into me
nipples soft like grapes
pressed into my back
her hand sliding down
her teeth on my shoulder

Sight: rain clouds
sound: wind
scent: coffew
taste: cool water
touch: something soft

 

[Piscator]

Sight: rain clouds
sound: wind
scent: coffew
taste: cool water
touch: something soft

The New Normal

The west wind brought in a
precipitous rise in temperature
serious steel grey sky rain clouds
and our second February thaw.
Almost all the snow vanished overnight
leaving brown fields and skeleton maple
trees with sap buckets full of rain.

I sip the cold water finding just a
hint of sweetness and rub the
soft fur between the dogs' ears,
then we continue down the
concession line but the creeks
overflowed the culvert and
the road's under a foot of water
so we turn back to our warm
house and the smell of wood
smoke and coffee.

Sight: downy woodpecker (or local equivalent)
sound: Leonard Cohen song other than Hallelujah sung by somebody else
scent: jasmine
taste: curry
touch: polished wood

 

[todski28]

Sight: downy woodpecker (or local equivalent)*
sound: Leonard Cohen song other than Hallelujah sung by somebody else*
scent: jasmine
taste: curry
touch: polished wood

The tap of a base beats
a woodpecker in montone
hammering its way to
the centre of my human frame

you want it darker his voice
cuts through the bullshit

jasmine in full bloom
turned to ash
crisp wafers crumbled
beautiful darkness
thick, spicy thai green heat
that makes you sweat

carving back the light
ready my lord
cleansed of the callousness
ready to kill the flame

struggled along
with my demons in tow
nothing more than another shit show

but somewhere
there has to be redemption
if honest enough
to look in a mirror
take to the edges
sand them down
till smooth as polished wood

Sight: cards
Sound: open
Scent: smoke
Taste: metal
Touch: cold

 

[Remec]

Sight: cards
Sound: open
Scent: smoke
Taste: metal
Touch: cold

The Reading

The barely burning bundle of
grass and herbs felt cold in
my hand, the warmth at its
core not penetrating the dead
nerves of the fingers holding it
while wafting the grey tendrils
coming off the active end in a
slow pass about my body and the
immediate space around it.
I could smell it as we cleansed the
work area--bit by bit--and the smoke
left a dry, acrid taste in my mouth,
like touching my tongue and lips to a
live battery and savoring the metals
inherent in the interaction between it
and me...between me and the space...
the space and all Eternity...mind unfolding
and sound having no meaning as my
eyes focused on the Celtic Cross
pattern we had laid the Tarot deck out in.
Maybe this time we'll get a proper
answer to all of our questions.
~~~~~

sight: boys and girls
sound: drums
scent: (choose your own adjectiv) water
taste: hair
touch: latex

 

[Piscator]

sight: boys and girls
sound: drums
scent: (choose your own adjectiv) water
taste: hair
touch: latex

No longer Parkland

School boys and girls
marching to their own
drum, knowing that fear
smell like piss wetting
your neat Ann Landers
undies, tastes like a
mouthful of nettles
and feels like the finger
of a disposable glove
shoved up your rectum.

It comes from guns
and those behind the
trigger but only without
guns can things get better.


sight: Casino
sound: one armed bandit
scent: alcohol
taste: soy sauce
touch: slap on the back

 

[AngelicaS1780]

No longer Parkland
sight: Casino
sound: one armed bandit
scent: alcohol
taste: soy sauce
touch: slap on the back

The stacatto of metal tips on tile
echoing sharply as we cross the marble
competing with the digital chirps
the flashing screens
of the one armed bandits.

The sting of your palm on my backside
as I cross the elevator's threshold
then spun round gasping
my back against the wall
the rice wine on your breath.

The strength of your grip on my wrists
as you cross my hands over my head
the salt of the soy sauce on your tongue
again you order for me
the omakase.

sight: dark sky
sound: thunder
scent: burning wood
taste: leather
touch: rice paper

 

[Tzara]

sight: dark sky
sound: thunder
scent: burning wood
taste: leather
touch: rice paper

Realism

I helped her hold her brush
as she outlined the mountains
on the damp xuan paper

she had stretched and pressed
onto her easel. She managed
to fairly capture

the wash of dark sky
that had settled over the foothills
to the east,

and she even caught that sound like thunder
we never could quite hear.
But later, when

we lay together before the fire
and its cherry-scented smoke, I thought
while I gnawed

at her constrictive leather bra,
which gave her the taste of an animal,
how I did not understand calculus,

or flowers, or life.
I didn't understand anything of that.
So the next day I painted another mountain.

Because a mountain is a fact.


Sight: A card deck
Sound: Music (blues, rock, jazz) in a crowded bar
Smell: Cigarettes
Taste: Something acrid
Touch: Tight denim

 

[todski28]

Sight: A card deck
Sound: Music (blues, rock, jazz) in a crowded bar
Smell: Cigarettes
Taste: Something acrid
Touch: Tight denim

Never learnt how to play poker
pairs
straights
flushes
any of the associated bullshit in between
I learnt how to flip the game board
how to swing with the best of them
to shake of the concussion
to swallow my own teeth
to inhale deep against broken ribs
savouring the scent of cigarettes
perfume and alcohol

the acrid taste of cinnamon
flavoured gum
energy drinks and adrenaline

the band strums out a tune
drowned by the mass of bodies
writhing in the electricity
of human connection

soak up the atmosphere
and later peel off her tight denim
jeans
the sound of belt buckles clinking
the feel of the bones in her wrists
her cries
as she accepts my offer
and takes home
her own little piece of danger

sight: dirty magazine
sound: wind
scent: damp earth, rain etc
taste: something familiar
touch: a wrapper

 

[Neonurotic]

Sight: A card deck
Sound: Music (blues, rock, jazz) in a crowded bar
Smell: Cigarettes
Taste: Something acrid
Touch: Tight denim

Con Juan

The Ace of Hearts
he says is me, a new romance
though one-nighter is what he means
as he claims the Six of Clubs,
meaning victorious.

It's tarot with his scuffed deck of cards
a con game I let myself
be played for an amusing hour or two.

Oh, he says, I'm not gay, but something
about you ... ha-ha-ha!
Ya, I get that a lot
grin at his nerves, lighting the
wrong end of his cigarette

I taste his acrid smoke.

Then cliche, across the crowded bar,
I Saw Her Standing There,
barefoot, painted on jeans
peek-a-boo top and
Godiva red hair, all legs.

Bi-curious has folded; like it
or not, I steal his game.

The Ace for her, the Clubs for me.







todski, I'll come back for this since these are good prompts too:

sight: dirty magazine
sound: wind
scent: damp earth, rain etc
taste: something familiar
touch: a wrapper

 

[Neonurotic]

sight: dirty magazine
sound: wind
scent: damp earth, rain etc
taste: something familiar
touch: a wrapper

Café au lait Casanova
Born in a Treehouse


Summer 1992, felt like this:
Wind snarling through the pecan tree
shaking the fort snug in a fork.
The nuts rapped on the wooden roof
as rain swept teenage
lust out of the other window.

It wasn't the first time I saw tits.
I saw many of them in Playboy
but it was first to feel them.
Stripping her bra was like
unwrapping a dirty magazine,
flipping to the Centerfold,
but finding a better secret.

Though, hardly a mouthful,
her realness was sweet saltiness,
had me thinking of cream,
caramel and double macchiatos.

It' funny, I realize now, that's when
my moniker was born, in a treehouse,
not a coffeehouse, where the
beginning of everything that felt good.

Ya, coffee came later,
but I remember, sex and lattes
were first topped with nubile cherries.






sight: sequoias
sound: birds
scent: pine
taste: citrus
touch: something rough

 

[greenmountaineer]

The Soft Skin of California

Sequoia was her name
because Mama had wanderlust in Georgia
where pine tar from paper mills dripped
like summer sap on black capped chickadees
that slumbered in the nectarine trees,
the fruit skin of which was no longer soft.

Orangeade was orange aid,
minimum wage what you got paid,
and 200 bucks two paychecks away
to fix her ‘96 Chevrolet
to drive to heaven through a tree
with Sequoia in California,

old enough to drive next year,
maybe best to wait til then,
and Cousin Hanna in Little Rock
maybe can get them waitress jobs
to help the rest of the way
or in case the car breaks down again.





taste: eggs over easy
sight: the other side of the tracks
sound: freight train
touch: a cheek
scent: stale beer

 

[Angeline]

taste: eggs over easy
sight: the other side of the tracks
sound: freight train
touch: a cheek
scent: stale beer

The Key Word Is Survival

Eggs over easy, no salt, ersatz
coffee is the new frontier. Only
recently I escaped, taking
the tracks with me. I own this

landscape stitched now on arms
and belly. Tammy the nurse
is an angel who brushed my hair,
cheeks, said You've such clear skin.

___________~~

We parked by the train tracks
at Old Orchard Beach, 2010,
lonely whistles harmonizing
with timeless waves, air heavy

with stale shrimp, onions, beer.
We knew that ending, reverent
for it in our silence and unaware
of train wrecks to come.

I love you so. I miss you so
much I can't breathe sometimes,
but I ain't ready to quit trying.










taste: honey or honey-flavored whatever
sight: water tank
sound: hammers, saws, or other construction
touch: sweaty body part
scent: salt air

 

[butters]

taste: eggs over easy
sight: the other side of the tracks
sound: freight train
touch: a cheek
scent: stale beer

tastes like stale beer inside my head
the thought of eggs over easy slippery
greasy
nauseating
as he turns a cheek when I aim to kiss his lips
and the mournful note of a distant freight train
echoes only down imagination's wind
reminds me i'm from the other side of the tracks
and will always be a foreigner around these parts
never acclimatising to the ways of others





sight: hand-written schedule
sound: frogs after the rainstorm
smell: hot rubber
taste: engine oil
touch: emptiness

 

[butters]

taste: honey or honey-flavored whatever
sight: water tank
sound: hammers, saws, or other construction
touch: sweaty body part
scent: salt air

bees swarm to the giant tank
strange beast that straddles the horizon
as if it were gravid with honey

are they disappointed it holds water instead
or are bees thirsty creatures too
that rise above the din of hammers
scratch of saws
the thick sweat of armpit and groin
salt air no promise of an ocean
sawdust and diesel no meadow in bloom




taste: the leading edge of a storm
sight: what is unseen
sound: that ringing silence when a loud noise stops abruptly
touch: the rough/smooth interior of an amethyst geode
scent: roses

 

[todski28]

sight: hand-written schedule
sound: frogs after the rainstorm
smell: hot rubber
taste: engine oil
touch: emptiness

taste: the leading edge of a storm
sight: what is unseen
sound: that ringing silence when a loud noise stops abruptly
touch: the rough/smooth interior of an amethyst geode
scent: roses

I've pictured these things in my mind
so many times
driven myself insane
tried to tear down walls
taken to plastic and rubber with welding torches
drunk engine oil as a refreshment
bottomed out on the emptiness of being
without meaning

drifted through the mist
the frog calls
shivering in delicious cold
because you can't have rainbows without the rain

but storms have edges, the build
you can feel them prickle your skin
if you close your eyes
tear up the schedule you just wrote
life happens and your plans sometimes work
as if geology can polish amethyst crystals
smoothe enough to lose yourself in the texture

but its all just roses
thousands of them
singing in the wind
and when the thunder stops
you forget what you were fighting against
because silence
hurts
like razor wire
and you aren't here anymore
but you used to be

sight-something confusing

sound-a blender
scent- old books

touch- hard

taste- regret

 

[Angeline]

sight-something confusing
sound-a blender
scent- old books
touch- hard
taste- regret

Daddy did not permit Christmas
trees though we never
went to Temple or kept Sabbath
so why the denial, especially
when we had a lovely ham
every Easter? Why?

1965. I am a child
who rides the bus with Mama
downtown. Lordy
the style, sight and sound
enough to make my eyes round.
My great delight: sprawled
on the attic floor, Scrivener's
Books piled around me, sea
of words, pages' redolent
scent of adventure, paper
dust, motes in the sunstreams.


In 2018 I learn to breathe
again as if I've evolved
or lost some supernumerary gills.
Finally! Knock wood or the side
of my hard head, still breathing,
blending OJ and strawberries
all crunchy with ice, sweet
with no regrets in the cup
or my slightly worn heart.




sight- tarot card (your choice)
sound-water boiling
scent- trees
touch- grime
taste- medicine (again, you pick)

 

[Remec]

sight- tarot card (your choice)
sound-water boiling
scent- trees
touch- grime
taste- medicine (again, you pick)

Lunch, Delayed

It was only a bit of broth,
well,
it was planned on being such
but he'd stepped out of the room
for too long and didn't
need to see the pot to know
it was boiling over,
the bubbling was loud enough
all on its own;

He'd just put a hand on the knob
when bubbling became bursting
and the whole pot seemed
to erupt like the second coming
of Pompeii or Krakatoa,
maybe just Mount St Helen,
and shot out over the stove top,
and the counter,
and the floor,

It reminded him of the Tower, only not the
lightning strike and the flames, just the sudden
outflowing deluge and all the destruction
and general spewing of debris
everywhere,

He found it must not have been the
first such incident, as cleaning up
revealed a whole
ecosystem of grime to his
hand and dishcloth;

A short shake of the head,
both at what he'd let happen as well as
trying to clear the pine from
his nose after cleaning, helped with the
resolve to take his
pink stuff from the doctor,
(was supposed to be a light, cherry bubblegum
flavor, but was more stale Topps ball card gum
in taste--without the powdered sugar they coated it
with)

~~~~~


sight: algae
sound: rainfall
scent: marsh
touch: slimy
taste: something grassy

 

[greenmountaineer]

Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution

Algae exhibit a wide range
of reproductive strategies,
from simple asexual cell division
to more complex forms of reproduction.

Peepers know a thing or two
about slime, indeed how wonderful
it feels as mud when they sing come hither
in the marsh on the banks by this eddy

whose algae twirl like grass in the wind
as drizzle passes with the clouds,
revealing a full moon that shines on your skin,
green eyes, and slicker.

Come hither.


sight: a dirt road
sound: a window fan
scent: freshly mowed grass
touch: rubbing one’s eyes
taste: something greasy

 

[Neonurotic]

sight: algae
sound: rainfall
scent: marsh
touch: slimy
taste: something grassy

Smells Like Green Spirit

The rain tap, tapping, ruins
the last visage of my beach vacation.
But it's not the worst that's happened.

It's the coastal waters at Haystack Rock,
a 'so-called' reprieve from heat waves
across a hotter, angrier nation.

The only waves I see are mucky green algae.
Worse, is sea shell hunting,
more like sliding through snot,
boogers sticking to the bottom of flip flops.
The bloom is a tenacious toxic slime
that smells of marsh and sewer trash
with a hint of a sick and salt.

But, it's all right.
I've got my matcha lattes,
found a lotta' bud (courtesy of
the bungalow host's junk drawer)
and a long weekend left to kill.

Yes, sir, every day all spent
sipping and smoking everything green,
making a good point of view
for a glowing Airbnb review.





sight: night time lights
sound: teenagers
scent: sweat
touch: concrete
taste: something new

 

[Neonurotic]

sight: a dirt road
sound: a window fan
scent: freshly mowed grass
touch: rubbing one’s eyes
taste: something greasy

Sorry gm, didn't see that you had the 5 Senses before me.


Some Kind of Purgatory


The fan set on high hum
blows mowed grass and stinky turds
through the crackling mini blinds.

Breaking off a soft snore, she sits up in bed,
rubs sleep out of her eyes.
I can't help but grin, knowing that a
dog just chased her cat nap away.

"Ew, close the window."

"Nah, time we left,
as the saying goes, still miles
left to go..."

I lick fried chicken crumbs off
my thumb, turning a page
of an ancient album full of
black and white photos

One in particular,
a truck parked on a dirt road
with a boy sitting an open tailgate
swinging his legs.

It's not the boy or the truck,
as they are not me or mine.
It's the road. It's where I left
a different girl in a strange
place that flipped my world
into an uncertain time.

When I go back
the peace of me will return
I know it
I know it

sure as a dog who eats,
he shits.

And it begins again in some
no-tell motel
catnapping
finger-licking good chicken,
it all hits the fan.





sight: strawberry moon
sound: early fireworks
scent: beer
touch: rough cotton
taste: something tart

 

[greenmountaineer]

Lizzie

“Those aren’t craters;
they’re strawberry fields,”
says Lizzie who’s worried about
fireworks on the 4th
torching the moon
before it rises in the sky.

Neither physics nor geometry
works for a five year old,
so it’s best to re-direct
attention to her denim shirt
on a cool summer night
in the mountains,

and does Lizzie like her
Luigi’s lemon ice?
who smiles because the alliteration
is a different way to say I love you
before I sip some India Pale
and reflect for some reason
that only when we are like little Lizzies,
Luigis, Kenneths, or Barbaras
do we get to fly
to the strawberry moon.


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

 

[champagne1982]

Con Juan

Yummmm. And todski's poem on the same prompt, Yummmm too.

sight: dirty magazine
sound: wind
scent: damp earth, rain etc
taste: something familiar
touch: a wrapper

A Story In A Dirty Magazine

Look and see this;

nearly electric crackle while the cellophane complains
under eager fingers when they rip at heat-shrunk edges,
cursing the slipperiness of the barrier;
finally a satisfied grunt as a corner tears
and the glossy reality of an augmented breast,
perfect pink nipple nearly glowing, so shiny.
A breeze scatters damp paper wipes resting beside
the step up into the smut seller's petit magazin.​

Now hear this;

sigh and moan around a corner,
whistle at a window, melancholy melody,
and a scream of angry howling that moves
thin blouses, tears at umbrellas and pushes
the trench coat worn by the john
out of the way of sullen pouts as Sammi*
not her real name, kneels
on cobbles in the rain.​

Feel this;

cold slap of the wet fun fur
of a cute leopard print bolero jacket
collar on her jaw as she works
back and forth, back and forth.
His fingers tangling in the cheap wig
as he uses her. Twenty Euros and a quick
release later, he is relieved that she
doesn't want his grateful kisses.​

Smell this;

dingy street in Pigalle at the foot of Monte Marte,
wet cobbles in an autumn drizzle, honeymoons
don't happen in Paris in November;
such a drunk girl, 5 a.m. o'clock shadow - her lipstick
not so much inticing but instead an outline
of a space to be used as he lets her go, heel broken
fishnets torn and wig askew;
but yet a comforting tenderness as he takes
the key to her basement apartment and swings
the door open for her, pressing the fob into her hand;
her whispered, "Merci." speaks volumes as she steps in.​

Taste this;

blue tinted peppermint swish, gargled
bubbles and the nose crinkling mingle of salty
spill at the corners of her mouth and sweeteners
hoping to take the bitter edge off of phoney
smiles and faked passion pretended, earning pay
and contempt in an effort to feel loved.​

I am late finishing this response to a much earlier set of prompts. I'll leave GM's fabulous set here just in case it takes me too long to craft some words for this little vignette.

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

Lizzie is a fabulous piece GM.