The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Winter_Fare]

Ten days too late

Twenty-five miles
From the rangers shack
A frozen forest
On a railway track
His leg is broken
And there's no way back

Moaning softly
Looking for his pack
Wind picks up
And the woods moan back
Pack your compass?
Extra snack?

There is nothing to eat but strepsils and beer
There is nothing to smell but ozone and fear

Winter's kiss
On his neck so soft
Too damn hot
So the coat comes off
Breath like mist
As he cries and coughs

Hands so cold
On his naked back
His heart beats double
And his voice is cracked
Ten full days
Till the train comes back

Winter's mercy
The air smells sweet
Hands stop shaking
Dead white feet
Where is the maker
He hopes to meet?

The shadows of pylons that groan as they grow
From the tear in his eye to the ridge in the west
There is nothing to see but the sun on the snow
In the land that he loved that has laid him to rest


sight: people dancing
sound: traffic
scent: hairspray
taste: fruit
touch: flocked paper

 

[Lyricalli]

Taste: umami
Sight: something wavering
Sound: a new song that you like
touch: something sensual
Scent: something that makes you feel



I dream the smell of you
earthy, saline
musk of hard work
wake to the shadows shifting
along the walls
alone in damp sheets
where night sweats bear your name
there's a chill when covers are tossed back
that puckers my nipples
raises gooseflesh from head to toe
my fingers trailing over textured skin
in a sleepy meditation
the temptation to press play
again
on the melody I had on repeat
until I could sleep
that I love because it makes me cry
and hate that I can't share with you
your name on the tip of my tongue
a savory concoction of tears
sweat
and lust licked from my fingertips


Taste: favorite dessert
Sight: flowering tree
Sound: some sort of hum
touch: gritty
Scent: paint

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Taste: favorite dessert
Sight: flowering tree
Sound: some sort of hum
touch: gritty
Scent: paint
...

On a day that promised more than sweat,
'Make it simple,' she had said.
One pleasure for each of us,
vanilla ice cream was a must.
Beneath the aging cherry trees
full of pink and buzzy bees,
time was running as the frozen milk
over hills and vall's made of skinny silk.
Starting from her signalizing lips,
a spoonful rivulet by her hips
welcomed by my hungry tongue,
gritty with cold. 'Oh, so wrong!'
greeting each taste bud
hitting her sweet nub
pinkness surfaced and got caught
A Mid-alphabet Letter on Maude.
A hint of raspberry watercolor lingering,
midday's sun combing her hair gingering
as I held her face.
A kiss at the finish of April's race.

...
Scent: salt
Sight: sky
Sound: whistling
Taste: a vegetable
Touch: cold

 

[Remec]

Scent: salt
Sight: sky
Sound: whistling
Taste: a vegetable
Touch: cold

Almost a Getaway Weekend

The morning is brisk,
even if the sky is bleak--
nothing but dark purple-black
clouds like someone had bruised
the heavens, and tried to hide it
with dirty cotton wadding--
but I settle my plate on the sidetable
between the two chairs on
the simple balcony outside the
sliding glass doors that were most
of one wall in the dining room,
no big meal,
just a snack,
peanut butter on celery sticks,
nice and chilled-straight from the fridge-
the call of my morning tea makes me
run in for a sec, then I am back in the doorway,
breathing in the fresh ocean air,
that slightly salty breeze that always seems to
waft by this time of the day,
I wish you'd been able to get off work, though.


.....
sight: breakfast
scent: fresh flowers
sound: a foreign language
taste: alcohol
touch: regret

 

[Angeline]

Scent: salt
Sight: sky
Sound: whistling
Taste: a vegetable
Touch: cold

Salt drifts with the air on this rocky beach
Salt tickles noses; it brightens the eye
Chill wind rushes in and plucks at our speech
Birds caw and whistle, diving from the sky
And blue? My God it's like layers of paint
Made nature from Art just like trompe-l'œil,
As if Bramante were Maine's patron saint,
Tricking skies into believing they're real.
We'll feast at a fish shack, eat boiled corn
And flaky fried haddock washed down with beer,
Watch the day gray till we hear a foghorn
Bidding skiffs and sailboats dock by the pier.
Halcyon days long gone, days spent with you
Living now in recall, heart floating. Blue.
********

Sight: green
Sound: musical instrument
Scent: alcohol
Taste: something metallic
Touch: warm skin

 

[Piscator]

Sight: green - breakfast
Sound: musical instrument - foreign language
Scent: alcohol - fresh flowers
Taste: something metallic - alcohol
Touch: warm skin - regret

Sodade

Green eggs and ham, somehow the colour
offset the frisson from disobeying Mosaic Law
and I never knew how you coloured the eggs.
Ceasaria Evora plays in the background,
her plaintive voice rising over the guitar and
drums, mirroring our yearning
for our long-lost land.

We sit on the balcony sipping Chablis,
debating if the metallic note is a taste or
scent, like the smell of jasmine back
home and your frigid fingers
nestle in my warm hand.

Sight: sun breaking through clouds
Sound: wind
Scent: approaching rain
Taste: ginger
Touch: dog’s belly

 

[Angeline]

Sight: sun breaking through clouds
Sound: wind
Scent: approaching rain
Taste: ginger
Touch: dog’s belly

Shakespeare

No. He's not who you think.
Here's a hint: he races
down streets headed for the lake,
all goofy leaps, ears lopsided,
bounce bounce, his mouth open,
tongue lolling.

Oh pure joy I name thee dog
running free, dog escaped
trailing leash while nimbus clouds loom
grey clotted, storm blowing shrieks of wind
through branches and heavy, humid air
scents late summer, first fat drops
splashing the road~

"Damnit Shakespeare hold up! "

And he does because he made it
to the bank of fragrant Cedar Lake
and he loves me.

We're both panting and wet
and I need to convince him,
my furry, giant beloved baby
to just come home, wait for the sun
to come back out, wait

so I can dry us off,
drink hot ginger tea,
scratch his soft belly.
**********


Sight: ants
Sound: crunch
Scent: something smoky
Taste: something sweet
Feel: something fuzzy

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Sight: ants
Sound: crunch
Scent: something smoky
Taste: something sweet
Feel: something fuzzy

...

Today the anteater's lunch
made some noticeable crunch
ransacking Big Joe's Ant Farm Outlet
the annual insurance pay Joe won't get
his latest idea of selling bee products too
was the reason the beast didn't even chew
not one grilled insect went to waste
such was the sugary barbeque taste
even the last one on the worn doormat
full of lints it almost spat.

"Joe, I do understand
why after ten years you couldn't hire
any insurance agent to pay for fire
but a life assurance for each ant?
While there's pawprints in the sand,
don't get me wrong, but you're pegged
as I don't see any dead six-legged.

"Umm, Joe, the match is still in your shaky hand."

...

Sight: broken glass
Scent: peaches
Sound: none
Taste: horrible
Touch: gooey

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Sight: broken glass
Scent: peaches
Sound: none
Taste: horrible
Touch: gooey

It was the indescribable mess
and the smell of sweet peach jam
carpeting the kitchen floor
that finally made the tears flow.

It wasn't the thought of cleaning up
the shards of sticky broken glass
or the knowledge that the family
would be back from church any minute.
It was that the gooey mess around her
was all there was to show of the hours
she'd spent preparing the jars,
paring and slicing the juicy, fragrant fruit
then carefully transferring the results
to the tray which fell with a horrible crash
as she stumbled over the needy cat
at her feet.
The children arrived with
the usual, joyful hubbub which turned to
horrified silence at the scene and
their mother's sobbing.

The cat, the chief protagonist,
was nowhere to be seen.

Sight: Stained glass window
Scent: Lilac
Sound: David Bowie
Taste: Italian salami (spicey)
Touch: Fur

 

[Piscator]

Sight: Stained glass window
Scent: Lilac
Sound: David Bowie
Taste: Italian salami (spicey)
Touch: Fur

Lilacs

It must be her perfume
cause it’s still too early for
lilacs to bloom, but the
cloying scent lingers, like
the 1 hour You Tube loop
of Space Oddity incessantly
playing in the background
while the stained glass
Tiffany Sunflower Panel
sparkles in our kitchen
window with the light
fragmenting into a message
from Bowie from beyond
but you never learned
Morse Code and will
never know what was said.

So, you share a bit of your
Calabrese with Sunny
who doesn’t mind the spice
as he leans into you in a
a full body press and you
stroke his sun warmed fur.

Sight: Green flash at sunset
Scent: 420
Sound: Canned Heat
Taste: Two Buck Chuck
Touch: Frigid fingers

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Canned Heat See a Green Flash


Blind Owl and the boys
had been celebrating 420,
now they were all sitting on the beach
to see the sun go down and chugging
Two Buck Chuck. Perhaps it was the
mammoth blunt they’d consumed
earlier or the dirt-cheap booze
but, as they sat together
huddled against the early chill
they all saw it.

The green object leave the dying sun.
“Hey” yelled The Bear,
“that’s a – a “ snapping his cold fingers
in frustration, “a green flash! It’s rare,
we’re lucky to see it.”


Sight – The movie “Platoon”
Scent – pot pourie.
Sound – breaking glass.
Taste – rabbit stew.
Touch – warm skin.

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Sight: a music box
Sound: something nostalgic
Scent: petrol
Taste: oily
Touch: callouses (Schwielen)

Good Evening, Milady

Weathered welcome words from the pre-photo age
dancing so tenderly against the Midsummer dust
falling angels on the checkered floor, shady
like everything here, now so many lives lust
the single red rose on the diner table
next to the hors d'oeuvre on a plate of mine
finding the feta aroma clad in virgin oil
and a lone bar bottle peeling off its label
the whole roadhouse sweating forgotten gasoline
pushed aside by a gentleman's breeze
I long to spoil
stopping short above skin
I wish, further, down to your knees
but the game demands play before win
so we're set to dance the knight away
find the rough diamond his horny hands plight
shrouded in a golden aura cast by the music box
pulling him close, holding him tight
in a blink of an eye
a kiss
a wink
a smile
tearing off the civil hide right down to his socks
not a moment to miss
on the way to the brink
free what's waiting in durance vile.
Make. Me. Sigh.

Scent: vanilla
Sight: a hummingbird
Sound: a clock
Taste: passion
Touch: gentle

 

[EllenMore]

Taste: expensive alcohol
Touch: plaster
Sight: moon
Scent: something familiar
Sound: rattle

After I took off my coat
I asked for wine, but instead
heard the rattle of ice
and the slosh of that snobbish
whisky with the blue label
he stocked by the case.
"Drink this," he said but
I choked a bit at its acrid,
smoky taste and sat the glass
on the end table. The lights
were dimmed so that the moon,
reddish and full, dominated
the large window overlooking
the pool. He drained his drink
and nodded toward the bedroom,
but then pushed me against the wall
so that my cheek brushed
against the rough plaster
as he raised my skirt over
my hips and I suddenly recalled
the ashy, menthol smell
of my husband's cigarettes
those last few unhappy months
before the divorce.

Taste: something chalky
Touch: stretched canvas
Sight: life study model
Scent: linseed oil
Sound: scratching

 

[TarnishedPenny]

Oops. Way out of order. Will try again.

 

[TarnishedPenny]

Taste: something chalky
Touch: stretched canvas
Sight: life study model
Scent: linseed oil
Sound: scratching

~ ~ ~

My grandfather’s studio was high in his dustless Tudor house,
the twisting stairs steep, mysterious and panelled in dark oak,
but the room itself was full of both light and fascination for such as I,
intermingling smells of cigars, paints, turpentine and linseed oil,
whole flowerbeds of paint-laden palettes I was forbidden to even approach,
painter’s knives, jars of brushes, stick pens, India ink,
things incomprehensible ad infinitum.

He would tickle my ears with brushes softer than the kitten’s fur,
draw my fingertips in tactile expeditions across the virgin potentiality of stretched canvases,
talk of proportions, shades and hues, light and its absence,
make me feel his equal, if only for the instant.

My grandmother would appear periodically, bringing me lemonade and
him the appalling, tart, chalky green plum wine she concocted every year,
casting each time as she left a withering glance
at an unframed oil painting of what I thought of then as merely
a pretty lady and not, as I now suspect,
a prickly reminder of a perhaps-imagined affair with a long-strayed model.

With his own hands he matched his grand easel with one fit for diminutive aspirations,
provided me pencils, immense sheets of heavy, rag-edged paper and
a brightly-coloured tin box of child’s watercolours,
ones I never did learn to use to advantage.

I could soar then on pretences, the scratching whispering of toddler visions crawling onto my easel
while his easy genius woke estate-producing imagery to flower on his own.

The moments children take for granted…

~ ~ ~

Taste: Apple
Touch: Breeze on skin
Sight: Something flying
Scent: Wood smoke
Sound: Tree frogs

 

[Winter_Fare]

For you I record these few hours
That you'll taste them again
Crisp as the bite of an apple

And you can laugh again
Feel sultry breeze upon your skin
And hear the rain again

Although our end is written love
The arrow flies again
Hours and days run like melt water

Until we share again
Warmth and woodsmoke beneath the stars
Wheeling above again

We'll hear peepers singing to us
Spring will come again

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

 

[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

 

[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

 

[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