The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[29wordsforsnow]

Scent: coffee
Sight: rope
Sound: catfight
Taste: mint
Touch: silk

Hello Sunshine

The lead upon my fighting lids
loses ground and when it slips
the curtains mock, 'it's pretty late'
I feel my feet catch all the weight
covered by a hint of oh-so-smooth
a tiny ruined rag unable to move
my former cocoon of privacy
lost in the mirror so I can see
a hundred cubits of premium rope
suit me so well and zero my scope

Did you task yourself to sit and watch
this sweaty crisscrossed hodgepodge
in the dark or dawn you pondered to go
the pale coffee smell says an hour or so
who knows, spearmint cover your tracks
dental floss blocks what asked for sex
cuddles and spooning on Sunday night
later on each groan a refreshing bite
but none left to pick the dirt from your mouth
words of no use outside this whore's house

Where walls are thin and love is within
next door screams and yells in Mandarin
Jas and Lotus, both like a fierce feline
their morning routine seems right on time
it's not the high pitches of Chapter Three
it's what's coming next that bothers me
reconciliation, I guess, five minutes from now
the timer's reflection runs comparably low
a cord crawls from there to the magic wand
I doubt you programmed just one happy end

scent: lilac
sight: red
sound: wings
taste: exotic
touch: cushions

 

[Voboy]

Sound:gypsy music
Taste: strawberries
Sight: Gold
Scent: lavender
Touch: leather

Sun-drenched trellises droop,
Pregnant with fat strawberries
Waiting for a child's fingers
On the verandah.

The light is golden now, in June,
With wafting breezes tripping
Through beds of lavender
On the verandah.

An old man tends the plants there,
Skin shriveled as old leather
Under countless summers, all spent
On the verandah,

But there's magic in his hands.
For after his work is done, he'll play
Haunting Django-chords for the listeners
On the verandah.

***

Sound: a cat, hissing
Taste: peaches
Sight: shadows
Scent: woodsmoke
Touch: an unshaven chin

 

[Angeline]

[Scent: Freshly mown lawn
Taste: grapes
Sound: crickets
Sight: picnic tables
Touch: rose petals]

Hobart Avenue, Long Ago

Saturday and the the air is vegetal,
green and earthy. Gas mowers buzz,
push mowers roll and squeak.
Children shout, skip, swing. They drift
from road to sidewalk
when the occasional car passes.

Down the block two girls
sell lemonade, plastic pitcher,
and cups arrayed on a picnic table,
5¢ a drink, a bargain: free lawn
chair seating and knock-knock jokes
included.

It's late July: everyone sweats.

Not me. I'm cool, quiet
and composed in a shaded arbor
Daddy built in the side yard.
I'm hidden, curled on a green bench,
surrounded by climbing roses, thorny
tumbles of petals, red yellow pink creamy
and delicate, soft as silk.

It may be Saturday on the block,
but right here it's timeless,
a private world of fairy tales: giants, swans,
match girls, ballerinas, tin soldiers
fill my head, my inner vision
is whirling, fantastical, interrupted

only by the cool sweetness
of the grapes I'm eating,
the errant chirp of a cricket,
the briefest pause

as I turn the page.


Sight: water
Sound: bird
Scent: smoke
Taste: salt
Touch: something smooth

 

[butters]

Sight: water
Sound: bird
Scent: smoke
Taste: salt
Touch: something smooth


a single black vulture
laughs at its fortune—
the glut of belly-up fish
that taste of tidal incursion
as lowlands glisten
sink lower
renew invitations
to a rising Atlantic
*
crops wilt
blacken
drown
*
full beyond measure
it hops atop a smooth boulder
a great, egg-shaped affair
a third buried in mud
spreads wings to dry
casts dim shadows
beneath a disc that hangs
orange
suspended
in resinous air




sight: a parachute
sound: song "Those were the days, my friend..."
taste: bile
touch: a child's hand
smell: vanilla

 

[29wordsforsnow]

sight: a parachute
sound: song "Those were the days, my friend..."
taste: bile
touch: a child's hand
smell: vanilla

Mirror, mirror on the nail
tell Alice one more fairy tale

It was one dear June afternoon
the sun was bright, not downing soon

When from the sky a child so cute
fell with a dress on as if a parachute

She fell and fell and landed soft
on shoulders wide and now aloft

A scream rose up at the small girl's touch
and all she could do was tightly clutch

In a game of checkers - or draughts if you're British
she'd landed on a piece that was rather skittish

The maiden token beneath felt suddenly a Queen
to cross the board as no one had ever seen

Jumping and leaping from square to square
it was a dream at first but turned a nightmare

Her mouth now dry, feeling the bitter taste of bile
the girl stepped down, "Please, excuse me for a while"

On the sideline, she sat down
next to the maid and her broken crown

Smiling sweetly with a fragrance of vanilla
her lips escaped the voice of the Scylla

Singing that famous tune, the lyrics slightly bent
You know the Powers us you lent
We thought they'd never end
For that homewards you'll be send

And like that, her eyes did close
on the board, a sudden wind arose

The dress again an able parachute
sent the perplexed girl back en route

In the midsummer Sunday's aftergloom
Alice woke up in her own playing room

"Oh such a weird dream," she finished her nap
but with great bewilderment, she looked at her lap

A piece of a crown, bitten off like it was a biscuit
she found the reality now excitingly twisted

As yet it was not about dinnertime
having one more sample wouldn't be a crime

All you grown-up children, let's pretend
Those were the days, my friend...

(currently reading Through The Looking-Glass)

Scent: cheese
Sight: candlelight
Sound: thunder
Taste: sour
Touch: hair

 

[Angeline]

[Scent: cheese
Sight: candlelight
Sound: thunder
Taste: sour
Touch: hair]


Spring Is Here

In the uncertain Spring
of the far Northeast we dined
while lightning streaked
the road, flashing over the golf course,
thunder crashing like cymbals,
close enough for us to make
discomfited Zeus jokes,
uncertain laughter shared
with candlelight,
bites of brie and sour cherry
preserves.

When the power came back
Bill Evans played and Spring Is Here
poured forth, delicate
and deliberate,
so I swayed in your arms
and you held me
like flowers;
you made me feel
like flowers.

When you touched
my hair, stroked your big hands
down its length, our tongues tipped
to each other and our bodies
pressed close, holding nothing
but Yes.



Sight: fireflies aka lightning bugs
Sound: bells
Scent: river
Taste: something sweet
Touch: grass

 

[EllenMore]

Sometime During My Internship in Austin

we drove north from the city
into the hills. Then turned down
an ill-used track

that really worked the shocks
on Jan's truck until
we came to the river,

which was running slow, as if dreaming
of the approaching summer.
We stripped down

and swam naked, like seals
intoxicated by the water's clean scent
or the fact of each other's bodies.

Later, we lay on the damp grass,
limp from the heat,
and almost kissed

but, instead, I took a sip
of her chilled Sauternes and laughed
and mussed her short hair

to show that we were simply friends.
As it grew dark, we heard bells,
their peals wafting

over us like evening clouds
that seemed to summon the wandering lights
of fireflies, as if angels

were weaving overhead, watching over us,
making sure
that all we finally did was hold hands.



Sight: an empty street
Sound: firecrackers or gunshots
Taste: something smoky, like barbecue, bourbon, or cigarettes
Smell: an acrid scent, like acetone or something similar
Touch: metal

 

[Remec]

Sight :Ocean
Sound: Thunder
Taste : Melon
Touch: Wood
Scent: Ozone

Hurricane Watch

I take another sip of the cocktail
she'd had sent up by the pitcher from
room service, sweet in that almost
cloying, syrupy way that any melon
besides watermelon tends to have;

Swallowing it down as I wander across the room,
hands running a finger along each
horizontal surface, letting the real wood lend
me stability and stength as I make it to
the sliding glass and onto the balcony;

Picturing the map I'd seen on the weather report,
I orient myself to look out past the clutter of
hotels, eateries, and tourist traps and just stare
at the ocean, letting the rumble of the storm
take the place of crashing foam, even as
the lingering bits of lightning strikes stand in
for the scent of salt that should be in the air.

---

scent: cheap perfume
sight: curves
sound: steady beat
touch: cashmere
taste: bubblegum

 

[29wordsforsnow]

scent: cheap perfume
sight: curves
sound: steady beat
touch: cashmere
taste: bubblegum

Bending like a snake and guarded by an ageless army of conifers
the one-way street draped onto the luxurious slopes of Mt Grim
is a dead end. Admiring the sinuously bent necklace on this body
of green that took us here, the olfactory insult of the brummagem
imitation of Harper's Bear Attractant, a lure only for another horde
of stinging insects, mixes poorly with the artificial flavor of the week
Tweedledeedum's Humble Rum Bubblegum, distantly exotic unlike
the second-best love-sick weary of life, his heartbeat a siren song
for the forest beast that won't ever come. God, another one I have
to bore to death. Smoothing my cashmere sweater, I start thinking
about the worst intro to this August night - soon freezing as hell
but who am I to tell - anecdotes that will leave an iced heart cold,
the tales of an aged couple, the antidote to his romantic feelings.
Eroded dreams, bleached promises, white lies to save our lives.
My Dahlia's last goodbye on the day we tied the knot, fully aware
this goddamn rock tends to leave a mountain guide's bed vacant.

scent: cherries
sight: lipstick
sound: rustling
taste: honey
touch: hot

 

[Winter_Fare]

scent: cherries
sight: lipstick
sound: rustling
taste: honey
touch: hot

Baby kissed off my lipstick
Smudged it all up on my cheek
Heat of her mouth is poison
It's her honey makes me weak

Overhead is the blue sky
Bare bones of the sleeping trees
Gold on the ground that whispers
To the busy centipedes

I can still smell the summer
Decaying beneath my feet
Cherries slide and slip their skin
As they rot their scent is sweet

scent: bleach
sight: closed curtains
sound: footsteps
taste: tea
touch: metal

 

[Angeline]

scent: bleach
sight: closed curtains
sound: footsteps
taste: tea
touch: metal
********************
The Last Day

Before I left I sat
in the rocker on the front porch,
sipping a cup of Lady Grey tea
and looking at the hanging baskets
with their leaves swaying in the breeze
as if keeping time with the wind chimes.
All are gifts from you, all are ways
we made a home of this little house
that we loved at first sight.

You said it was the best place
you'd lived and I agreed, no
not because it's palatial (it isnt)
or in the perfect location though,
God knows, these mountains are lovely,
inducing serenity simply by standing
green, hazy blue and stoic. No
it was the best because we were
here together, because we were
here in love.

I set my mug down on the glass
and metal table, run my fingers
over the whorls of its curvy legs.
You chose this too, made a place
on the porch where I could sit,
read and dream because you
know what I like.

I'm leaving it all here for whoever
comes next. There's no room for any
of it in the van that will carry me
back north.

Now the curtains are all closed,
the rooms shining clean, faintly
redolent of bleach and pine oil.
You won't hear my footsteps
walking away as I leave, but that
doesn't matter: I carry you with me,
in my heart wherever I go.

********************
scent: caramel
sight: bright lights
sound: voices
taste: sugar
touch: flesh

 

[29wordsforsnow]

scent: caramel
sight: bright lights
sound: voices
taste: sugar
touch: flesh

~~~~~~~~~~~

Kai Piranha

How could I betray her?

It's a favor for a favor.​

At the soft opening of this cocktail bar, his silky thin
last piece of male dignity tattled loudly into my nose
her Bailey's-ed breath still a heavy cloud upon him
shorts slid down, intensified, and her tongue froze
upon half a drop of viscous cream still there, a whim
made me let her have him, before me, the first dose
too fast to be a real performance, anything but prim
for the dozen millionaires watching where this goes.

I squeeze tight

take just a little bite.​

Lemon juice dripped down upon the swaying peak
its sides, soon a sour soil, glared in the bright lights
as I seeded cane sugar, and no one dared to speak
but watch, in this most advantageous of all nights,
the filthy rich purple head be crowned by a sleek
sweet edge, but even though I lacked marital rights
my lips longed to coat this prize for a complete week
with the hint of Cachaça, my drinking days' last rites

I drink him in, but foremost

I have him on toast.​

A tricksy cube of ice cooled my attempt to smother
myself with the demerara-laced piece of man-flesh
caught in my throat with his pants down, or rather
his defense, out of options, deep inside the mesh
of our eyes, hers and mine, that found each other
a mouthful, her question in my ear still so fresh
"I do anything, but can you be our surrogate mother"
she'd agreed to my terms, without batting an eyelash

Twenty fortnights and a happy end

my time spent for a friend.​

The moment for everyone, but me, to have a drink
and raise their glass, on this month's most fertile
I was their vessel to sip from, a tumbler ready to sink
onto the straight-up emotions on display for a while
Yes, I'm a deliberate act with a very special kink
run over with liquor and lips, see, that's my style
all across myself my letters licked, written in ink
a dictum that keeps me afloat: go down with a smile

Two people rocking

some find it shocking.​

Somewhere in between the sound of the moistest
dance on a volcano, the waves crashing enervated
our fall upward the pleasant top, the many voices
hushed, pointed, in the corners they reverberated
I almost broke - because it's only about the choices
we made - the rhythm; but it wasn't the degenerated
malevolence I loathed, but their reflecting noises
the dirty talk I loved to eavesdrop, as we accelerated

Fingers crossed, their ride

brought sisters to my side.​

~~~~~~~~~~~

scent: a shower
sight: shadows
sound: silence
taste: summer
touch: softness

 

[butters]

scent: a shower
sight: shadows
sound: silence
taste: summer
touch: softness

private library

in the softness of a summer shower
that brings its memories
of ripe peaches to the tongue
and where the silence of petrichor
wraps its own shadows around your thoughts
you sit in your special room
windows open to sights and sound
mind open to the whisperings of books
that line every wall
climb every recess
and fill every table
even as your fingers cross smooth continents
and oceans roll beneath them
round the axis of the faded
fascinating
globe


sight: pale moon in the daytime sky
sound: a woodpecker drilling a trunk
taste: charcoal
scent: old urine
touch: the smooth, organic feel of old oak wood flooring

 

[29wordsforsnow]

sight: pale moon in the daytime sky
sound: a woodpecker drilling a trunk
taste: charcoal
scent: old urine
touch: the smooth, organic feel of old oak wood flooring

~~~

On rue de meaux, it's common law
beneath a smiling cheese-skinned moon
no matter if it's dark or noon
a cat must stride on paw by paw
all ignorance, no sign of awe
for dogs' piss stench right on the ground
a busy beak's jackhammer sound
right next to black suit's constant caw
cars will break for feline chutzpah
crowded streets a catwalk away
the twinkle-toed, dressed in cliche
returns home to Madame Dumas
stairways to heaven, five floors up
first thing to have: a tiny cup
its subtle notes: charcoal, framboise
keeps running down the furry jaw
filtrated first, then eau-de-vie
one drop alone for Aurelie
supplied with taste by grand-papa
Monsieur Leclerc, old, bald, bourgeois
spent, still here, and mostly naked
there's no need to simply fake it
wrists tied with scarfs of black surah
muted by a spoiled matching bra
emptied, he never felt as good
as now, lying on the hard wood
music in his ears as each claw
accompanied by his soft Aah
worms tones out of the stained oak's grain
the audience awake again
his stamina a tragic flaw
and only done when sore and raw
nails sink into the heaving chest
there is no better place to rest
thinks the cat of Madame Dumas.

~~~

scent: salty
sight: umbrellas
sound: heartbeats
taste: something done with lemons
touch: rough wool

 

[Shady_nz]

scent: salty
sight: umbrellas
sound: heartbeats
taste: something done with lemons
touch: rough wool

Breathing in the cold air from the sea
The salty scent tickles the back of my throat
Bringing back memories of summer and sun

Umbrellas brightly coloured line up
Like soldiers on parade
The sun hot and heavy on the sand
Cooling now as winter comes

I close my eyes and remember the
lemonade that you made
the sharp, bright scent of lemons
squeezed to make the drink we loved

Our heartbeats loud in our ears
As my cheek rests on the rough wool
of your favourite sweater
Your arms around me, hold me close
as your warm breath stirs my hair


Sight: Mountains
Sound: Birds
Taste: Honey
Touch: Grass
Scent: Hay

 

[Wordcascade]

Sight: Mountains
Sound: Birds
Taste: Honey
Touch: Grass
Scent: Hay

Touch-a handle
Taste- dirt
Sight - water
sound- ringtone
scent- fresh rain

 

[Angeline]

Touch-a handle
Taste- dirt
Sight - water
sound- ringtone
scent- fresh rain


Penobscot Country Club, July 2004

It was after midnight
when we crossed, no traffic
just an empty ribbon of road,
black and winding in dips
and turns toward Bangor,
streetlights shining on puddles,
glassy and rainbow-hued
beneath a galaxy of stars,
a thousand wishes waiting
to be made.

The air was fresh, clean,
redolent of petrichor and we ran
hand in hand like naughty school kids
sneaking onto the golf course,
sneaking behind the clubhouse
to the 7th green, me holding the handle
of our picnic basket: a baguette,

cheese and a beaujolais,
fruity, sweet and cold.

We made love right there
on that soft bright grass,
mouths tasting of wine
and a hint of dirt too,
from our energetic exercises,
rolling on that wet carpet.

When my phone rang
with its characteristic tone
we ignored it and watched
the Moon instead.






Sight: flowers
Scent: dirt
Sound: bells
Taste: berries
Touch: piano

 

[Tzara]

Sight: flowers
Scent: dirt
Sound: bells
Taste: berries
Touch: piano

Pianissimo

At the end of Ives' Third Symphony
there are the sounds of distant bells,
so faint in some recordings
as to be almost inaudible. So
are my fading memories of you—
like that late spring day,
walking through a field of random
daffodils, the loamy scent of earth
damp from a brief rain on our boots.
How odd I can still taste your lipstick,
sweet as ripe strawberries,
when I kissed you, but your smile
is quite lost to me, the texture
of your hair, the warmth of your arms.
But the hard slickness of the white keys
when you tried to teach me the Gymnopédie
still sits in my fingertips
as if etched there by loneliness
or simply by separation from my heart.

Scent: Some kind of solvent
Sight: Stretched canvas
Sound: Rock music (muted, as if in another room)
Taste: Whiskey or brandy
Touch: Burnished metal

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Scent: Some kind of solvent
Sight: Stretched canvas
Sound: Rock music (muted, as if in another room)
Taste: Whiskey or brandy
Touch: Burnished metal

cold, hard perfection opens her door
every curve as if chiseled and polished
for centuries, and that's just the handle
to the inner sanctuary holding a modern
Velasquez' Venus marvelously hidden
from his stardust in the studio downstairs
guitars, drums and a glass cutter's voice
rich for a minute, Jim, Jack & Johnny his
oxygen to breathe, present on my tongue
like the question if, for a second, she'd turn
thinner invades my mind, adding details
and myself to picture that is his to take
the bare, taut fabric begs for the touch
of the palest pink in my paintbox
and yet I'd love to see deeper.

Scent: something flammable
Sight: an accident
Sound: a lone instrument
Taste: tears
Touch: something turning cold

 

[Angeline]

Scent: something flammable
Sight: an accident
Sound: a lone instrument
Taste: tears
Touch: something turning cold

Accidental Memory

We were driving north
on 95, heading for the Chesapeake
Bay Bridge when traffic slowed,
moving by inches it seemed.

Staties were weaving past
a tangle of cars and trucks,
drivers craning necks, trying
to see but we smelled it first,
smoke and gasoline,

a nauseating combination
that propelled me years back
to a late night crash on the PA turnpike,
car rolling over and over
until we stopped, smashed
into a hillside, five teenaged girls
screaming, trapped till a trucker
pulled us out in shock
and confusion: I thought the sirens
were trumpets.

Later in the hospital
I tasted my father's tears of relief
as he held me. Sister's car was gone
but we were ok.

That memory, the thought
of my frightened then grateful parents
and the sense of safety that would be torn
from us eternally when sister died suddenly,
unexpectedly just a few years later
combined with the smell of burning
gas to sicken me and I vomited.

The memories sicken me still.

You brushed back my hair,
kissed my forehead,
held my cold hands.



Scent: lilacs
Sight: a ghost
Sound: music (be specific)
Taste: honey
Touch: something ragged

 

[Shady_nz]

Scent:Lilacs
Sight:a ghost
Sound:Music ( be specific)
Taste: honey
Touch: something ragged

The scent of lilacs
Heady and sweet filled the air
Tea in fine china cups, hot and sweet
With the taste of honey
Soft strains of Mozart's Quartet in F adding to
The quiet hum of conversation
Looking up, I saw you there
Pale as a ghost
"She's gone " you said
Looking down at the table, tears in my eyes,
The ragged edges of the serviette rough on my fingers,
I took in the words, scarcely believing the truth
But deep down , knowing them to be true
The end of a reign
The beginning of a new era

Taste: Pork
Sight: River
Scent: Roses
Touch: Wood
Sound: Thunder

 

[EllenMore]

Taste: Pork
Sight: River
Scent: Roses
Touch: Wood
Sound: Thunder

Hill Country

We ate ribs—sloppy, smoky,
falling off the bone—and drank Lone Star
from the bottle, dripping
with condensation, leaving rings
of moisture on the rough wood
of the picnic table. The yellow roses
in the bud vase had wilted,
but their scent—heavy, floral—
kept attracting ants, which you brushed
away with little success.

After eating, we sat and watched the slow
flow of the Guadalupe as it snaked
past the campground
on its long trip down to the Gulf.
We talked, about nothing really,
just because our voices slipped around us
like arms in the gathering darkness.
When we heard the groan of thunder,
still very far away, we crept into the tent
to make our own little storm
that lasted through the generous night.

Scent: Citrus fruit
Sight: An empty road
Sound: Wind
Taste: Salt
Touch: Something rough

 

[Remec]

Scent: Citrus fruit
Sight: An empty road
Sound: Wind
Taste: Salt
Touch: Something rough

Sheltering in Place

They said it was a tornado watch,
not yet a warning,
but the lack of traffic made me think
our neighbors weren't taking chances;
Sitting on the porch swing,
listening to the whistle of air whipping
past and the jingle-jingle-slam of wind chimes
being overpowered,
I am distracted from the still raw wood of the swing,
always planning to paint or varnish
never even managing to sand it smooth,
by the sudden appearance of sustenance,
I smelled the lime while several feet away,
the all the other hints of this and that as the cool glass
was in my hand and I took a sip,
my tongue caressing the lingering taste of salt on my lips
much like how it licked the various
tastes of you earlier in the morning.

---

Sight: eyes
Sound: drums
Scent: incense
Taste: something comforting
Touch: vibrating

 

[I_AM_ONE_OF_YOU]

An Indian wedding.

As our eager eyes met,
In between the chaos around
Families happy, relatives busy,
All the dear ones engaged with duties.
And the chaos within us talks,
Louder than the wedding dhol and drums.
My heart wandering towards you
Like the essence of the incense sticks
that are lit, and the gray smoke evaporating.
As our aura resonates together
Our vibes vibrates within.
Our closeted feelings exploding,
Our much awaited search ending.
How I was waiting for you,
For your presence in my life,
Something comforting like the warm milk
Shared between our lips
at our wedding night, our first time ever.
I was looking for you, and I found you
A warm place, my sweet home.

[Dhol - Indian drums, used at weddings particularly.
Warm milk at wedding night, is a custom at first night of married couples]

Thanks for this challenge @Remec

Sight: Mikrokosmos
Sound: Guitar
Scent: vanilla
Taste: spicy noodles
Touch: hand shake.

 

[I_AM_ONE_OF_YOU]

This is such an interesting and engaging thread. Lot to learn and understand here.
Trying to write a poetry, sorry if it's not upto the mark, I'm not a writer and English is not my first language either. But can't stop trying out poetry, at any given time.
Thanks for creating this thread.
Good going.