The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[butters]

sight: cumulus clouds
sound: distant voices
scent: burning
touch: hand made paper
taste: glue of envelope or stamp


they weren't my letters to burn

were you cruel to dispatch them that way,
distant voices of the dead
elegantly penned in flowing cursive?

words of love and guilt
manipulation and memory
woven across spans of hand-made paper
consigned to ghosts and ashes
nebulous vapours spiraling up
disappear in an armada of clouds
and sun brighter than the flames

you left yourself bereft
tongue haunted by glue
said tears in your eyes just the smoke





sight: a drowned cricket
sound: backfiring car or gun shot
taste: chalk
touch: pond mud
scent: infection

 

[29wordsforsnow]

sight: a drowned cricket
sound: backfiring car or gun shot
taste: chalk
touch: pond mud
scent: infection

school's out forever
we don't sing
anymore

retired from the overworked and underpaid
this room of passing words is where we stayed
empty now, left, and handed back to nature
jars hunting raindrops, a cricket 'yond mature

sailing the tiny ocean in repetition
row, row, row your boat for tuition
the roof is merely a Tilsit cheese
why, could you fund us, please?

one last goodbye calligraphed by wilted hands
the taste of dry mineral stays, has no plans
on fingertips that like to turn the page
for the coming educated age

on the parking lot where once The Potatoe Ban
finally stopped Mr Brown's Cadillac van
from exploding one day the kids couldn't bend
their dreaded numbers to the rightful end

the rain has gone days ago, left its litter
feet slip in, hands, that would beg on Twitter
for a small change too, sink down in the soil
nostrils flare up, a roaring turmoil

the miasma of our open legs
filled by systems all in rags
down in the dumps we smell infection
Is this future shaping in perfection?

scent: apple
sight: light
sound: cough
taste: salty
touch: humid

 

[Voboy]

Bright, hazed sun. Apple.
Coughing noise as I bite in.
Salt-sweat on my lips.



scent: something that's burning.
sight: something that makes a bright glare.
sound: something loud.
taste: something plain and unsatisfying.
touch: something harsh.

 

[29wordsforsnow]

scent: something that's burning.
sight: something that makes a bright glare.
sound: something loud.
taste: something plain and unsatisfying.
touch: something harsh.

A toast
- not golden-brown, but pretty dark -
on you
- impatience swelled and came -
due to
​

the deep down hunger yet not met, I rush
two squares of wheat, lightly charred
feel one's rough edge bite into my lips
like your neatly shaven patch - three days ago

waiting

down the hallway on the bed, I blush
the daylight's fireball igniting me
unhindered by window or curtain
the bedframe lilts its protest song

waking

the morning strollers in the street, I hush
my tongue caught with your pants down
a myriad of tiny drops to quench no thirst
born in the latest ride, still not yet satisfied

waving

lust starts between your feet, my tush
pressing you back into the sheets
toast crumbles between your teeths
a little snack to burn more calories

scent: jasmine
sight: a red shoe
sound: a commercial
taste: almond
touch: slippery wet

 

[Voboy]

​

scent: jasmine
sight: a red shoe
sound: a commercial
taste: almond
touch: slippery wet

Licking her slippery-wet almond,
Her red shoe carving a furrow
In the muscles along my spine:
I smell her, the scent of her,
Intoxicating. Enfolding me
Like the scent of jasmine in the incense
At the corner smoke shop.

I can make her cum. I know it.
But can I do it before the commercial is over?





scent: the dustiness of an imminent snowfall
sight: lace on skin
sound: a train wreck
taste: brandied cherries
touch: a chilly breeze

 

[Winter_Fare]

scent: the dustiness of an imminent snowfall
sight: lace on skin
sound: a train wreck
taste: brandied cherries
touch: a chilly breeze

Should have took a bus
First class
Intercity
Fingers touch
Sitting pretty
Hips up against hips
Love watching her lips
Dark like old blood
Wet like a hot flood
Nothing left of us

All this is just smoke
Tongue slips out stop
Waiting for the acid drop
Kiss like brandy
Cherries like Sunday
Easy let the sun rise
Gold in her brown eyes
Let the world rush by maybe
God knows why baby
I don't need my heart broke

Out here air's cold
Cold enough to snow
Let the wind blow
Away my wet bones
Damn this love Jones
And all your black lace
Burning in that place
We can't touch
It hurts too much
We won't grow old

scent: wood fire
sight: candle going out
sound: phone ring
taste: dry mouth
touch: animal fur

 

[Mrtenant]

scent: wood fire
sight: candle going out
sound: phone ring
taste: dry mouth
touch: animal fur

Leashing the puppy
Fingers weaving through
Her rich animal fur
Walking with her
Down one street
Then another
She stands tall
Questing about
Notices the wood fire
Her nose all atwitch
A brief snort later
And onwards we go
Rounding the block
With home in sight
The one with windows
And the candle burning bright
In alarm do I see
The candle light going out
My eyes widen in fear
There with a dry mouth
When my phone rings
"We need more candles"
She says with a smile
For the light has gone out




scent: rose
sight: green grass
sound: hawk shrieking
taste: cherries
touch: wood grain

 

[Voboy]

scent: rose
sight: green grass
sound: hawk shrieking
taste: cherries
touch: wood grain

Pacing through the wintry-chilled beds,
The garden spreads around you, bare and harsh.
Roses curl, scenting past the heads
Of dormant pussy-willows in the marsh.

Your feet recall the grasses, green with spring
That came before, and soon will come again.
But now all's bare. The still days churn and ring
With hawkish cries, the plaintive wails like pain.

Spring will burst. It must! You look ahead.
But not so far beyond are blinding flakes:
The snow is coming, mocking, past the dead
Branches of cherry-trees, gaunt as rakes.

You run your hand along the chilly rails
Of the wood-grained footbridge, rough beneath your nails.

(...a hasty December sonnet. With apologies to the Shakespearean aesthetic!)

scent: fresh paint
sight: a smile
sound: a guitar
taste: tacos
touch: the prick of a thorn

 

[Winter_Fare]

scent: fresh paint
sight: a smile
sound: a guitar
taste: tacos
touch: the prick of a thorn

You came to live at number thirty-three
The day we came to number thirty-one
Our terraced gardens overlooked the sea
A hundred years or more before we'd come

The smell of paint and plaster was no fun
And clearing back the brambles made us bleed
But afterwards when all our work was done
We barbecued and lounged beneath the trees

The magic made when connections begin
Tequila, tacos and the sound of truth
Acoustic steel string decadence and sin
Fresh scents and songs, the summer of our youth

I'll dare to smile and blow a kiss or two
Wherever you are now may God keep you

scent: typewriter ink
sight: stained glass
sound: traffic
taste: bacon
touch: cold lino

 

[cascadiabound]

scent: fresh paint
sight: a smile
sound: a guitar
taste: tacos
touch: the prick of a thorn

Heat rises in the old Spanish courtyard
The best churros in the world sputter sweetly
Mexico in December, like time has moved forward
Biting into fish tacos, satisfies completely

Small shiney objects beckon my raven spirit
Silver shimmers, mother of pearl, opals and jewels
Gaudy fresh paint splashes and dances, a visual trick
tempting to bargain, gringo girl, playing a fool

Basking in sun, a busker strums
Sweet chords of my youth, elicits a smile
Unconsciously fingers dance mouth hums
A sweet escape, let's walk for a mile

The cathedral calls my soul to quiet reflection
Scarf covers my head, kneeling to pray
The scars of oppression mired in good intention
Thorns prick from our past, a debt we should pay


sound: telephone ring
Scent: honeysuckle
Taste: bitter herbs
Sight: falling star
Touch: sticky fingers

 

[Winter_Fare]

sound: telephone ring
Scent: honeysuckle
Taste: bitter herbs
Sight: falling star
Touch: sticky fingers

Let it ring
Let them leave a message

I am concentrating
On the line where you were made
Folded
Origami
Petals
Scent of honeysuckle
Heavy with the dew of
You are bitter
Bitter water
On my tongue
A tonic
Falling
Weightless
Like a comet
You're my
Shooting star
My light
My fingers glistening
With your life

Let it ring

 

[cascadiabound]

scent: typewriter ink
sight: stained glass
sound: traffic
taste: bacon
touch: cold lino

Morning comes so early
Car door slams across the street
I rub my eyes awake
Dog walkers and paper boys
A quiet shuffle of suburban traffic

Coffee maker turns itself on
Nudging me to trod the cold lino floor
the routine groove as comfortable as slippers
Do you want bacon? I ask
The echoing silence deafening
As expectant pews colored midweek
By streaming sunlight through stained glass

These stray thoughts
Shifting like shadows
Sifted like flour
Await the earthy perfume
Of typewriter ink
On twenty pound paper


Scent: wet moss
Sound: coyote howl
Sight: neon lights
Taste: mussels
Touch: fine wool scarf

 

[Winter_Fare]

Scent: wet moss
Sound: coyote howl
Sight: neon lights
Taste: mussels
Touch: fine wool scarf

Working four colours
Ocean
Earth
Forest
Fire
I made a gift for you
Imagined
Where it might fall
Slipping from your throat
Caught beneath you
Under me
Picking up
Moss and wet soil
Between carefully worked stitches

*

We eat together
Civilized
White wine and chowder
Neatly picking salty mussels
From their shells
Conversation
Bowdlerised
By company
We walk hand in hand
Through coffee shops and
Gift stores
Neon
Blinds us when we
Dare to head
Outside

*

Away
Birds are silent
As the moon
The ocean
Breathes a kiss
Our lips still
Hot and dry
Fearful
Somewhere in the desert we are
Calling from the heart
Chasing tails and
Screaming
Long and loud
Hot fur twitching in our mouths

Scent: shampoo
Sound: crackling
Sight: stiletto heel
Taste: chocolate
Touch: pressed cotton

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Sight-mirror
Sound-hum
Scent-cigarette
Touch-shoe laces
Taste-meat

Objects in the rear view mirror...
 crossed her mind now
watching the things unfold
on the stuffed backseat

the faint frequencies of the electric vehicle
whispering into her thighs as if she sat
on a cushion filled with bumblebees

She was going nowhere
not the for next, let's say, hour
She'd crawl, like a tigress
over the center console
her nostrils meet
the recent end
of tobacco addiction
before the main dish
full of the delicious aroma
of a cook unwrapped
on lunch break

The short contact of his shoe laces
mindlessly, needfully, lustfully pulled
when her teeth tore into the starter

Oh sesame, open

pillowy decorum of the bun
followed by the bittersweet underneath
rip the lettuce
ketchup foreplay
eventually
what she'd been waiting for
meat
hot and dripping
engulfed by her hungry lips
wonderful juicy mess

scent - hyacinth
sight - scarf
sound - bells
taste - stale
touch - rheum

 

[Mrtenant]

Sight-lined paper
Scent-opportunity
Sound-rain
Touch-playing cards
Taste-cake


How I always loved her birthday
Time to celebrate her life
Show just how much I love her
As if she really didn’t know
She knows
Always did
Still loves the attention
My words pour forth
I am the channel
As they flow haphazardly
Across the grade school lined paper
A simple poem for her
On her day
Words for her
Remembering birthdays past

There was that one year
Making that amazing cake
That tasted so good
Icing so firm and sweet
How it found its way onto her nipples
I'll never know
Her laughter and delight
Sliding into moans and sighs
Still rings in my ears

Or that one year
When my career had changed
And all our fortunes
All our futures
Hedged on that wild scent of opportunity
Where we could travel
And film and write
To our hearts content
We’d go to resorts
Her birthday on the beach
Crashing waves and sand
Seagulls, and peace
Such peace
Only the surf

That one birthday
Camping in the mountains
She danced naked by the firelight
Music playing
Her musical laughter
Still rings in my ears
How absolutely fortunate I am
Even when the rain came
And we scurried into the tent
And made love throughout the night

This last birthday, today
How comfortable we have grown
Dinner and dessert
Quiet and at home
While the pandemic raged
Playing cards into the night
Sipping her wine
Sipping my whiskey
Music, laughter, conversation
So warm and easy
Fireplace crackling
That one long moment
Gazing into her eyes
She gazes backs
She knows
She knows
I will tell her anyway


Sight- Maroon
Scent- Pine
Sound- Railroad
Touch- velvet
Taste- cherry

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight-a person from your past
Scent- sunscreen
sound-engine running
Touch- hot
Taste- alcohol

It was just yesterday
and forever
when I last saw him
heard the engine crank and rumble

Maybe it was a minute
or half an hour
before his foot found the gas

I only remember standing
watching
for some indefinite amount of time
as tail lights got smaller
dimmer
became the past

My memories are always summer
sun-scorched, coconut skin
under my hands
tequila on our tongues
in those moments when I glimpse
not-him rounding a corner
on a street where he couldn't be



Sight: sunrise
Scent: soup
Sound: phone ringing
Touch: glass
Taste: coffee

 

[butters]

Sight: sunrise
Scent: soup
Sound: phone ringing
Touch: glass
Taste: coffee

soup
the ringing of a phone
a bland cup of coffee...
lukewarm, mundane things
alone, without context

yet raise poet's glass-pane eye
in all its beveled, bubbled imperfections
to reflect, refract
a lifetime of human experience
and they become sunrise
colours of expression
all they may portend





sight: sky reflected in a visible slice of cow-pond
scent: almonds
sound: cock crowing
taste: dry, stale bread
touch: wild silk

 

[cascadiabound]

Reluctantly rising before dawn
Abandoning warm sheets
Padding across cool tile floors
As Napoleon crows in the morning
Pushing aside the café curtains
First morning light reflects gold
In the curved slice of the cow’s pond
Absentmindedly, I grab the roll
abandoned on the counter
The brittle crunch between my teeth
Mouth drying and unpleasant

These moments alone in the kitchen
A prequel to lists and chores
Are a meditation for my soul
What gifts will this day offer?
A handful of wild silk cocoons
Precious and rare
perhaps after dinner cookies or cake
Wafting almond perfume as they bake
A sweetness shared
As the sun slides away


Sight: steam rising from a hot tub at night
Taste: lime juice
Scent: wet grass
Sound: ears ringing (tinnitus)
Touch: well worn flannel

 

[Angeline]

Sight- numbers
Sound- something falling over
Scent- washed linen
Touch- playing cards
Taste- salt


Life At Eleven

Late spring
our little street is alive again.
The fractured grey of winter is gone,
even pavement cracks sprout green
unruly patches of prosaic onion weed
and delicate Queen Anne's Lace.

The breeze is lifting boughs of lilac,
scattering pastel blossoms sweet
falling through the air, which is redolent
also of sheets and towels swaying
clean on the line next door at 528.

Soon comes summer and I'll roam
our garden looking for that first
tomato, vine ripe and sun-warmed,
sprinkled with a shake of salt,
slurped and chewed right there,
growing with the burgeoning rows

soon enough, but today I'll weave
playing cards among the metal spokes
of my pride and joy, my blue Raleigh
10-speed and wheel away, clattering
off to the morning's adventures.

Sight: something blue
Sound: whisper of any kind
Scent: something outdoors
Touch: something rough
Taste: chocolate

 

[Mrtenant]

(Forgot to quote, @Angeline )
Sight: something blue
Sound: whisper of any kind
Scent: something outdoors
Touch: something rough
Taste: chocolate




Fireplace crackle and pops
Merry blaze dances in the night
She sleeps in my arms
Her hands caress the roughness of my iron beard
As she turns in her slumber
Peaceful smiles and whispers
Spill from her dreamy lips

Gently rising
Covering her in the blanket
A kiss on her forehead
Taking my cocoa
And stepping outdoors
Where crisp Winter air
Plays across the hairs of my naked chest
Those flannel pants
Held only by a string

How the pale moonlight
Colors the world blue across the snow
My steamy breath tasting of chocolate
And her delicious kisses
Her scent still filling my mind

Wolf howls in the far distance
When she joins me on the deck
Blanket wrapped and tousled hair
Pressed against my back
In her warm embrace
Come inside darling
Come out of the cold
Love me always
Always darling
Tonight
Yes


Sight: Lighthouse
Sound: seagull
Scent: coconut
Touch: rope
Taste: Pineapple

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Sight: Lighthouse
Sound: seagull
Scent: coconut
Touch: rope
Taste: Pineapple

Lighthouse, you and me polaroid
hungry seagull above our heads
rinsed with coconut conditioner today
clinging to the rope handrail
our kiss tastes of pineapple

Pineapple for breakfast this morning
the lighthouse on a leaflet
another screaming seagull amost stole
it smelled the coconut cream
the lid locked with rope

Rope, its knot cut open
the pineapple soon as well
found the lighthouse by noon
distant cries, damn seagull colony
a weathered man selling coconuts

Coconut aroma all over him
threadbare rope holds his pants
printed with pineapple patterns, tasteless
sells as well lighthouse tickets
attraction held by buccaneer seagulls

Seagull feathers float down silently
a coconut bra I joke
held by rope and neck
half of a pineapple crown
for your lap, my lighthouse

scent: cinnamon
sight: morning mist
sound: something scary
taste: coffee
touch: velvet

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

chilli
cooking
spice
sweat
an apparition


Even though it was
only weeks old,
our relationship was cooking.

Young and new to sharing a bed,
undressing in front of me
was an obvious ordeal,
she was sweetly shy.

Standing before me,
a bravely naked apparition,
I could see the nervous sweat
on her upper lip.

Nipples were erect,
not from passion, she was chilly.
I threw back the covers,
and she snuggled into my warmth.
Anticipation grew as her spicy
thermion reached my nose.

Sound - A pipe organ.
Taste - Oatmeal
Sight - A red dress
Touch - Something unpleasantly rough.
Scent - Clean linen.

 

[butters]

Taste- decadence
Touch- cold
Scent- ocean
Sound- music
Sight- starry sky



beneath this starry, starry sky
Don McLean's earworm invades
overriding the music of the spheres
invoking that phantom luxury
the decadence of suicide
to linger on my tongue
and a desire to match the coldness of those distant points of light
as i wade into the waves
to join life's primordial scent



rewrite:

night crawling
beneath this starry, starry sky
Don McLean's earworm
overrides the music of spheres
invokes that phantom luxury—
the decadence of suicide—
to linger on my tongue
a desire to match the coldness
of those distant points of light
as i wade into waves
join life's primordial scent




Taste: the blue of chlorophyl from fresh cut grass
Touch: gravel in a cold stream
Scent: truck's exhaust fumes
Sight: an old crock jar
Sound: woodpecker

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight-something emotive
Scent- old books
Sound- a recording (music, voices whatever)
Touch- dust
Taste- Regret

Tucked them away so I wouldn't see them
every day, the way they stir memories
of you, reading rhyme and verse
from their pages, spread lazy
on the bed in those decadent afternoons
or near-whispered as we drifted
close to sleep when night called

It was the soup that did it
not quite yours, but familiar enough
the spoon held old regrets
for things said, unsaid
suspended in the complication of time

The stack beckoned me
to its hiding place
where I ran a finger slowly
through the coating of dust
that frosted the top layer
before wiping it all away
a brief facade that it
that we
could be clean again

I pulled one from the middle
opened it to inhale the sad aroma
of neglected pages
and slowly turned one
then another
until I heard your voice
the way my mind recalls it
with the static of months and years
akin to an aged recording
close enough to touch
too far for comfort



Taste: garlic
Touch: metallic
Scent: smoke
Sight: something yellow
Sound: rumble

 

[GorgeousJimmy146]

The taste of you is strong
like the taste of sweet wild garlic
My touch for you is mettalic,
my body is a raging fire
with loves small high cop
And my rumbling feet start to sweat
My choice for you was rushed