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The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

Remec said:
Somethin' 'bout Summertime

sight: wind
sound: frost
scent: cold
taste: cocoa
touch: wool
Click to expand...

The weather channel shows
forty-seven below
granted the wind pushed
the minus thirty-eight
in that direction when I
stepped over the threshold
and inhaled the drift-building
gusts. The snow
squeaks a frosty protest
with each step and feathered
through the air as I tossed
the fluffy flakes up
unto the bank. Aching fingers
scratched the itchy band around
my forehead, irritated by wool
and exertion. Eyes tear
until I go inside to chocolaty
heat in a mug and cough
the rebound fluid from my
throat and flush away
the scent of copper and ice.
Then I remember the birds
will stir awake from stillness
eventually and need to be fed.

sight: weather front clouds
sound: diesel engine idle
scent: deep fryer fat
taste: donuts
touch: whipped cream
 
Last edited:
Good Afternoon

Originally Posted by champagne1982

sight: weather front clouds
sound: diesel engine idle
scent: deep fryer fat
taste:donuts
touch: whipped cream
Click to expand...

Late winter winds whip through the city
under a blanket of low lying clouds.
Huddled close outside our favorite bakery
the wind battles our sun warmed shadows.
As chocolate drips from my lips
your mouth covers mine,
tasting the donut we just shared

Our laughter is interrupted by
a Benz that stops
in front of the hydrant
beside our sidewalk table;
the sound of the engine rattles our thoughts

A woman dressed in white linen
leaves the car idle as
smoke from the exhaust settles
under the frontal clouds.

The sweet smell from the deep fryer
replaces her acrid perfume
as she shoves past others
claiming to have called ahead.

Through watery eyes
we read each others thought
and each dip our fingers into the
mound of whipped cream in our latte.

Strolling through diesel fumes
we stop briefly to write
"wash me"
on the shiny black surface
of her trunk.

;)

sight: flock of birds
sound: piercing whistle
scent: cotton candy
touch: sand paper
taste: cherries
 
sight: a wrapper whirling in a breeze
sound: snap
scent: book
touch: frozen anything
taste: cool aide
Click to expand...

Eyes popped open in
a moment of panic, the
startled gape of
bewilderment that comes
from awaking in unfamiliar
spaces.

Not that the library wasn't
a second home, but I
usually avoided napping there,
soothing as it was in its silence
and the comforting aroma
of actual books--paper and ink
stirring the mind in a way I
tend not to get when reading
off a screen.

"Wakey, wakey," says a voice
after more snapping of fingers
just before my face. I swear, if
she wasn't so cute, I'd have to
take her over one knee---hmm,
there's an idea, file that one
for later--I sigh and stretch.

"Coffee?" Hopefulness isn't a
quality I have in abundance,
but you never can tell. A cup
is pressed to my hands, but it
is colder than almost anything
that isn't actually ice and I
know this won't be good.

I shrug after sipping, Kool-Aid was
the last thing I would expect, but
at least it was grape. I set the cup
down and extend a palm, take the
proffered straw, and stand to
gather my things. "Lunch first, yeah?"

She leans in and takes the wrapper
from my straw out of my hand, gives
me a kiss and whispers, "Sure, if that's
what you want." I barely notice anything
more as we are rushing out of
the building, just the way she drops
the paper and it flutters and hangs
about in the breeze outside.

~~~~~
sight: fear
sound: rumbling
scent: honey
taste: mud
touch: envy
 
Final approach.

todski28 said:
sight: oval
sound: something scraping on metal
scent: chemicals
touch: leaves
taste: oil
Click to expand...


Descending through three thousand,
I see the running track, off to right,
Where my son won his first race.
So much to tell him, so much to say
There's no time now, and no other day.

The engine in front of me
Always ran true, I forgot it's there,
So, on today of all days
Why does It's purr turn to metallic scrape
As it eats itself up in autonomous rape.

A thick sticky rain coats the windshield
And in aerosolised form enters my mouth.
The taste of the oil, is foul.
This AeroShell 80 is the taste of death,
I'd wanted d'Yquem to wash my last breath

I pull the red lever, overly hard!
The last dice to roll, and walk away from this game.
WHOOOSH - Three litres of Halon
But the flames just ignore it
For me however it's the scent of an obit

That's it now, there is nothing more
I've had some fun up here but the payment is due
How beautiful things are from up here
and I close my eyes, and become purely meek
as the first of the leaves, graze my left cheek.

sight: a thread of cotton
sound: silence
scent: mildew
touch: varnished wood
taste: salt
 
Last edited:
sight: a thread of cotton
sound: silence
scent: mildew
touch: varnished wood
taste: salt
Click to expand...

Destiny

Cave smells different
than expected, I had
envisioned dust and a
layer of age to everything.
Not dampness, stagnant
water wiped over the walls,
pooled on the floor, leaves
a scent of mildew hovering
about the unmoving air.
The three of them don't
notice as they go about
another day's work. I step in,
fascinated at how the cotton
thread is spun out, drawn to
a seemingly random length as
it is worked into the weave,
then snipped with a sudden,
silent working of such heavy
shears that I forget myself.
Forget my role as petitioner,
stepping back into the voyeur I
have always been in the past,
one hand idly stroking the slick
varnished frame of the loom,
lost in the quiet beauty,
tongue brushing the salty remnants
of a single tear along my lips,
When you see the whole of the
pattern, the thought of making
a snarl or forcing a reworking of
even the least piece seems like
nothing so much as heresy.

~~~~~
sight: brilliant
sound: music
scent: fresh
taste: ginger
touch: steel wool
 
Remec said:
~~~~~
sight: brilliant
sound: music
scent: fresh
taste: ginger
touch: steel wool
Click to expand...

Trip to the Bodega

Diamond rain spring on the air buying Brillo and ginger: ay salsa!


~~~~~~
sight: flowers
sound: screech
scent: caramel
taste: salt
touch: metal
 
Angeline said:
~~~~~~
sight: flowers
sound: screech
scent: caramel
taste: salt
touch: metal
Click to expand...

Sunday Breakfast
===========

The metal tray is pulled screechingly from the hot oven,
The padded glove protecting my hand bears poppies and violets,
Perfect salt caramel muffins are, from heat, born,
Their new-born aroma is freshly revealed -
Time for breakfast.

----------------
sight: a bus ticket
sound: TV news
scent: bacon
taste: Tea
touch: leather
 
Wintermute01 said:
----------------
sight: a bus ticket
sound: TV news
scent: bacon
taste: Tea
touch: leather
Click to expand...

I heard the news today oh boy.
Lady had died and I forgot
how time can spill like tea gone
cold and bitter the hours out of step.

Forget the long gray dog. Tear up
the ticket. We'll take our bacon
to the leather coach where we can
ride and listen to the whistle sigh.

~~~~~

sight: boardwalk
sound: barking
scent: marsh
taste: kisses
touch: your choice
 
sight: boardwalk
sound: barking
scent: marsh
taste: kisses
touch: your choice
Click to expand...

Public Beach

Walking along the shore,
the sand weighing on foot
and ankle as it clings to
each step,
I cast a glance about for
where the dog is, but only
hear it--my eyes seeing nothing
but the ramshackle pier
and the poorly laid out
boardwalk leading to it.
This had been on of our first
actual dates, parking her van
and walking through the early
autumn mist blowing off the
water. Odd how the ocean
at this place smells not so much of
salt and sea, as it does of the
marshes and swamps that feed
into the bay between them.
Even more strange, how just being
here brings back the taste of
those first, tentative, kisses
as we got to know one another.

~~~~~
sight: cans
sounds: labored breathing
scent: strawberry
taste: carbonation
touch: hunger
 
Remec said:
sight: cans
sounds: labored breathing
scent: strawberry
taste: carbonation
touch: hunger
Click to expand...


Stolen From a Hoarder

The man bent over showing
his fat can like two honey-baked hams,
wheezed as he dug through boxes
of his treasures.

"It's just the thing you gotta see"
is really nothing to me.

Bristles of a broom never touched
a corner, nor soap and water.
Items stacked to the ceiling,
best served in a landfill are pawed
with sticky strawberry soda fingers.

He inspects and admires it all,
places them with care into
cockroach and spider infested cartons.

Then he does find it and he is right,
it is the thing I gotta see, need,
hunger. I fake boredom,
let the fizz die on my tongue
as the bottle of Fanta Orange
did in my hand ages ago.

He believes, turns and moves
on to the next carton of jewels.
Stealth flicks a spider away,
finds a way into a pocket,
making the thing, my thing.




sight: a cat
sounds: birds on telephone wire
scent: smoke
taste: hope
touch: coins in a pocket
 
Neonurotic said:
sight: a cat
sounds: birds on telephone wire
scent: smoke
taste: hope
touch: coins in a pocket
Click to expand...

Hope tastes like water
feels like birds lifting off
wires their shadows
winging the cat that watches.

Hope tastes like metal
a bright tang of fear
before I step out before
the smoke clears to show
the doves disappeared
the hat empty the coins
safe in my pocket.

sight: money
sounds: bells
scent: sweat
taste: something burnt
touch: glass
 
ps, Ange, I knew you'd find something that tasted like hope. Fantastic 5 Senses too! :rose:


Angeline said:
sight: money
sounds: bells
scent: sweat
taste: something burnt
touch: glass
Click to expand...

Klutzy Woman

She rung my bell, an accident
of course, but still ding-a-ling,
banged my chin on the top of her
head. Somehow managed a
twist, a double dip, flip
me face down on crumpled dollars,
in rumpled sexed-up sheets.

Sweat and her perfume
cram my head with lust;
she'd conquer me with one lick
but she manages to fumble the glass
dildo, sliding it across my ass,
it landing on the floor with a crash.

I'm afraid of what comes next
but it happens before I'm ready.
The glass schlong broke
the cat's dish against an electric plug.
Smoke, fried wires and cat chow
rests on the tongue, fizzles out
however not the erection,
it responds to a bought blowjob.

Just as well, this girl is the death of me,
quite literally and yes that is an
euphemism for come, it better be,
after all, I paid her quite well.




sight: a photo
sounds: a clock ticking
scent: something baking
taste: sweet
touch: tears
 
Last edited:
sight: a photo
sounds: a clock ticking
scent: something baking
taste: sweet
touch: tears

A Life in Boxes

I am the last to arrive
with my little box
and all that’s left are bones.
Paisley wallpaper is dotted
with faded rectangles and holes.
The pink bowl filled with plastic flowers
is absent, leaving a white ring
in the dingy tablecloth. It’s all been stripped
like a puzzle in reverse
each piece taken with the hope
of recreating a whole that is gone.

I try to swallow the stillness and quiet.

The heartbeat of the house no longer sits
in the corner chiming in on the hour
and my cousin took the rocking chair
because she said it matched her sofa.
The kitchen still smells of sugar cookies
and when I open the cookie jar
there’s one left. It crumbles in my mouth
and I taste the sweetness with the salt
before I turn and shut the door, leaving
my empty box sitting on the floor.

Sight: evidence of wind
Sound: cracking ice
Taste: mint
Touch: metal
Smell: dampness
 
Sight: evidence of wind
Sound: cracking ice
Taste: mint
Touch: metal
Smell: dampness

On certain days the river groans
As if the burden of ice is too great.
The damp spring air smells of death
And rebirth, the wind raked trees
Lean towards the future. My hand
Is chilled by the metal rail as we
Climb towards the bridge suspended
above the creaking Ouse. The crushed
wild mint scents our boots and our progress.

Sight: soldiers
Sound: fiddle music
Taste: curry
Touch: fur
Smell: manure
 
sight: dog
sound: crunch
smell: aftershave
taste: alcohol
touch: pain
Click to expand...

The Wayside

Even the compilation of
Brut, Old Spice, and a
number of other brands I
barely recognize do little
but overwhelm the sweat
and tobacco remnants in
the bar trying its best to
portray itself as a pool hall.
It's just another dive, a
little seedier than most,
I give George a glance on my
way to an open stool, take in
a slow breath as I down the
double house scotch he slides
down the counter to me, then
grab myself a handful of
beernuts, enjoying the way
they crunch like breaking bones,
and head towards the back.
Devil is lying in his usual spot,
and I edge past slowly, eyes
never leaving the dog, knowing
full well he's not really sleeping.
Nothing here ever does.

~~~~~
sight: children's tv show
sound: jingling
scent: talcum
taste: bug spray
touch: electric
 
Remec said:
~~~~~
sight: children's tv show
sound: jingling
scent: talcum
taste: bug spray
touch: electric
Click to expand...

Whatever have you against Sponge Bob
is a good question what with the tv
jingling like a mad tea kettle whistles
from another planet about vanilla
flavored bug spray pineapples under
the sea the whole electric buzz
of the universe our evolutionary pro-
gress as seen by carnival touts
and mad men.

Oh mother for a summer's day
when we'd pat lilac talcum
on our wrists, pass the time
talking of the garden how the
pole beans were coming along.


~~~~~~~~~~

sight: ski slope
sound: barking
scent: cologne
taste: ice
touch: your choice
 
sight: object obscured by darkness
sound: a rustle
scent: cigarette
taste: morning breath
touch: fabric
Click to expand...

Visitations

The nightlight glimmers in the hall,
not enough to really see by, but
that's not why it's there.

She's overly imaginative, her mother
tells people, lets things she reads about
or watches on tv keep her from sleeping,

But night terrors are not as bad as
waking ones, and she huddles beneath
the soft warmth of a fuzzy blanket,

doing her best to ignore the rustle of
pajamas and slipped feet crossing the
shag throw rugs on her floor, hoping

there would not be the usual smell
of cigarettes, the stale flavor of always
reminds her she should brush more often.

She huddles and thinks if she pretends
to sleep well enough, the shadow will pass
her by. Sometimes it works. Just not enough.
~~~~~

sight: dinner plates
sound: doors or cupboards opening and closing
scent: strong spices
taste: anger
touch: oily
 
Hell Hath No Fury

She stuffed my face with dinner plates
from last night's tenderloin supper,
now filled with scrambled eggs
and "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter"
until I tasted the pepper,
tabasco or maybe jalapeño.

I think she wanted to poison me
to put my head in an oven or cupboard
and slam it with that part of my brain
that says "Well, Hell, I can't help it."

"But Madge my Darling, I was working late.
A snowstorm developed; the car broke down!"
I said to her at 5:00 am,
but shouldn't have said so then again
because I used it a month ago
when her soul froze like freezing rain.

sight: mountains
sound: dog barking
scent: pine trees
taste: hot chocolate
touch: a child's fevered forehead
 
Last edited:
greenmountaineer said:
Hell Hath No Fury

sight: mountains
sound: dog barking
scent: pine trees
taste: hot chocolate
touch: a child's fevered forehead
Click to expand...

Snowblind

Mountains stenciled faint
Misted in blizzard white
Steam exhales plumes
slow last breaths
From Untasted hot chocolate
hands Clenched in ceramic prayer

In an hour, maybe two
Dogs will howl and
Dig, tunnel, uncover
A glove, a hat
His forehead

how it burned once
Under her hand
How he kicked off blankets
Even when sleeping

Do his feet now kick
a blanket too heavy to move
Is his forehead cold

He smelled of pine
When she whispered goodbye

******
Sound:singing
smell: heat
taste: shrimp
touch: cold metal
sight: a stereotype
 
Desejo said:
Snowblind

Mountains stenciled faint
Misted in blizzard white
Steam exhales plumes
slow last breaths
From Untasted hot chocolate
hands Clenched in ceramic prayer

In an hour, maybe two
Dogs will howl and
Dig, tunnel, uncover
A glove, a hat
His forehead

how it burned once
Under her hand
How he kicked off blankets
Even when sleeping

Do his feet now kick
a blanket too heavy to move
Is his forehead cold

He smelled of pine
When she whispered goodbye

******
Sound:singing
smell: heat
taste: shrimp
touch: cold metal
sight: a stereotype
Click to expand...
Turtle Beach, Barbados

Calypso music. Harry Belafonte—how quaint.
The mango shrimp salad
is almost too tasting of sea, salted
in its drizzle of brine. I grasp

a fork chilled just for me,
glance at the shimmer of a girl
who walks her bikini by, hips
winking yes/no/yes/no/yes

and I can even smell the warmth
rising off the sand of this perfect beach.
But Rihanna isn’t here,
and this is no music video.

And if you’re a wronged woman,
in an hour, you’ll be wronger.



Sight: Open space.
Smell: Smoke of some kind.
Sound: Wind.
Taste: Venison, or some other wild meat.
Touch: Leather.
 
Najah's Nightmare

If you were born in a desert then
under a caliph's thumb,
had you not been virginal
you would have starved to death

unless you found a carcass
on the outskirts of the village
where the good brother brought you.
The other wanted death

to save the family's honor.
Still, Abbud would have beaten you
with a stirrup from his saddle
to prove he loved your father

as the acrid animal smoke
from your so-called dinner
wafted to the desert
where Fadil collected stones.


touch: skin
sight: table
smell: bacon
taste: marmalade
sound: radio
 
Sigh: bars
sound: bats
scent: varnish
touch : painful
taste: milk
Click to expand...

Two Week Summer Job

Summer in Fayetteville wasn't
so bad that year,
walking door-to-door and
doing my best to sign folks
up for the special information
service that was nothing
more than a modern way of
saying selling encyclopedias,

The main thing that sticks
in my mind, though, was how
slight the variety in the sprawl
was...trailer park, trailer park,
Pantry, Red Barn, Circle K,
a multitude of little strip malls
that usually had nothing but
pawn shops, bars, and actual
strip clubs sitting in them,

No time off to speak of, though,
which I really only felt on the
day I stopped for a break from
walking my daily trek, (I forgot to
bring my better shoes; toes aching
inside their plastic-and-canvas wraps)
sat and lisstened to the crack of
ball on bat from cages attached to a local
arcade and putting range, the scent
of their varnished surfaces
wafting just barely across the lot
to toy with the taste of my
chocolate milk. Odd, but not
unenjoyable.

~~~~~
sight: wood paneling
sound: distorted music recording
scent: Old Spice (or similar)
touch: faux leather
taste: bleu cheese
 
sight: wood paneling
sound: distorted music recording
scent: Old Spice (or similar)
touch: faux leather
taste: bleu cheese


propped against a bar
knee caressing wood paneling like
secrets sliding over silk
distorted music played in her mind
a record of days when the scent of old spices
teased her nostrils
leather wasn't faux
and he fed her bleu cheese from a silver fork
watching her lips




sight: a yellow combine harvester, working a distant field
sound: madam butterfly
scent: the promise of snow on the air
touch: cinderblock
taste: regret
 
butters said:
sight: a yellow combine harvester, working a distant field
sound: madam butterfly
scent: the promise of snow on the air
touch: cinderblock
taste: regret
Click to expand...

We landed five hours ago,
Greens replaced by white and grey,
Gloves, hats, and scarves.
In place of berets, neckties and bare flesh.
The rough unfinished block walls,
Match the greyness of that bruised sky,
Who's odour presages the deepening of the scene's white coat.
That northern grey is so grey, that it sucks the colour
Out of the brightly warm harvest-time idyll,
depicted in the room's only picture and it's only chrominance,
The radio plays static,
punctuated by some warbling Italian woman proclaiming, 'one fine day'
One fine day indeed, well - that day is not today.
I finger the MRE and wonder what the egg and bacon sandwich within will taste like,
If regret had a taste,
I'm sure that would be it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sight: the Canadian border
sound: a New York accent
scent: a corn field at harvest
touch: a plane ticket
taste: salted peanuts
 
Wintermute01 said:
sight: the Canadian border
sound: a New York accent
scent: a corn field at harvest
touch: a plane ticket
taste: salted peanuts
Click to expand...

Salt Peanuts

Man in the silver suit
says Salt Peanuts Salt Peanuts
waves a stick casts a spell
stomps it off so horns brash
thrust at cymbals rondo
Turk rondo blood pure joy
cacophony rim shot be bop
be bop pure Harlem NYC
but oh St. Joe's and Memphis
too rompin territories hard
by the northmost borders
cold harvest corn yardbird
plucked at midnight no bread
for a skybird but a bus
a battered old truck Fessor
Hawkins All-Stars it's an old
American Song.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

sight: pyramid
sound: laughter
scent: musk
touch: leather
taste: wine
 
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