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The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

Sound: ringing
Sight: blood
Taste: copper
Smell: baked potatoes
Touch: wood

the door slid open
with bearing popping force
crashing into the back stops

the floor is slicked with oil
the smell of baked potatoes, steaks
and frying oils permeates

the cacophony of resistants barks out

FUCK YOU
screamed into my face
we grapple
slipping and sliding

he had no chance
he's too drunk
and inexperienced for this
I maneuver him through the back door
the sounds drop away
cold night air
is brisk
our breath bellowing out
as if we are steam powered

we hit the wooden gate
he struggles free as I unlatch it
swings wide and hard

I taste copper
feel my teeth
rip through my lip

now he is small

the ambulance officers
wipe blood from his head
and take him away

the police reports
all claim self defence
in my favour

I can't remember
where it stopped
because all I could taste
was rage and the sound of
ringing in my ears

sight: something far away
sound: drums
scent: rain
taste: chocolate
touch: concrete
 
sight: something far away
sound: drums
scent: rain
taste: chocolate
touch: concrete



While my legs dangle over the concrete
breakwater dotted with eroded imperfections
one hand trails through the temporary
rain puddles warmed by the sun.

My other hand is covered with chocolate
ice cream that I swish away
in the drumming waves
that climb to a wind-driven crescendo.

I wish I could stay.

Stay until the wind sleeps
and the moon smoothes the lake.
Stay to see which of the distant triangles
sails first into the bay but I must go.

Even at the water’s edge I am only
half-immersed in peace
and the white rabbit and his watch
forever find me to say I must hurry
because I am late for something
even if its just another day.

sight: something frightening
sound: quiet
scent: a kind of perfume or flower
taste: something sweet
touch: something sharp
 
sight: something frightening
sound: quiet
scent: a kind of perfume or flower
taste: something sweet
touch: something sharp

her words were cutting
sliced through with bladed precision
you're nothing she
spat

his aura rose his spine clicked
a centipede scurrying
in for the attack
his fist struck with a loud clack
her face collapsed
before swelling
she lay unconscious
silent
her defiance left ringing out

he stormed away grabbed
another beer
came back
screamed at her

"you see what you made me do
huh, always so fucking lippy
aren't you woman"

3am, she wakes my brother and I
ahh, shh, ahhh
she hushes
I can smell her perfume
something that nostalgia only has a name for

she hugs us tight and gets us into the car
handsfull of clothes
he wakes
screaming violence
unintelligible

we cry as he tries to rip open the door and take us
she slides in stealthy as an alley cat
hits him twice
in the side
the blade was only short
but it was enough
we roared away

later eating service station
lollies
we become the road
hard and winding off
into the distance

sound: a beat that makes you move
scent: insect repellant
sight: an old lover
touch: something comforting
taste: sweet
 
Clandestine Glastonbury

I’d made a list weeks before,
sunscreen,
insect repellent,
toilet paper,
rubber boots
(in case of rain and
the inevitable gluey mud.)
For comfort I packed my own pillow.

The car, a vintage beetle,
only broke down once
and, at a turn in the road we
could hear the first of the
thumping beat and my
heart picked up speed.

The sweet scent of the
new mown grass still lingered
soon to be replaced by Sweet
Mary Jane. As soon as I could
I held you to me, my lover of
years ago here to relive our
meeting, away from wife,
husband or child.

sound: Bach's piano concerto in D
scent: diesel
sight: a sunset
touch: warm stone
taste: fried onions
 
sound: a beat that makes you move
scent: insect repellant
sight: an old lover
touch: something comforting
taste: sweet

Some Other Fourth Of July

Remember that night we danced
to Trane's Favorite Things?
It's not easy what with notes sliding
into unexpected corners. We weren't
dancing anyway, but standing,
swaying and laughing
on each other's mouths talking
about jazz and dharma bums,
how everything good-- music, sex,
poetry is free, all the best things
free and we didn't need fireworks
because we were two hot sparklers
headed for bed, the blue comforter
we'd tangle and kick to the floor,
the comfort of limbs, hips, swirling
engines of our endeavor. Ka-boom.

These days I sit on the porch
in our once companionable chairs,
citronella candle alight, thinking
maybe if I look hard enough
I'll see you in the gloaming,
the shadows of your long arms,
your distinctive walk. I'd know you
again, the sweetness of your lips,
my dear lover my best friend,

but only the stars come out
now and sometimes the moon.




sound: moth wings
scent: sweat
sight: something you hate
touch: something you love
taste: cola
 
Last edited:
sound: moth wings
scent: sweat
sight: something you hate
touch: something you love
taste: cola


Inside
the windows fog
and empty rooms feel crowded
with the uninvited guests
of humid air and sweat who push
me outside to sit on the bottom
step of the porch sipping cola.

I am never sure
if I like the sweetness
or just the burn.

Outside
the summer night is draped
in gloom as the moon arrives
with the dying of the light
illuminating silent bat wings
chasing the futile
flutter of moths.

Bare thighs stick to the painted stairs
but remain still to avoid splinters
from the aged wood. There is peace
in knowing
we all bleed and comfort
in thinking we decide when.

The darkness inside and out exists
to remind us
that sweetness is often followed
by the burn
and any place that hides
is full of hunters.

sound: scraping
scent: something faint
sight: something moving
touch: stone
taste: anything light
 
sound: scraping
scent: something faint
sight: something moving
touch: stone
taste: anything light

sound: Bach's piano concerto in D
scent: diesel
sight: a sunset
touch: warm stone
taste: fried onions

Tempus fugit

The phonograph gives a faint hiss
as the penny stacked needle scrapes
deeper into the vinyl, but it doesn't
matter as I'm lost in the machinations
of Glen's impossibly long fingers in their
frenzied movement across the keys
as D slides to A, then back again
but always minor.
A sip of vino verde washes away
the last of my onion ring indulgence
although a faint aroma of petrol remains
but that is minor.
Outside, geckos press against the stone
wall still warm as the red sun sets and
the evening's first bats flit across the
horizon. A most picturesque scene
although lonely without you
but that is minor.

sound: robin at 5:00 am
scent: lingering aroma of sex
sight: rain against a window pane
touch: fingers lightly cupping a naked breast
taste: morning mouth
 
sound: robin at 5:00 am
scent: lingering aroma of sex
sight: rain against a window pane
touch: fingers lightly cupping a naked breast
taste: morning mouth


Robin sings at dawn
to the pit-pat rhythm of rain
pinging against glass
beginning to glow with a grey sun

He reaches for me again
long slender fingers teasing
a nipple still aching
from fevered nips and pinches
just a few hours before

My smell still lingers
on his hand
the scent of us hangs in the air

A gentle insistence parts my thighs
as he slips inside
my lips resist
sharing the mingled taste of morning
and him
in a waking kiss


sound: scraping
scent: liquor
sight: someone giving in to temptation
touch: leather
taste: dark, bitter chocolate
 
Playtime

sound: scraping
scent: liquor
sight: someone giving in to temptation
touch: leather
taste: dark, bitter chocolate
Click to expand...

Her body gently rocks the table
upon the wooden floor, but I only hear
the scraping of flesh as it rubs
back and forth against
the leather bindings around her
slender wrists, subtle little ankles,
and shapely, enticing, hips--I
almost could see myself being brought
from spectator to participant,
lowering my mouth to indulge lips
and tongue in the their desire to
feast on the sweet taste gone sour
of dark chocolate bar allowed to melt
in the ever active heat between her legs,
I bring my snifter up and let the
cloying scent of my evening's aperitif
distract me from such active thoughts.
Time enough for that later,
when she is brought to her limit
and beyond.



:cool:
sight: convertible
sound: accordion
scent: something pleasant
taste: something unexpected
touch: something unwanted
 
Last edited:
sight: convertible
sound: accordion
scent: something pleasant
taste: something unexpected
touch: something unwanted

It's Just Not Done

I hear them long before I see them
their voices rising. Floating dialogue balloons
that pop, spraying poison words into the mouths
and faces of unsuspecting commuters
waiting for the L. I look over the edge
of the platform to the parking lot below and see a grey couple
in a convertible only they could afford, failing
to suppress forty years of irritation.

She is playing the map
in her hands like an accordion
that releases its paper notes
of annoyance. Occasionally she hits
him like he’s a high hat in her solo.

He’s had enough, climbs
toward the trains. Neither of them sees
the lilacs, the bees, the sun, that life might be easier
alone.

She throws her instrument and pride into the backseat, realizing
he’s getting away. They snipe
until they are level
with the afternoon crowd
and instantly dry swallow mutual disgust
and smile. The only sign of animosity
is a slight stiffening
of his spine when she takes his arm.

Two small movements
that say it all.


sight: laundry hanging outside
sound: voices
scent: something natural
taste: water
touch: something sharp
 
Last edited:
sight: laundry hanging outside
sound: voices
scent: something natural
taste: water
touch: something sharp


clothes on the line
spin slow and ponderous
a horizontal windmill of colour
casting 40 degree shadows
that squeak repetitive squeaks
in dry unoiled revolutions

the lawn is blackened dust
that puffs up crumbled grass
beneath the feet
wooden steps creak beneath the weight
settling into them
the back door grinds open
squawking discontent protesting in swollen-slides
as if melted sagging in to the possibility of cool

muffled voices
cast 40 degree verbiage
as the air conditioner stutters and dies
with a hiss
all the light cut off

we are now in the stone age

the sound of fists on flesh
pound out a meat tenderizers thwack
thwack
thwack

followed by feral growls
of rage
passion
I don't know these things
too young to comprehend anything
more than the sweat trickling
cold down my spine
knowing that if I'm heard
those fists
will visit me next

I sit in the shower
cold water pours over my
naked trembling body
I
slide the razors edge
on the inside of my thigh

it bleeds 40 degrees
swirling down the drain
It feels safe to scream silent rage in blood
when my voice is clogged with unshed tears

Sight- a carnival
sound- a familiar voice
scent- metal
touch- something hard
taste- cigarette
 
Sight- a carnival
sound- a familiar voice
scent- metal
touch- something hard
taste- cigarette

On the Carousel

A poster for a long gone carnival cartwheels
through the empty street. From the bus stop
bench I can see faces of clowns
trying to escape from the crumpled paper
bringing me back to melting candy
cigarettes on my tongue. Our so cool
strut interrupted by the shout
of a barker to either pay again
or get out the haunted house. I remember

running until fear dissolved into giggles
that made me lose my balance
my bare knees hitting the sidewalk.

I remember swiping my finger
into the blood, smelling iron
before I sucked it off
but as the bus pulls in front of me
I grab my umbrella and laptop bag
and once forget
when all of life’s problems
were simple
and solved with a little spit.


Sight- rocks
sound- something alive
scent- something strong
touch- something wet
taste- fruit
 
Sight- rocks
sound- something alive
scent- something strong
touch- something wet
taste- fruit[/QUOTE]

We ski along the pinnacles shadowfingering Quesnel
until we stop for apples. You cough. We bend.
Fleece wicks air pantiless confessions.

Your brown arms stab new ice,
and I follow.

You called last week. I will call tomorrow.


sight: a laughing dog
sound: hurdy gurdy man
scent: rainbarrel
touch: paint chip
taste: something warm
 
Last edited:
cherries_on_snow said:
sight: a laughing dog
sound: hurdy gurdy man
scent: rainbarrel
touch: paint chip
taste: something warm
Click to expand...


Twilight in Suburbia

Shake is laughing, showing teeth
as dogs will, his tail going
like a three-speed fan and I run
after him because he steals tomatoes
from my garden. The rainbarrel
smells like autumn, wet leaves
and decay, the scent of change.

I have paint chips in my pocket
to show you, pastels for a baby's room,
but you don't care. You never do
if it's my idea. The ice cream truck
sounds like a calliope coming
to our block, like a hurdy gurdy man
coming, like a circus I would run away
and join if I could. Later

I sip hot chocolate. It's sweet
and warm, but not enough
to melt the ice inside me.


sight: someone you love
sound: bells
scent: oranges
touch: something dry
taste: chocolate
 
Angeline said:
sight: someone you love
sound: bells
scent: oranges
touch: something dry
taste: chocolate
Click to expand...
Rock and Roll

When the truth is found to be lies
And all the joy within you dies
—Darby Slick

St. Catherine's was tolling early mass
as we lounged around in our underwear,
the coffee growing cold, the newspaper
strewn around the room as if we expected
an invasion of parakeets infesting
the house. You poured a bit more juice
into your Mimosa and the scent
promptly sat me down in that Costa Mesa
condominium where the pool always
needed cleaning and my skin always felt
like Death Valley in July. But you brought
me back to Seattle with that last truffle,
the one you saved from last night,
the one with a little lavender in it,
and now in the background Grace is singing
Don't you want somebody to love, don't you
Need somebody to love, wouldn't you
Love somebody to love, you better
Find somebody to love
And I do and I do and oh, yes and I have.

Sight: Open country
Sound: Insects
Scent: Burned vegetation
Taste: Cheap whiskey
Touch: Sweat-stained leather
 
Sight open country
Sound insects
Scent burned vegetation
Taste cheap whiskey
Touch sweat stained leather


Lord, Give Me a Sign

Lil stood on a street named CICADA
at the intersection of OAK,
some founding father’s idea of a joke,
that hadn’t any to shade her baby
in a dust bowl town along the way
coming up short of LA
in the seventeenth year of the cicada.

You can hear them when the sun goes down
and the bikers put on their Harley jackets,
pile out of a diner called “EATS”
where they like onions burnt in their beef,
before they get on their sweat-stained seats
to ride to the desert to hear the males
scrape their staccato come hither sound.

“You’re father, Sean, showed me was Adam
who gave the apple to Eve
after a night of cheap tequila
when he dared me to swallow the snake
all the way down to the bottom,”
she said to her son on the wrong side of town
where there was a “WAITRESS WANTED”
in a diner known only as “EATS”



Sight mountaintops or skyscrapers
Sound any appliance
Scent moldy closet, barn, or cellar
Taste Jasmine tea
Touch pinching a candle flame out
 
Last edited:
greenmountaineer said:
Sight mountaintops or skyscrapers
Sound any appliance
Scent moldy closet, barn, or cellar
Taste Jasmine tea
Touch pinching a candle flame out
Click to expand...
New Apartment in Seattle

Our dishwasher sounds like a skyscraper,
A building in which Less is More,
Dictated by Modernist architects.
Some mountaintops are our top floor.

The closets are moldy and way too small.
They smell of the damp and the sea.
They're lit just by candles. Ouch! Pinching out
Flames—how we brew Jasmine tea.

Yea, we are the Fortunate. We have homes,
They're expensive, and tall—but they're ours.
The Homeless are strangers, and dangerous.
We'll remember them in our memoirs.

Sight: Some kind of roadway.
Sound: Birds or internal combustion engines.
Scent: Something artificial: William's 'Lectric Shave, Chanel No. 5, fresh asphalt, etc.
Taste: Your soda of choice.
Touch: Denim. Especially, though optionally, really tight denim around someone's thigh. :rolleyes:
 
Tzara said:
Sight: Some kind of roadway.
Sound: Birds or internal combustion engines.
Scent: Something artificial: William's 'Lectric Shave, Chanel No. 5, fresh asphalt, etc.
Taste: Your soda of choice.
Touch: Denim. Especially, though optionally, really tight denim around someone's thigh. :rolleyes:
Click to expand...

Where the Hell is Milo?

We don't need us no goldarn GPS.
I have a map of Maine and you have eyes
to travel off the pre-marked path, oh yes
and this road isn't shown. It's a surprise.
Two lanes and green encroaching on each side,
no traffic here but us: no cars are seen.
Do you, my dearest, yet regret this ride?
Look what approaches from the walls of green--
a wild throng of turkeys, feathers fluffed
come gobbling, a'pecking at some chaff
while inside the fake pine scent's getting snuffed
by comic smoke we toked (drink Coke then laugh),
your hands rubbing my denim covered thighs.
They gone?, I ask, for all I see are skies.



Sight: hearse
Sound: something that pops
Scent: exhaust
Taste: booze of your choice
Touch: hand
 
Last edited:
Skipping down the open lanes of youth
without a care, make no bones about it
nearing the hearse end
brings trials never imagined.
The exhaust from travelling too fast
through youth fills the nostrils
and chokes the very soul.
Freeing the champagne cork
of congratulations echoes futilely
back down through the years.

You see my pain,
reach to touch my hand
and I cry.

Sight: birds bathing
Sound: distant laughter
Scent: cooking
Taste: marzipan
Touch: goosebumps
 
Sight: birds bathing
Sound: distant laughter
Scent: cooking
Taste: marzipan
Touch: goosebumps

A Change in Climate

It’s your vacation home on the ocean
you bemoan the loss of and the porch
where you no longer grill your supper
or host the occasional party
with finger foods and marzipan.

Why even seagulls don’t come
to eat the food scraps left, or drink
from rain pools not there anymore,
since the ocean wears away the sand
and foundation that gives you goosebumps:
to think you’ll have to spend all day
every summer in the city.

Meanwhile half a world away,
Trie^`u takes his family
by foot on the Ho Chi Minh trail
and prays there is a factory
because where once his grandfather fished
as did his father before, there isn’t
a village to fish from
since his house isn't there anymore.

In the night distant laughter grates
like French nails on a blackboard
from your closest neighbors, the Barringtons
who don’t invite you to their parties
on their pile driven deck next door.

Could it be you’re not High Anglican?
The clothes you wear, perhaps the car?
Maybe you shop the wrong store?
Or could it be the highbrow look
Evelyn gave you on the 4th
in a lapse of memory when you swore?

Sight: boat
Sound: worn out brakes on a car
Scent: Old Spice after shave
Taste: pizza
Touch: leather upholstery
 
Last edited:
Sight: boat
Sound: worn out brakes on a car
Scent: Old Spice after shave
Taste: pizza
Touch: leather upholstery

Bench Seat

When we pull into the parking lot
the brakes complain
with the rest of his car.
Vents fail to lower temperatures
but instead mate
borrowed Obsession with Old Spice.

In the window I look into my own eyes
not ready
to see
what’s in yours.

Lights from the ferry cut the night
and outline leather seats
still
warm
from the sun but warmer still
from bare thighs just below
jean shorts. One final drink
to wash the taste
of pizza and cherry gloss
from my lips
before I feel
a universal tug.

Unchecked.

We meet
in the middle
skin to skin
ready
to wear darkness.

Sight: bridge
Sound: moving paper
Scent: bakery
Taste: something unexpected
Touch: metal
 
Sight: bridge
Sound: moving paper
Scent: bakery
Taste: something unexpected
Touch: metal



you ruined my life
I complain light heartedly
biting into what was supposed to be
a pepper steak pie

the paper ruffles as she slides out
a chocolate eclaire
a small dob of cream
drips onto her chest

with the ceremony of a cave man
I lunge across the metal table
the heat of my breath tingles
her flesh
as I lap up that stolen drop
of decadence

she giggles and shoves my head away
complaining
so I take her fingers in my
mouth

later as day breaks
her chest pressed to the window
the sun watches us
as it passes over the
bridge and into night
I wave and think see you in 12 hours
then take back the moment at hand

sight- moon
sound- car on gravel
scent- a lovers clothing
taste- something cold
touch- coarse
 
todski28 said:
sight- moon
sound- car on gravel
scent- a lovers clothing
taste- something cold
touch- coarse
Click to expand...

Old Orchard Beach

$10 Parking is free
late at night when the moon
breaks through fog that hangs.
We crunch right in and the LeBaron,
renamed the Love Baron, sinks
and wheezes to a halt. We scuttle
out toward the clouds. The wind
rages and the ocean answers
with thunder.

The boardwalk is shuttered,
wheels hushed, rides dark.
We shiver on the sand, laughing
and running away from the fizz.
This is the best time with no one
but the moon to see the dumb
show of our love, the freedom
and the folly of it, two old fools
on the beach kissing, talking
with our hands like we do.

The scent of patchouli mixed
with your skin still rises
from your jacket on damp days
like these. Sometimes I feel
your bristly unshaved face
so close to mine. Sometimes.

Mikey gave us french fries
for nothing just because the hour
was late, closing time. We doused
them in salt and vinegar ayuh,
sat eatin 'um in the Love Baron.
They were cold but everything is
in Maine soon enough.

~


sight- wildflowers
sound- crying
scent- thyme
taste- you choose
touch- something oily
 
Angeline said:
sight- wildflowers
sound- crying
scent- thyme
taste- you choose
touch- something oily
Click to expand...
Weighing the Heart

Ancient Egyptians used thyme for embalming.
Linda used to rub it along my brow
as a kind of blessing

until I told her I smelled like
a lemon tree whose fruit had not been picked,
fruit that was dying,

nearly rotting on the limbs. I was angry
when I said it and it made her cry, silently,
her body shaking like a ridge

along a slip fault dropping into itself.
Here at altitude, looking across
a meadow spiked with lupine,

blue and white and violet, I hear the sobs—
little racking coughs of sorrow,
now my own distress, my own despair.

I stare at the mountain. Cradle the pistol
slick with its sheen of fresh oil,
wonder how bitter the gunpowder will taste.


Sight: open road
Sound: tinny music, as from a 1960s transistor radio
Smell: bubble gum
Taste: either cigarettes or cheap liquor or both
Touch: felt or taffeta or nubbly wool
 
Tzara said:
Sight: open road
Sound: tinny music, as from a 1960s transistor radio
Smell: bubble gum
Taste: either cigarettes or cheap liquor or both
Touch: felt or taffeta or nubbly wool
Click to expand...

Seaside Park

Anticipation is sand spied roadside,
but the rest is pine trees, black
ribbons spooling into Tom's River
where the backup crawls and fills
the car with scent: Bazooka Bubbles, sweat
and Ambush perfume. It's not till past
that rickety bay bridge that surf roars
and bells ring, sausage fries.

On the beach everyone has a radio.
I'm A Girl Watcher vies with Dancin
In the Street. Debbie glistens
with mercurochrome and baby oil,
but I have Coppertone to sizzle
and tan till dark when I'll lose a dare,

French kiss Gino who runs the Swiss Bob
and has the breath of death: booze
and Lucky Strikes, but later I win big
felt-covered dice when the wheel
hits 16. Maybe this is how it feels
to be a woman.






Sight: some piece of furniture
Sound: any specific song
Smell: fried food
Taste: cola (in whatever form you choose)
Touch: something forbidden
 
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