The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

Angeline said:

I like the way our two poems for complement each other.

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As do I. Yours is particularly lovely, and I enjoyed seeing where those same senses took you.




Because my post created a new page, I wanted to put Remec's word list here for convenience.

Remec said:

~~~~~
sight: parade
sound: Irish (either words or accent)
scent: cinnamon
touch: cold
taste: vodka

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Clancy's Wake

He said to have a parade,
but we're staring at his face, Lads,
laid out on the coffin table
as Mary serves us tea.

The wives put cinnamon in it,
although their cups grow cold
as they keen with their rosary beads
until one notices Mary's lace doilies.

It's enough for me to take my tea
into the kitchen where Jesus,
Mary, and Joseph!
Lieberman's smoking a clay pipe.

"Though I swore to Christ no more potatoes,
I'll drink them from your bottle, Ben,
so let's raise a glass for John Clancy
and hope to hell he's in heaven."



sight: rain puddles slick with oil
sound: door opening or closing
scent: dumpster trash
touch: something hot
taste: something tart

sight: rain puddles slick with oil
sound: door opening or closing
scent: dumpster trash
touch: something hot
taste: something tart

The rain pools in puddles
and the asphalt bleeds rainbows
as hinetitama raises the
dumpster lid she calls home
sodden to the core, her skin
pale as a cadaver
she shakes, her cough hacks
and barks
tart taste of blood mingles with
the felafel she had gorged down when a drunk
last night had tossed it in
the heat of her own vomit
almost welcome
as her life runs down her cheeks
but in all the rain
you would never know
that once she had had a home, a family
but here hurt less

clenching her teeth so hard they ground together
she crawls down with the cockroaches
who were less dirty than he
and tries to sleep

Sight: a kite flying
sound: ducks
scent: grass
taste: spice
touch: gloves

Must Live

Sight: a kite flying
sound: ducks
scent: grass
taste: spice
touch: gloves

What do you see with your eyes?
When you look upon the world
And cast your gaze to the sky

Do you see a flying kite in the winds?
Soaring and dancing to the heavens
On the wings of dreams carried by angels

Or do you see it crashing in dismay?
Colliding upon the ground to its bitter end
Because you’re too afraid to fly with the wind

Do you hear the ducks singing you praises?
“Quacking” their songs as if a chant and rhyme
That spring has finally come home to hold you safe

Or do you hear the misery of their tune?
Cast in the deadly avian flu tainting the world of man
To rest upon your shoulders to take you to the promise land

Do you smell the aroma of the grass and roses?
In the spring, in the sun and in the rain
The fragrance of the sweet smells of spring

Or do you smell the seaweed of your soul?
Drowning in the rains gasping for its last breathe
Clinging to the heady scent of your bitter sorrow

Do you taste the spice of life?
The salty sweet remembrances
Of the first slice of fresh baked apple pie

Or do you taste the rotten flesh
Corroding on your lips from deaths begotten kiss
In the desolate tomb of your blistering heart

Or do you chance to live true and free?
To touch upon the world blessed gifts of love
Wrap yourself in gleeful and loving things

Or do you wrap yourself in pain?
Coveted and sanctified in your loathing self
Bound in your white glove of shame

We paint our pictures and tell our tales
We live our life’s bound in memories
Tainted pains and happy joys

But is we who make the stories
It is we who must lie in the bed of
What the future may hold

Paint your picture well my friend
For it is you who must live.


Sight: forest trees
Sound: crashing waves
Scent: thyme and roses
Taste: charcoal
Touch: Ashes

Sinseria said:

Sight: forest trees
Sound: crashing waves
Scent: thyme and roses
Taste: charcoal
Touch: Ashes

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This is no day for ashes,
not even yours. Your grit lives
in me now and washes in
and out of my coastline.

I am eroded and rebuilt,
having crashed and stood,
having put a toe back in
and learned to walk again.

Dreaming, all I want to see
are pines ragged green,
weathered among the rocks
that stumble to the shore

and that unending drifting blue,
the air faint floral, the last roses
of autumn, crisply citrus as if
we still had thyme.

Those were the best days--
sizzle on the grill, smoke
on the tongue, buoys floating
under a matte gray sky.


Sight: island
Sound: hammering
Scent: anything salty
Taste: a leaf
Touch: silk

Sight: island
Sound: hammering
Scent: anything salty
Taste: a leaf
Touch: silk

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Caribbean Dream

You would think we'd have seen it
as it crested the horizon
before us, but that must have happened
during the night;
dawn had risen and shown us
a familiar, but not terribly, silhouette that
grew into forests, and beaches,
a singular pier jutting out
like an extended hand
welcoming us.

I sat on a deck chair and breathed
the salty mist, pausing in savoring it
to spit a few stray tobacco leaves
that had escaped the end of
the unfiltered Camel I'd told
Robert I would have in his honor on
finally making my way
to the place we'd dreamed of
for so long.

The sound of nails being pounded
floated to where we were mooring
the ship, making me wonder as I
drew the silky sails down for
storage whether we were already
having to make repairs, or if Helen
was still expanding from cabana
to actual dwelling.

~~~~~


sight: Daylight
sound: chanting
scent: children
touch: lips
taste: rainwater

sight: Daylight
sound: chanting
scent: children
touch: lips
taste: rainwater

Light rises from the East
welcomed by children's chant
dark clouds loom to South
promising precious rainfall
open mouth receives love's kiss

sight: lone pine
sound: drone of bagpipe
scent: new mown hay
touch: rasp of stubble
taste: pickled beet

sight: lone pine
sound: drone of bagpipe
scent: new mown hay
touch: rasp of stubble
taste: pickled beet

Aroused by the drone of bagpipes
I took the sassy lass behind the lone pine
Her tresses the scent of new mown hay
The feel of her quim divine
as we pushed and pulled away
Her gasp of blissful trouble
my morning glory spent
under the rasp of stubble
Her cries were heaven sent
kilt above her rounded seat
licked my lips of her
faintly like a pickled beet


sight: glittering jewel
sound: rush of wind
scent: sickly sweet
touch: pebbled
taste: copper

WarriorPoetDom said:

sight: glittering jewel
sound: rush of wind
scent: sickly sweet
touch: pebbled
taste: copper

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Black Hole


Once she stood
A glittering jewel
Shimmering in the sunlight
With sacred golden hues

Time ensued secrets
Festering upon her lips
Soured to taste as copper
Dipped in acid to corrode

Beaten on a pebbled path
As daggers on the road
Tearing flesh and vein
To find an empty soul

The scent of her blood
Sickly sweet
As of dying roses
Bound in the mist winter

To hear her now
As akin to
A rush of wind
Howling in a black hole



sight: Time
sound: chimes and bells
scent: melted wax
touch: a needle
taste: sin hehehehe

Sinseria said:

Black Hole

sight: Time
sound: chimes and bells
scent: melted wax
touch: a needle
taste: sin hehehehe

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Morpheus Met

Still, in the draperied chapel;
the clangor of midnight bells
drifted; muted, and soft;
like the light of each votive
prayer beside the font, flickering,
and heavy with the scent
of their burning. The hour shuttered
forward; as if a time lapse slide
show of her life ticked past;
backward from now, slipping
through sorrow, and regret to linger
at the moment of her birth; only
to exponentially fall through fact;
struggling, and writhing past
the puncturing hurt of a dose
to oblivion delivered with compassion.
The light of ages gone before,
intensified until she took a bite
of Eve's apple and tasted
the flavour of lost innocence.

sight: flow
sound: water fall
scent: honeycomb
touch: wet
taste: walnuts

Natures Loving Embrace

champagne1982 said:

Morpheus Met

sight: flow
sound: water fall
scent: honeycomb
touch: wet
taste: walnuts

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Natures Loving Embrace


When the river
In all its glory
Calls you home

And you are
Nothing more than a lost child
Upon the bridge of time

As you stand in recollection
To childhood dreams of innocence
In a life you once knew

Taken into a realm of memories
Scented of sweet honeycombs
Lingering in the moistened air
Seeping and coursing in your mind
Flavored and stilled upon your lips
With the salted taste of walnuts
In the whims of remembrance
Of your lost forest home

Watching the raging rivers bellow
Flows rushing of power and fascination
Swirling as electric veins of icy current
Uncontrollable to the mortal man
Bound to natures tempered womb

Whilst you close your eyes
Lulled in a trance of time
Of childhood innocence lost

As you hear life’s longing call
Bound in the crashing waves
Whispering from the waterfall
As a voice deep and sublime
Raging in passions
Surging from the rapids
And the crashing of your mind
As it beckons for you
And only you

“Come play with me
Let my icy wet water
Warm and cleanse your flesh
Let me drown your pain
Within my womb
Be one with me
Free of sin and shame
Come home with me”

Tempted in fate
The water calls your name
Welcomed and accepted
In natures loving embrace





Sight - lightening
Sound - thunder
Scent - blueberries
Touch - dream
Taste - corruption

Sinseria said:

Sight - lightening
Sound - thunder
Scent - blueberries
Touch - dream
Taste - corruption

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Prez creeps in crepe-soled shoes and
touches walls to make sure he's there

inside his oxford grey striped suit
and not lost in another dream some

where else instead: a room, a nurse,
four blueberries in a fruit cup, time

on his hands. Where are his people?
Thunder cracks, the midnight sky above

52nd Street zigzags in a yellow flash,
parts the night beyond the neon buzz.

He swallows his corruption. Hennessey
and milk (a little satin, a little silk).

The walls rise too high: brick, steel,
glass, the city's ever changing eye.

Sight - pavement
Sound - wheeze
Scent - something sour
Touch - something soft
Taste - something sweet

Sight - pavement
Sound - wheeze
Scent - something sour
Touch - something soft
Taste - something sweet

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Falling Down

Never happened before,
Not that I recalled at any rate,
but I will admit to not having
asked anyone who might know,

My mother or Aunt Hazel, or even
my first cousin, Janet, who most of
us call JJ, who shared an apt with me
for many months while we both

were heavily invested in using grad
school to avoid anything remotely like
Real Life (duhduhduhhh!) but one moment
I was walking down Central, even on the

sidewalk, like I should be doing, and the
next there was this wheezy sort of sound
and the pavement as I crossed Main
jumped up and smacked the crap out of me.

I woke to a god-awful stench, that
so-sour-you-wonder-who-can-bear-it smell
of a freshly applied perm. then a quick gasping
"He's awake!" followed by my face being

pressed against the softest human pillows I
would ever have hoped to encounter, which
was interrupted by a hoarse "Let him breathe, already!
Geezus!" I smiled against someone's chest.

Mama always had my best interests, and the softness
raised up off my face and was replaced by a different
sort against my lips as a mouth and tongue enticed me
into coming back fully to life. Hmm, but that was sweet.
~~~~~


sight: flags
sound: a speech
scent: sweat
touch: newsprint
taste: blood

Forgotten to Love

Remec said:

sight: flags
sound: a speech
scent: sweat
touch: newsprint
taste: blood

Click to expand...

Forgotten to Love


She lays down her soul
And a copy of the mornings newspaper
On the alter to the gods
Weary, worn fouled with the stench of sweat
As if from the life of hard work
The labor of love

Ears of the masses open to hear
As the man of god begins his speech
Inflamed with passions of sin
Read as if by the lips of god himself
Dripping as the blood of Christ from his lips
And devoured by the masses as if grapes sweetened to taste
Each word engraved with a sting across their flesh
As if newsprint typed in brail from some archaic device
While he reads your crimes and sins from his fingertips trailing your life
Then he continues as with passages and scriptures from the good book

“Love thy brother, thy sister, thy friend and foe, thy saint and sinner”

She lays down her white flag upon her mislead soul
Crinkled, torn and the edges fraying as if made from sheered polyester fabric
Ripped and shredded from edge to edge
While she wonders if he truly knows the words he spews
How they fall upon deaf ears
As the world has forgotten to believe
And the dead no longer care
While her tears fall like devil's rain
As the cover page of the newspaper reads
As if gifts of the human race
Another devilish deed
Another war
Another mass murder
Crimes against humanity
And every god known since
As another child lies dead
And yet she wonders if there is anyone left to care
As we are all the condemned
In a world that has forgotten to love thy fellow man




sight: rain
sound: sea
scent: lavender
touch: steal
taste: gravel

sight: rain
sound: sea
scent: lavender
touch: steal
taste: gravel


Decaying of Yesterdays



Walked the world today
Entrancing luscious scents
Carried in the winds from afar
Perfumed of lavender stilled in the air

I opened the doors of my soul
Felt the sun wake my mind
Caressed in its rays of intensity
As its warmth to weave
The parting of reality

Exposed my darkened heart
As if to dry the timid tears
Falling in disgrace
In sheets of flurried rain

To the wrath of a mortal’s will
Shrieking into an endless sea
Roaring in its rage
Crying out in its misery

Sheered in its complacence
As daggers to my stolen destiny
Purifying my bleeding flesh
Stealing with tempered kisses
To mend an empty soul of death

Poisoned to taste
As the gravel upon my lips
Laced as candied blood
Salivating in its tears
To the decaying of yesterdays



sight: birds of prey
sound: ripples
scent: cinnamon
touch: sheets
taste: pears

sight: birds of prey
sound: ripples
scent: cinnamon
touch: sheets
taste: pears


Dream of Acadia

On the late mailboat to Isle au Haut
the bay ripples and slaps a gentle tune
as if to accompany the last rays of light
through gloomy skies, as if fingers reach
for the darkening swells.

We dock surrounded by pines,
giant spruce, granite outcroppings.
Far off we spot a fish eagle: an osprey
with its giant wingspan dives quicksilver,
hungry and dead on accurate.

Our cottage feels slightly damp,
salt in the air, grit underfoot
on warped floors, but our bedsheets
are crisp, the quilts warm. We sweeten
the night with after dinner kisses,
lips sticky with pear juice, buttery
and scented with cinnamon toast.

sight: gas station
sound: vending machine
scent: perfume
touch: something hot
taste: something cold

Angeline said:

sight: birds of prey
sound: ripples
scent: cinnamon
touch: sheets
taste: pears


Dream of Acadia

<some beautiful words by Angeline>

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sight: gas station
sound: vending machine
scent: perfume
touch: something hot
taste: something cold

Rough Winter In Alberta


The grimy pumps sit like beacons
for the highway hypnotised
as they zoom along looking for fuel
for their cars, for their brains.
Caffeine to burn its way
into their guts warming and waking
road weary slaves to the machinery
of Detroit and Japan. They zoom
by with the taste of gasoline fumes
cold in the boreal winter. How could
something so frozen burn like that?

Meanwhile, cheap, faux fur "Real
Housewives of the Tar Sands" rush
through the blowing ice crystals
to stand in front of the restroom
mirror and put on lip gloss, fluff
their three hundred dollar hairdos
and steep in the funk of sewer
gases and Vera Wang. She walks

determined to pass by that lit up
monster offering Doritos and colourful
Smarties and damns that inner
voice that makes her push a toonie
in and get nothing but empty
calories in return. It's rough living
when her man is out of work
and she's gotta work twice as hard
to keep up phony appearances.

sight: waves
sound: tires popping on gravel
scent: poenies
touch: talcum powder
taste: apple sauce

champagne1982 said:

sight: waves
sound: tires popping on gravel
scent: poenies
touch: talcum powder
taste: apple sauce

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(PSST HECKA HELLA HARD WORDS heheh just so you know! kk thanks!!



Texture of Life

Built my soul of steel
From the rubble of stones
A cobblestone blanket
Of talcum powder
To enshroud my heart

Raced the night
In lies of a happy ride
Swerving on graveled roads
To the BANG of popping tires
Resonating with the smoke and debris
Trailing in the midnight air
As an anvil to my beaten soul

Covered the crack on the windshield
Tempered to the flying stones
To hide the shattering veins of shame
With some ancient scratch n sniff sticker
Man made mechanical scents of peonies
Mildewed with age
As a self made mask
To the aroma of my broken ways

Watched the sea of people
The waves of lost souls
On the side roads of my life
Counting down my damnation
As if some ancient memory
Carving my pain
To the gods unknown

Candied my soured soul
To flavor my life lies
Laced my lips with applesauce
A sweetened tang of cinnamon and spice
To hide the texture of life


sight: clouds
sound: drums
scent: poppie seeds
touch: beaded
taste: promise

Grasshopper Fistagon

A cloud of scattered frames cross the new intruder
who should have never ventured through their field
Tiny hooks cling to foreign fabric as their numb
and lifeless minds drift farther from their fallen friends

A wicked, dripping smile breaks across their face as their eyes find the sun
and lungs fill with icy vapor pulled between the sleet and sleep in their new home

sight: fireworks
sound: people
scent: baked potatoes
touch: stinging
taste: makeup

sight: fireworks
sound: people
scent: baked potatoes
touch: stinging
taste: makeup

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Cast Party

The girl was cute in
that clueless ingenue sort of
way as she sidled up
to me and whispered over the
din of the crowded party,
"Your eyeliner is running."

I laughed and leaned in to give
her a hug and kiss on the cheek,
I had considered kissing her lips
but I didn't think we were close
enough for that sort of spontaneity.
"Thanks, I should fix it."

She offered to help and we slipped
into the nearest bathroom and I
had a seat while she repaired my eyes
and I tried to enjoy the taste of her cheek
but all I had on my tongue was what
remained of her foundation.

While I let her work, my eyes wandered--
or, rather, found themselves focused on
the way her nipples were doing their best
to either burst through her blouse or lend
themselves to letting her cleavage escape
into the freedom of recycled apt air and
the pull of gravity upon such lovely
grapefruits--earning me such a stinging
slap across my face.
"Whacha lookin' at? Huh? Geez..."

I got up and slipped away even as her
rant grew louder and more wide-ranging,
those were not the sort of fireworks I
had planned on seeing that night, but
I had to be content in settling by the
outside barbecue pit, sipping on a lukewarm
beer and savoring the smell of the
foil-wrapped potatoes as they neared
completion.
~~~~~


sight: ID card of some kind
sound: foreign language rock
scent: flowers
touch: terrycloth
taste: soap of some sort

Remec said:

sight: ID card of some kind
sound: foreign language rock
scent: flowers
touch: terrycloth
taste: soap of some sort

Click to expand...

Here for the Beat


She flashed her card at the door
Some pristine picture perfect ID
From the school down the street

Some catholic school girl on retreat
Squealing to the sounds of blasphemy
Ripping from the guitar
Some foreign language of rock
As liquid fire to her feminine wilds

They didn’t see no ID
Just some outstretched terry cloth cleavage
Poking through the leather tidings
Dressed like some hooker on heels
Lookin for a score

No flower scented rosaries
Or honey suckle flavored fucking soap
Was going to save her soul
She was here for the beat



sight: tumble weeds
sound: hymns
scent: water lilies
touch: deception
taste: fire

Sings in the Shower

Weather-worn and silver-plated
steps slide slowly in each other
Frigid digits touch a wooden rail

Starlight knives brought down to size
A crescent moon is waiting on the floor

Particular clicks finish setting in motion
the stairs that are seats, the legs that are couches
the beds that are graves, and the words that are air

sight: grapes
sound: jazz
scent: absinthe
touch: warm
taste: steak

DromeidaonLeah said:

Weather-worn and silver-plated
steps slide slowly in each other
Frigid digits touch a wooden rail

Starlight knives brought down to size
A crescent moon is waiting on the floor

Particular clicks finish setting in motion
the stairs that are seats, the legs that are couches
the beds that are graves, and the words that are air

sight: grapes
sound: jazz
scent: absinthe
touch: warm
taste: steak

Click to expand...

The point of this thread is to use the words for senses in the poem above you. Metaphors are fine but readers should be able to make the connection. If you read through the poems in the thread, you can see how it's done.

sight: grapes
sound: jazz
scent: absinthe
touch: warm
taste: steak

Click to expand...

Sous la Terre

A relaxed evening out,
shadowed table in an already
dimmed room, savoring a
barely past rare steak and
chilling to the sound of
recordings of Miles and
Charlie Parker while waiting
for the local guys to get
their set ready.
Waiter drops by to leave a
fresh drink and I can smell the
aroma of Green Fairy upon
their serving tray and apron
from an earlier mishap at the bar.
It tempts me, but not enough to
abandon my usual course of
screwdrivers and fuzzy navels,
I just eat and drink and occasionally
snuggle more into the side
of the warm body next to me.
I could use a smoke, though.
~~~~~


sight: tears
sound: scraping
scent: bodywash
touch: something spongy
taste: vinegar

Bro, You Need To Mow Your Yard Bro

sight: a kite flying
sound: ducks
scent: grass
taste: spice
touch: gloves

It used to be when we were young that nothing ever rhymed
The seasons flowed without a thought and fitting followed footprints
meant that falling farther than our feet was always fine

Your vag is too sandy, your face is too mean, your problems are always a bore
You spend all your time killing ducks with the lawnmower in between
trips getting five-finger discounts on poorly protected but deftly selected
perfume from the edge of the case on your way out the door

If you gave half a fuck, I wouldn't think twice of the price that you paid for my braces
It wouldn't be nice to request your advice on my life when your knights are in all the wrong places

taste: clean
sight: bubbles
sound: silence
touch: slippery
scent: apples