The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

sight - traffic
sound - hiss of a espresso machine
taste - salted caramel
touch - fur
smell - coffee

Is there a more pungent aroma
than the waft of arabica
in the air
lick my lips to take the last ganules of
salt that contrasts the sweetest caramel
traffic signals click red
lights highlight and
blind momentarily

the fur of her scarf ties tight
she hisses the hiss of a delonghi
her face reddens
from the windows im sure it looks like murder

the only thing I kill is her ability
to walk straight.

Sight: gloss sheen
Sound: text message beep
scent: perfume or aftershave
touch: writing implement
Taste: sauce

todski28 said:

Sight: gloss sheen
Sound: text message beep
scent: perfume or aftershave
touch: writing implement
Taste: sauce

Click to expand...

Little Wing is stubborn
as a morning glory bound
by glossy kudzu: it still
lifts a purple face
beyond the green vine.

Wing blinks at the world too,
natural and undaunted
by buzz or beep of our great
big beautiful tomorrow.

Adaptation is survival.

Oh she still wears the beach
in her perfume and late at night
sniffs your pillow for the lingering
scent of patchouli skin, dreams
the taste of you still on her lips.

Adaptation is survival:
keyboard taps over fountain pens,
words that don't bleed into yesterday
or chase the tales of tomorrow.

Little Wing is trying right now.



Sight: weather (you choose)
Sound: yawn
scent: gasoline/petrol
touch: leaf
Taste: citrus

Sight: weather (you choose)
Sound: yawn
scent: gasoline/petrol
touch: leaf
Taste: citrus
_____________


she leafs through their memories -
still dawns and storm-lit skies
faultless blues that yawn
endless invitation to fall
up into forever
beyond the pall of petroleum
that ugly buzz of industrialised man

in her eyes
the deep ripeness of blackberries
skin re-calling
the hot ghost of his touch
and on her lips
ah
yes
his citrus kiss



ok, maybe i cheated a little with 'sound' and stretched 'touch' but *shrugs*

Sight: pink sand
Sound: reversing beeps of a lorry
scent: loam
touch: splintered wood
Taste: chestnut mushrooms

Sight: pink sand
Sound: reversing beeps of a lorry
scent: loam
touch: splintered wood
Taste: chestnut mushrooms

Click to expand...

Taking a break


Afternoon lunch was late,
bordering on tea,
and his reading of travel
brochures kept being
interrupted
waitress with his burger,
lorry in the loading zone
outside his window seat,
alarm bleating through the glass
as it backed into place,
he sighed and put aside
images of pink sands
to take a bite and try to visualize
medium-well hamburger,
even though all he could taste
was the fancy chopped
chestnut mushrooms the
would-be gourmet used.
They still smelled of the
loam from which they were
plucked.
~~~~~



sight:bats
scent:sawdust
sound:carpentry
touch:sweatpant material
taste:candlewax

I cheated a little on "sauce." Any writer who claims to never cheat (or steal), even a little, is a cheater AND a liar!

rem - you missed 'splintered wood' but did great with the rest which were stinkers

angie - uhuh

sight:bats
scent:sawdust
sound:carpentry
touch:sweatpant material
taste:candlewax

another cycle round the sun
that cynical circle of balding hair, aching muscles
and the remnants of wax on a cake too laden with sugar to be anything
except an indulgence

the saws whine has become
a sonic echo locator
to find my way to the worksite half dead from lack of sleep
like a bat finding food,
inhale the particles that dance in the sunshine
rich wood, lacquered
in arduous labours
splintered reality

I long for the simpler days
when we could sleep in till 10am
on the weekends,
the familiar comfort of sweat pants
popcorn, movies
the way clothes had a habit of slipping off
your arms laced round my neck
and I could indulge
in the sweet, ripe fruits
of a labour more intense
than 20 hours on a saw.

through the dust that swirls in the air
the planer whines a last buzz
I heft the lumber
shaped with care
screw it in

smile an empty smile
to the paying client
and
weary as a mange riddled dog not long for the world
I fall into the van and drive toward the hills

Sight: flying insect or insects
sound: river
scent: water
taste: milk
touch: wet

Angeline said:

I cheated a little on "sauce." Any writer who claims to never cheat (or steal), even a little, is a cheater AND a liar!

Click to expand...

I never cheat, steal or lie........
I'm a perfect saint I tells ya.........

Sight: flying insect or insects
sound: river
scent: water
taste: milk
touch: wet




Removed




Sight: clothes on the line
sound: barking
scent: honeysuckle
taste: berry
touch: smooth wood

Trixareforkids said:

Sight: clothes on the line
sound: barking
scent: honeysuckle
taste: berry
touch: smooth wood

Click to expand...

Wheels
rust
squeaky
on Second
Avenue. High lines
wear socks. Below, barkers sell fish--
street cats creep. Honeysuckle thrives
in Jersey where sweet
blueberries
droop from
smooth
wood.

Sight: neon sign
sound: siren
scent: sex
taste: your choice
touch: metal bars

The Note Left on the Dresser

A neon sign bleeds $39 and up

but it's down
if it's just for an hour
and music's the sound
of the desk clerk,
playing spoons
to the harmony of
a squad car two blocks down.

She can taste you,
you better not her,
but you can have her
panties to smell
for 10 more bucks an hour.

Dear John,

When did fuck
no longer mean love?

Jessica


sight: chimney
sound: bus accelerating
scent: dead leaves
taste: coffee
touch: doorknob

Sight: neon sign
sound: siren
scent: sex
taste: your choice
touch: metal bars

Click to expand...

Firebombing

The glass crunches
beneath my feet; a small,
constant counterpoint to the
steady scream of late-comers
bringing flashing red and blue to
the blinking white of still working
strobes and the steady,
mesmerizing, glow of neon on the
wall behind what remains of
the bar.

Moving to the back, I find
that smoke, charcoal, and retardant
foam have made little headway
against the usual scents. There's
stale mint, incense, and that lingering
aroma of blended tobacco mingled
with less legal inhalants, but nothing
overshadows the sex--semen, sweat,
and small smears and drips where a
"dancer" really got into what she
was doing.

I run a hand along the surprisingly cold
metal rod that locks the emergency exit
in place and then push open the door,
sunlight blinding even in its indirectness,
and I pop an Altoid to clear my mouth
and my brain and sigh.
~~~~~


sight: blacksmith's forge
scent: fresh seafood
sound: popping
taste: sugar (not sweet, actual sugar)
touch: grime


Ah, green moutaineer slipped in while I was writing,
their list is:

sight: chimney
sound: bus accelerating
scent: dead leaves
taste: coffee
touch: doorknob

Feel free to choose from either

sight: blacksmith's forge
scent: fresh seafood
sound: popping
taste: sugar (not sweet, actual sugar)
touch: grime


Ah, green moutaineer slipped in while I was writing,
their list is:

sight: chimney
sound: bus accelerating
scent: dead leaves
taste: coffee
touch: doorknob

"Poverty and Wharf living"

Down goes the last mouthful of tepid coffe
not stirred properly the sugar granule slurry slides
down the mugs edge and crunches
its textured sweet to hide the dash of bourbon
Three day growth rasps beneath
blackened fingernails, stain splattered clothes
Hang like limp wall paper that melted in summer
caring is for those rich enough to feel shame

the grimy door knob slips from my grip
twice before the door creaks open
to 4am's lack of light
Autumn smells of mulch and leave littered fall
as chill air playfully licks at my long coat
before seeping into popping joints
that arthritis ache that makes age seem
like hell

Stilted steps beat their ungainly rhythm
as envious thoughts blare bloody murder
at the smoke curling lazily from next doors chimney

the damn fucking ache, as if a black smith has set up
shop right there in my fucking knee, using my cartilage
as his damned fucking anvil, the sea air
wafts on the breeze
I shuffle along hunched
bent by decisions that left me here
rotting in my flesh

If time was a person then 4am would be
the lonliest person on the planet
A shiver shudders up my spine
as the walk begins
wharfies fling their nights catch
from boat to dock
fresh fish

Headlines read
man pulled from River
no known family or relatives
have come forward

a bus accelerates away from the news stand
in a cloud of diesel, and the bustle of human traffic
continues on, uncaring

The last caption
of 4am

Sight: fog
Sound: back ground noise
scent: wet fur
touch: skin
Taste: dissapoinment

todski28 said:

If time was a person then 4am would be
the loneliest person on the planet

Click to expand...

Damn that is a great line

todski28 said:

"Poverty and Wharf living"

Down goes the last mouthful of tepid coffee
..............

Headlines read
Unknown man pulled from
River
no known family or relatives
have come forward

The last caption
of 4am

Click to expand...

Great poem, tod. A comment intended to be thought provoking if you do something more with it: I think the last couplet makes a great title and by removing it, I think the stanza above it is even more powerful.

Sight: fog
Sound: back ground noise
scent: wet fur
touch: skin
Taste: dissapoinment



Removed




Sight: marble stairs
Sound: humming
Scent: lemon
Touch: damp fabric
Taste: something burnt

Sight: marble stairs
Sound: humming
Scent: lemon
Touch: damp fabric
Taste: something burnt
*

The constant hum of the vaccume
as room by room she works
small damp patches appear under each arm pit
lemon pinesol
shoes squeek on the marble stairs
as she heads for room
1318

slipping inside quiet as a flower
blooms, cheeks flushed
the lock tumbler clicks home
a crimson red blush
she slinks into the shower
clothes drop to the floor
unceremoniously
taps turned to cleansing hot
the water caress every inch of skin
hands pressed to the glass
eyes closed

a cough startles her
she turns hands immediately
try to cover three areas at the same time

Her breath doubles
as she reaches for a towel
he glides over
eyes locked to hers
drowning her in their fierce heat

she can taste the burning of
embarrassment in her throat
and the clenched thrill of being caught
the air is starting to fill with swirls of steam
he cuts through the steam like an apparition
of carnal instincts
his hand is huge as it clasps her wrist
in that contrast of gentle yet commanding

what have we here he smirks
his voice
is pure aphrodisiac
He can see the heart beat pulse
its double time in the vulnerable flesh
on her neck

He is so close
so large

he chuckles again
breathing in her scent and whispers
I'll be in the bedroom if you wish to
delve into those desires I see pounding
against your skin
turns and walks out

Sight: someones back
sound: breathing
scent: soap
taste: mint
touch: a belt

todski28 said:

<snip>
he chuckles again
breathing in her scent and whispers
I'll be in the bedroom if you wish to
delve into those desires I see pounding
against your skin
turns and walks out

Sight: someones back
sound: breathing
scent: soap
taste: mint
touch: a belt

Click to expand...

Room 1318 Redux

The water trickled to a stop, he watched
the mirror and saw droplets trailing down
her back, tawny as a lioness, muscles moving
as she flexed to blot the water off her hip.

His sharp intake of breath flooded
his nostrils with the scent of luxury;
peppermint infused toiletries in small
bottles and bars arranged so carefully

How unexpected that she came closer,
leaving the towel behind, her embarrassment
forgotten in the bathroom along
with her uniform. Her pelvis thrust forward
as she slipped elegantly naked to the bed

He moved to stand there, unfastening
his belt to slowly pull it free of the loops
at his waist. She watched, silently,
until he leaned down to lick the hot mint
flavour off the frantic pulse at her throat.

He heard her gasp and quickening breath,
imagined how sexual the folded leather
of his belt will feel as he kisses her buttocks
in a totally different way than his lips
nibble her spine at the back of her neck.

Sight: red
sound: crack
scent: coconut
taste: blood
touch: heat

Sight: someones back
sound: breathing
scent: soap
taste: mint
touch: a belt

Click to expand...

Break in the Routine

He paused, thumb rubbing
its pad against the
slightly sweaty leather of
his favorite belt as it
dangled from his
fist

The wait was mere moments,
as he took stock,
savoring the minty taste of
his favorite liquer,
taking in the freshly soaped
smell of her hair, and
listening to her
breathe as he leaned
over her body, hands following
the track of his eyes
up her back, admiring the
rope-work and thinking he
needed to learn to wrap
and tie that himself.

~~~~~



sight: playground
sound: explosion
scent: crowd at an event
taste: something unexpected
touch: extra-soft fur

sight: playground
sound: explosion
scent: crowd at an event
taste: something unexpected
touch: extra-soft fur

Click to expand...

Knees in the dirt I drag the swing
no grass just dusty flat expanse
merry go round or monkey bar

to bar to bike I had a rock a red
roll of caps: Smash..Bang..Crack
tiny explosions flashing at my feet

while up above my head a falling
pink and popping green ooh ah
the best seen drop slow and curve

like failing stars far from the sweat
of crowds a taste of sugar sweetened
lips, hold on my lucky bunny foot.



sight: paint
sound: shout
scent: rain
taste: licorice (in any form)
touch: mouth

sight: paint
sound:
scent: rain
taste: licorice (in any form)
touch: mouth


Flaking shards of shattered dreams
fall like autmns dead leaves
they told me closure would heal
the place you tore my innocence away


Where your mouth ran like two slugs
with spiders legs
the licorice bribes you used
to silence my fear
it makes me gag now
as it did then

this place smells like rotted dreams
tortured sceams that went unanswered
my tears smell like rain
and I still blame myself
closure is a lie
so I drink another draught
hug myself
to try and hold whats left
together

Sight: turbulent water
sound: happy laughter
scent: pine
taste: kiss
Touch: hug

todski28 said:

Sight: turbulent water
sound: happy laughter
scent: pine
taste: kiss
Touch: hug

Click to expand...

North of north
you said, and the Atlantic is angry
at the shoreline; it slaps the rocks
so hard a rage of sea reaches gray
fingered. North of north

snug in a cabin safe from the howl
but salty even in the warm laughing
spoken in our own peculiar song,
which is a symphony of bad jokes,
pop culture and poems neverending,

I thought. Who might guess otherwise
in the nest of your arms and the soft
quiver of your lips, all worshiped
in my quiet way but loud enough
for even the pines to green in at us.




Sight: interior of a bar or club
sound: music (be specific)
scent: caramel
taste: rum
Touch: dancers

todski28 said:

sight: paint
sound:
scent: rain
taste: licorice (in any form)
touch: mouth

Click to expand...

Angeline beat me to it, but here's mine:


Those days when you come
storming into my mind
disturbing my atmosphere
your memory spins over me
like a hurricane

The first winds bring
the scent of you
gentle musk
with a hint of pine

Tempestuous tears
flow like rain and swirl
with the taste of your
memorized lips
before I find my calm
in the twinkle of your playful eyes
alive in that photograph
of your arms wrapped around me

Echoes of your laughter
like a warm breeze
tickle my ears
and the whole of you
floods through me

As the waters rise
for a moment I am yours
and you are mine
and again I find it
hard to believe
how the years have gone by
since you gave your ashes
to the sea

Angeline said:

Sight: interior of a bar or club
sound: music (be specific)
scent: caramel
taste: rum
Touch: dancers

Click to expand...

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

6-24

Sight: interior of a bar or club
sound: music (be specific)
scent: caramel
taste: rum
Touch: dancers

Click to expand...

Backstage

"Places! Places, people!"

I murmur into her ear
while pressing myself,
firmly and repeatedly,
into other parts of her,
biting my lip at the way
she feels around me,
dancer's legs enveloping my
waist,
"Was that for you?"

Then the music starts,
a slow and steady drumroll
followed by a sudden burst
from the brass line and the
trill of woodwinds leading into
a pulsing--get your blood and
heart racing, foot tapping,
and body wriggling--beat that
began the floor show.

"No, not really, I'm just in the
chorus for this number."

I nod, and bend my mouth from
ear whispering to neck biting, the
warm scent of burned sugar mingling
in my head and making her skin
taste like rum...a nice, dark rum to
match the shade of her tan...then
finding her mouth and kissing her
deeply enjoying her as much as I
ever did.

Even if I only got to see the joint
en route to the dressing rooms, I
loved coming. Nightclubs are great.

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