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The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

Sight:comic book store
Sound:music from any heavy metal band
Scent: pancakes
Taste: orange juice
Touch:soft skin

*Sunday morning*

Metallica plays in the back ground
enter the sand man,
laze in bed, from the kitchen,
smell of fresh pancakes frying

A scent that rouses nostalgia
of a room filled with comics
enough to fill a store,
some dirty magazines
(shhh, mum wasn't supposed to know)
and video games

those times gone now
the simple things
have changed
breakfast in bed,
orange juice,
pancakes,

surrender of
your soft skin

Sight: a wild animal
Sound: lusty talk
Sent: peanuts
Taste: trepidation
Touch: a hard grip
 
She’s Already There

While you eat peanuts
with the alacrity
of a circus elephant
and wonder if she’d kiss
you the pipeline of scotch
supplied by the bartender
has long ago diluted
any trepidation she carried
with her. It’s tucked
safely into her clutch
with her just-in-case condoms
and fuck-me-hard lip gloss.

You assume she’s had too much
when she leans back
and closes her eyes
but without the burden
of light she sees you
delivering on the promise
she applied to her lips
earlier. One hand twisted
in her hair, at once breaking
the gravity of earth
and commitment
while you both reduce
and raise her to a body
designed to erase
conscience and consciousness
of anything beyond
this taste of the tangible.

When she opens her eyes
they are coloured
with a hint of promise
and it’s clear
she’s not had nearly enough.

Sight: menu
Sound: chair scraping the floor
Sent: spices
Taste: lemon
Touch: ice
 
Sight: menu
Sound: chair scraping the floor
Sent: spices
Taste: lemon
Touch: ice

*a la carte*

a menu of enchantment
chair bound, blind folded
I stand over her
shadow casting a phantom
she can sense, but not feel

her body bare before me,
tingling, quivering, I select
my delicacy. the only sound
her panting breath
I leave her suspended

the rattle of ice cubes
she starts, as it drips
coldness, blindness mingle
a keening cry at the icy drop
on her fragile exposure

a shiver as it trickles
from nipple, down
the hill and lost in
the cleft where breast
attaches to body

twisting the knife of
anticipation, I drag her
chair backwards
startled cry garners no attention


gently tug her hair back
tilting it over the chair
a mouthful of
icecold fresh lemonade
trickle it from my mouth to hers
passionately kiss

rise and fall of chest
sweat smells of spices
tounge tastes of lemon
flesh, texture of polished marble
her panting gasps
a smorgasboard of senses

we both
long for her release
but not from the bindings

Sight: Longing glances
Sound: radio sports commentary
Scent: fresh paint
Taste: dirt, or saw dust
Touch: a struck blow
 
todski28 said:
Sight: menu
Sound: chair scraping the floor
Sent: spices
Taste: lemon
Touch: ice

*a la carte*

a menu of enchantment
chair bound, blind folded
I stand over her
shadow casting a phantom
she can sense, but not feel

her body bare before me,
tingling, quivering, I select
my delicacy. the only sound
her panting breath
I leave her suspended

the rattle of ice cubes
she starts, as it drips
coldness, blindness mingle
a keening cry at the icy drop
on her fragile exposure

a shiver as it trickles
from nipple, down
the hill and lost in
the cleft where breast
attaches to body

twisting the knife of
anticipation, I drag her
chair backwards
startled cry garners no attention


gently tug her hair back
tilting it over the chair
a mouthful of
icecold fresh lemonade
trickle it from my mouth to hers
passionately kiss

rise and fall of chest
sweat smells of spices
tounge tastes of lemon
flesh, texture of polished marble
her panting gasps
a smorgasboard of senses

we both
long for her release
but not from the bindings

Sight: Longing glances
Sound: radio sports commentary
Scent: fresh paint
Taste: dirt, or saw dust
Touch: a struck blow
Click to expand...

Grandpa escaped to his shed
whenever possible.
Work worn hands smoothed over
wooden toys he crafted lovingly,
ankle deep in shavings,
where they sat waiting
for their red and blue paint.
Half heard cricket commentary
droned on in the background
as he cast longing glances
at the six packs
he dare not open
for fear of a stinging blow
from Grandma.
"You old fool, remember
your health, do you think
I want to lose you now?"

sight: autumn leaves falling
sound: burglar alarm
scent: Chanel No 5
taste: toothpaste
touch: sticky fingers
 
sight: autumn leaves falling
sound: burglar alarm
scent: Chanel No 5
taste: toothpaste
touch: sticky fingers

*No next time*

what are we doing here?
shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't
help it and now, the alarm
is raised loud, unending,
flee.
a loud crack revebrates
ducking I turn to you
eyes glazed, you fall
with the grace of
autumn leaves
wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't,
and yet you managed to
persuade me, I was
always your pushover
kneeling in tears
fingers sticky with
your life, I gag
on the taste of toothpaste
and the cloying scent
of knock off chanel no5
shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't
Can't anymore

Sight" juggelers
Soud: a monotonous speech
Scent: fresh tea
Taste:Something unexpected (e.g. bottle labelled coke, but lemonade etc)
Touch: ink, or something that leaves fingerprints
 
todski28 said:
sight: autumn leaves falling
sound: burglar alarm
scent: Chanel No 5
taste: toothpaste
touch: sticky fingers

*No next time*

what are we doing here?
shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't
help it and now, the alarm
is raised loud, unending,
flee.
a loud crack revebrates
ducking I turn to you
eyes glazed, you fall
with the grace of
autumn leaves
wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't,
and yet you managed to
persuade me, I was
always your pushover
kneeling in tears
fingers sticky with
your life, I gag
on the taste of toothpaste
and the cloying scent
of knock off chanel no5
shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't
Can't anymore

Sight" juggelers
Soud: a monotonous speech
Scent: fresh tea
Taste:Something unexpected (e.g. bottle labelled coke, but lemonade etc)
Touch: ink, or something that leaves fingerprints
Click to expand...

Squeezing his balls
between my hands
stops him droning on about
an entirely innocent
text conversation.
Already fed up with tea
too strong and sweet,
this was one annoyance
too many. He stays
slumped in his chair,
seemingly uncaring
of spattered bloody
fingerprints on the white
shirt he prizes so much.
I walk away.
still squeezing
and juggling.

sight: Carnival
sound: motorbike
scent: fresh linen
taste: nicotine
touch : a rash
 
Tavern to tavern on a rainy night

sight: Carnival
sound: motorbike
scent: fresh linen
taste: nicotine
touch : a rash

The Pike, 10 PM,
lit in neon that seems to drip
bright colors in the pouring rain,
splashing, running, crazing over concrete.

Outside the bar, Ol' Pan rumbles to life,
echoing in the tourist trap canyons by the sea.
She climbs on behind, leans close, holds tight,
only too willing to trade a ride for a ride.

Fish tail away, "which way?" "Not far."
Fifteen miles later, dry on fresh sheets,
a nicotine kiss examining a tattoo and owie,
fried eggs over fried eggs,
road rash from Atlantic and Pine.

sight: A pole in a topless bar
sound: J. Geils (freezeframe)
scent: a crowd
taste: Disante
touch : fingers
 
Last edited:
Sidewalk Scene

In your take she’s without
eyes. A plastic doll
just flexible enough
to wrap her legs
around a metal pole
but without the ability
to run due to over-inflated
breasts and a lack
of brains. With a crooked
finger she begs you to come
closer for her open mouth
to suck you in and swallow
a stream of lines. The irony
of “freeze frame” leaking
into this decade from a nearby
car radio is lost
on your film-covered eyes
that peer between the slits
of your director’s chair
painted with pigeon crap.

You're reels away
from the reality of a blue-eyed
lady fully dressed and drinking
deeply from her water bottle
while she leans against
a parking meter
on the sidewalk and waves
beyond you
to her kids on the swings.


sight: snow bank
sound: engine
scent: pine
taste: cherry
touch : ice
 
Last edited:
sight: snow bank
sound: engine
scent: pine
taste: cherry
touch : ice

*ice queen*

no matter what
or how I try
you brush me off
with the coldness of ice

no penetrating to your
core, to taste your cherry
your virtue a mounded snow bank
a fortress of fresh pine
siege engines to repel

I never liked the cold anyway

Sight: a gun
sound: train
scent: mould
taste: oranges
touch: your own forehead
 
todski28 said:
Sight: a gun
sound: train
scent: mould
taste: oranges
touch: your own forehead
Click to expand...

just a job

The stone is cold underfoot,
even through my shoes,
the whole church is one huge draft
wafting indiscriminately along my
ankles, wrists, and neck. I slip into
a confessional, taking a moment to
peek under the jacket and make
certain I haven't lost my piece.

I've long since gotten use to its
weight as it hung along my torso,
so much that I tend to feel it
even when I've taken the holster
off for some reason. I pop a piece
of hard candy to avoid smoking--
I actually stopped a while ago,
but you know how nerves can be.

The sweet, but tangy, orange taste
in my mouth helps sooth a throat that
the moldy smell of the abused leather
and carpet in the small booth has been
taunting. A change in lighting tells me
the priest is here, and when he asks
what he can do for me, I tap out a
sign of the Cross against my forehead

"Bless me, Father, for I am about to sin,"
I say before finishing up the evening's
business and heading out the grand foyer
and down the wide, steep steps out front.
Just in time, too, as I can hear the brakes
and whistle of the train arrived to take
me back into obscurity. Until next time, that is.
~~~~~

sight: turtles
sound: laughter
scent: marshmellows
taste: pizza (your choice of type)
touch: scratchy
 
Across the embers
he watches
as she blows
on the accidental
marshmallow torch, groaning
when teeth pull golden skin
between lips and her tongue fails
to catch the melted white
that leaks from the core.

Laughter reminds him
he is only alone in his thoughts
so he mumbles something
about more pizza inside
and needing to feed
the kids’ turtles while pulling
her toward the door confused
since she ate the last slice
of Hawaiian and fed all the pets
this morning but when he turns
the lights off instead of on
as they enter and she feels
weekend stubble graze
her neck with a low growl
she knows
why they have come
inside.



sight: forest
sound: airplane
scent: moss
taste: skin
touch: leaf
 
Only Green

“Green,” she thought
with an air of finality as she gazed
down from the low airplane
hovering noisily above primeval forest.

“Green. Not like the saharan tones
of my arizonian youth
or the raw saggy skin
of the last dismal uncut lover
I had.
Or is it right to say have? --- ”
she asked herself as the plane swung lower
and the tops of the trees rushed up towards her
and she could almost feel their leaves
brushing against her
and she could almost sense the union
of the smell from between her thighs
and that from the moss on the forest floor
and in that final tailspin
as life crashed from within her
she could almost see the flash that
would soon blind her.



sight: smoke
sound: rattle
scent: rose
taste: honey
touch: jelly
 
sight: smoke
sound: rattle
scent: rose
taste: honey
touch: jelly

*Just want a drink*

can see her smoke and mirrors,
as she coyly tries to lie
"I don't have any money
sugar, buy a poor lady a drink?"
but the rattle of deciet
is loud and revebrating
the honeyd tongue of hers
babbles on inanely,
her shit don't smell like roses
though she thinks it does,
and I can see that her thighs
have turned to jelly with
middle age, as they hang
over the barstool,
I would judge her less harsh
if she had a redeeming feature
but even her personality is abrasive

her fuckme eyes and put
on bullshit are an annoyance
I'm here to drink my sorrows
not swallow yours.

sight: drink container
sound: phone ringing
scent: strawberry daquiri
taste: cigar
touch: glasses
 
sight: drink container
sound: phone ringing
scent: strawberry daquiri
taste: cigar
touch: glasses


The Meeting
~~~~~~~~

I sit opposite you,
Wanting you to hear,
To hold you,
To take you back to before.
In this crowded bar,
Cheap, and full of sweat,
The atmosphere foggy
Tasting of cigar smoke.

The bar man, careless,
Leaves your drink and hovers for his tip
Believing surliness worthy of reward.
What the fuck? I pay him off
Handing you the strawberry daiquiri,
Or imitation thereof.
A garish pink facsimile
And memento of your previous taste.

How did you come to this?
Once you were proud,
Smart, clean, cared about yourself.
Now you mix here,
Trading your body for pennies.
I pick up my warm, beer?
It's glass container hard, and dirty,
I pick up the photo of our child, your daughter
And I turn to leave.

Your phone rings and you answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sight: a border crossing
sound: foreign voices
scent: car fumes
taste: stale bread
touch: clenched fingers
 
sight: a border crossing
sound: foreign voices
scent: car fumes
taste: stale bread
touch: clenched fingers

"just another lover"

Climbing in through the window to
give her that extra bit of thrill
incase hubby turns around,
heads back inside.
she likes to flirt with dangerous
men and things.
her dirty thrills are now an obsession

I grab her from behind
gagging her with my hand,
throw her to the bed,
her squeal raw, muffled, tickles
my palm
her heart rate pounding out a
techno beat

she halts my advance at the border
I await as if in a truck stop,
filled with day old bread
I can hear her husbands car start
out the front, fumes rising
through the opened window
she relaxes a little

I tare her underpants with
a single pull
her gasp and musky scent
overpower my senses

time for me to lash her to the bed
with my tongue,
watch her clench the bed sheets
in lust laced fingers
listen to her speak
in broken italian
before slinking away
dirtied, sullied, thrilled
who could do this to one of their brothers?
I'm sure she has many other lovers.

Sight: mist. or sea spray
sound: loud bass
scent: paint fumes
taste: a favourite treat
touch: a wallett
 
Last edited:
Sight: mist. or sea spray
sound: loud bass
scent: paint fumes
taste: a favourite treat
touch: a wallet


The fog so thick on the bayou
feel like water on the skin
casting a lure toward that loud splash
where Mr. Bass eat some critter
tryin to swim across the slough

Then I let it sit
while Mr. Bass finish his breakfast
put the rod down in my fresh painted boat
fumes keeping away the skeeters
have a little breakfast of my own

finaly I give that old Rapalla a twitch
see if Mr. Bass want a biscuit
to go with those frog legs
he do and we at it again but not long

I reel in my slack line
paddle back toward the dock
check my wallet to see if there's enough
for beer and a lure
.....................
Sight: something alarming
sound: loud sax
scent: paint splatters
taste: free
touch: something untouchable
 
Last edited:
Why, I do not know why
the taste of freedom is ever elusive
‘though birds circle in a liberated sky.

why the last notes of a sax float languidly by
and feelings drip derivative
Why, I do not know why.

why mornings are drenched by memories dry
and by the sight of sex abusive
‘though birds circle in a liberated sky.

why our limbs are seldom spry
and the air is often oppressive
Why, I do not know why.

why the splatter of paint voices a distant sigh
and a constant dirge resounds plaintive
‘though birds circle in a liberated sky.

why the touched and the untouched lie
like souls together, primitive
why, I do not know why
‘though birds circle in a liberated sky.

-----
sight: airplane
sound: groan
scent: freshly washed clothes
taste: caviar
touch: calloused hands
 
sight: airplane
sound: groan
scent: freshly washed clothes
taste: caviar
touch: calloused hands

*don't belong here*

standing there, sticking out like
dogs balls large and there,
freshley washed clothes,
pampered pooches all around
my calloused hands rasp
against their dainty unused
wet fishes, I hate that,
a man should be a man
firm grip and eye contact on first meeting.

these simpering fools earn twice
what I make in a year,
who is the real fool here?
yet I resent them for their lack
of masculinity, not what they have
their women trophies, eye me like
a chocie cut of steak amongst the
horror of caviar.

I can practically hear their groans
of lust at a real man, do I indulge
before flying back home,
or do I abstain and tease.
I still gotta do my job,

so back to work, stand there,
look big dumb and intimidating
flirt outrageously with body language
a small smirk at the reactions.

Sight: women in a cocktail dresses
sound: background music
scent: concrete
touch: material (any kind)
taste: cherries
 
Women in dresses swirl around,
music plays in the background.
I don't hear a sound.
Silk brushes my bare legs,
the sway of my gown.
People laugh.
I don't hear a sound.

Her hair is soft
and glows in the faint light.
The scent of wet concrete
permeates the night.
She tastes sweet
like cherries
picked when ripe.
This feels right.

But I don't hear a sound.

Scent: something burning
Sight: flower blossoms
Feel: wet
Hear: vinyl record
Taste: gingerbread cookies
 
Last edited:
Scent: something burning
Sight: flower blossoms
Feel: wet
Hear: vinyl record
Taste: gingerbread cookies

Such a proper house
an elegant foyer, slender legged
writing desk, the Ming vase
the pussy willow tender
and green an empty stage
but for Spring wavering
at a screen, forsythia brushing
insistent fingers, Spring wavering
in me from the gilt mirror,
pupils wide, mouth shocking
bright in the pale face
and the burning inside glowing
on my skin, making me shiver
when the record hisses pops
and flows Vivaldi like a million
blossoms to herald your arrival
all rough hands and urgency
mouth at my neck the storm
breaks and we fall
with the inevitable rain.

Later we share gingerbread
cookies. You teach me
to drive a stick shift.


Scent: coffee
Sight: cityscape
Feel: leather
Hear: singing
Taste: lemon whatever
 
Scent: coffee
sight: cityscape
feel: leather
sound: singing
taste: lemon whatever

I sip my coffee
wrapped tightly in a blanket
looking out over the city.

The wind brush through my hair;
Like the fingers of a lover.

From the car, Porter croons
carried on the wind.
You're singing along.

I use your voice to track you
as you approach from behind.

I can picture you in my mind;
Tousled, stubble, sleepy eyed
Smelling of sleep and sex.

I turn into your arms,
Leather jacket pressing against my face.
You kiss me.
You taste of lemons.

Scent: cinnamon
taste: honey
Sound: Children laughing
sight: forest
smell: forged metal
 
PrincessLeigha said:
Scent: cinnamon
taste: honey
Sound: Children laughing
sight: forest
smell: forged metal
Click to expand...

I think you missed touch so I will use forged metal for that:)

Breakfast in Bed
~~~~~~~~~~

The breakfast smells wake me
The coffee brewing in the pot,
My eggs being scrambled,
The aromas of your soap
And of our recent congress.

That's cinnamon in your coffee.
As distinctive as your footstep,
Or that gasp you yield
As I enter you, initially.
When you are ready and demand me.

The picture you took of the bluebells
In the dappled forest shade,
Hangs framed on the wall.
We crushed a few of those,
On our first time together.

I reach out, and grasp hard cold.
The forged metal bedstead,
To which I was recently tied,
Now provides needed support
For stretching sleepy muscles.

And the morning squeal of our kids!
As they watch mice hurt cats,
While enjoying honey sweet toast,
Lets me know that on this Sunday,
All is right with the world.

Smell: chlorine
Sight: clear water
Touch: ceramic
Hear: muffled human sounds
Taste: citrus
 
Wintermute01 said:
Smell: chlorine
Sight: clear water
Touch: ceramic
Hear: muffled human sounds
Taste: citrus
Click to expand...


the Upside Down - a nod to Houdini

Open eyes to an artificial blue,
though the water stings, the view is clear
Clear down to the bottom.
where the key winks and is not easily retrieved.

With half a breath, I fumble with the fetters.
Only one is unlocked but it is enough to be free.
Water filled ears pop to
her and him speaking in a vacuum,
surface breaks to their delight.

I slip from the pool with chains a-jangle,
jingling, leaving footprints behind on
the smooth tile to sizzle in the sun.

Chlorine is overridden by the drunk
and I drink. Suck her lemon laced kiss
while his is tequila with salt on the rim
of his ear where I exhale, "your turn".



sight: lightening
sound: power lines
taste: rain
smell: rain
touch: mud
 
Last edited:
Neonurotic said:
the Upside Down - a nod to Houdini

sight: lightening
sound: power lines
taste: rain
smell: rain
touch: mud
Click to expand...

Yummy poem and I do admire how you put the triggers together. I haven't had tequila shots in a while... Makes me think my next weekend off will be a little Cabo Wabo time.

The anxious hoppers buzzed
in afternoon heat, harmonic
with the hum of power quenching
the endless thirst of dehumidifiers
in the concrete towers down the line

where cloud-soaked lovers kiss
and taste the salt of rain-
mixed purity on lips and shoulder
slaking the need to swallow

and market garden farmers sniff
the air for rain and ozone as they dig
the last of sweet carrots free
of damp earth and clinging mud

then you turned and I saw the lightening
ladder of a stairway to heaven spark
your blonde hair while off in the distance
lightning sparked brilliance in front
of the congregation of crowded nimbus towers.

sight: iridescent blue
sound: magpies
taste: raspberries
smell: caramel
touch: teddy bear fur
 
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