The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Angeline]

Sight: toes
Sound: ocean
Scent: fish
Taste: salt
Feel: anything but a beach


November in Maine is far too cold
to play footsie or even expose my toes
in strappy sandals, but I've done it
for you and painted my nails dark red
for later when I'll run a wanton foot

oh anywhere you'd like but now
I'll just tease you, let my shoe slip
off the heel and dangle a smooth leg
where you can see it.

Yes, Southwest Harbor is chilly outside,
but it's steamy in the lobster shack,
redolent of haddock stew, fried clams
and beer. The bay is slapping the docks,
sending foamy spray up the sidings:
the Atlantic is singing its winter song.

I wipe a dribble of butter from your chin
slip a finger in your mouth for you to lick
that rich salty slick off my skin, an act
we'll improvise on later in our cozy blue bed,
wrapped silky in arms, legs and quilts.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sight: a mountain
Sound: an animal (be specific)
Scent: scented candle (name the scent)
Taste: apples
Touch: mattress

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Sight: a mountain
Sound: an animal (be specific)
Scent: scented candle (name the scent)
Taste: apples
Touch: mattress

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

Mount. Rush. More

Not yet,
as we climb the back of those beasts
sturdy and elegant, them and you
myself accepts a hand to get on top.

Not yet,
as I'm welcomed by its neighing
and a doubtful look.
Is it the show you make
eating an apple like...?
Oh, that lucky Black Beauty
getting fed the core!

Not yet,
passing by history unchanged and your
"Boy, you got some booty today."
Laughter and four statesmanly looks,
"I always knew you're into brunettes."

Not yet,
when the saddle-clothes become our bed
and the tiny tent turns into a rose garden
sent from the lonely candle light.

Not yet,
my hands next to yours
on the thick cotton fabric
and the flame starts to flicker
in your laboured breath.

Now,
that the light has gone
and you misjugded our position,
ran your finger through my lips,
I can still taste the fruit you shared.
In this moment
at the monument
I hereby declare
"I love you more."

##########

sight: a wig
sound: Jazz
scent: cigars
taste: wine
touch: linen

 

[Winter_Fare]

sight: a wig
sound: Jazz
scent: cigars
taste: wine
touch: linen

_____________________

She is
Red wine
A sip
Heavy enough to turn your lip
South
Sour snap on the tip
Of your tongue

Softens the edge of it
Numbs the salt of it
Bitter

Rolling her shoulders
She sighs

- I hate jazz.

Slap bass
Her wig tilts in the haze of
Smoke and mirrors

- Are you drunk?

He is
Vermouth
Nonchalant cigar
Between crocodile teeth
Smiling smooth
Lingering

Hand upon hand upon hard-on
Touching under the table

Under the linen napkin
Stained


_____________________

sight: reflection
sound: running water
scent: wet paint
taste: blood
touch: cold metal

 

[29wordsforsnow]

sight: reflection
sound: running water
scent: wet paint
taste: blood
touch: cold metal

: : : : :

The key to this house -
once alive with love and laughter -
ice-covered like my forgotten heart
slips inside harshly,
while November rain
runs on
runs down
runs away
the drainspout gushing,
unlocking the door with its window
that caught a ghost of a man
in restless shades of grey.

Disturbed by a warm spot of orange
in the upper left corner
and the new sensation
of crying wet paint
finds a new home
up my nostrils
running along
running upstairs
running to a stop
in the middle of my life
tousled and spotty
her T-Shirt says
'Those aren't my eyes,'
her skew-whiff smile, 'Umm,'
and, finally, her ruby mouth
"I'm back."

I can still taste the spot
where my lips exploded
kissed, licked, bitten,
womanhandled
for hours.

: : : : :

sight: red
sound: metal
scent: smoke
taste: candy
touch: soft

 

[Piscator]

sight: red
sound: metal
scent: smoke
taste: can
touch: soft

Fumbling in the Dark

Alone together
in the dim amber light
behind the locked door
heavy metal cranked
to the max, your
hair smells of smoke.

Your velvet cock
pulses in my
mouth and your
cum tastes sweeter
than maple syrup.

sight: power lines on snowy ridge
sound: trees creaking in the wind
scent: ozone
taste: cough lozenge
touch: cold hands on naked back

_____________________________________________________
I doubled up on this in writing live to give the thread a bump

 

[Winter_Fare]

Ten days too late

Twenty-five miles
From the rangers shack
A frozen forest
On a railway track
His leg is broken
And there's no way back

Moaning softly
Looking for his pack
Wind picks up
And the woods moan back
Pack your compass?
Extra snack?

There is nothing to eat but strepsils and beer
There is nothing to smell but ozone and fear

Winter's kiss
On his neck so soft
Too damn hot
So the coat comes off
Breath like mist
As he cries and coughs

Hands so cold
On his naked back
His heart beats double
And his voice is cracked
Ten full days
Till the train comes back

Winter's mercy
The air smells sweet
Hands stop shaking
Dead white feet
Where is the maker
He hopes to meet?

The shadows of pylons that groan as they grow
From the tear in his eye to the ridge in the west
There is nothing to see but the sun on the snow
In the land that he loved that has laid him to rest


sight: people dancing
sound: traffic
scent: hairspray
taste: fruit
touch: flocked paper

 

[todski28]

sight: people dancing
sound: traffic
scent: hairspray
taste: fruit
touch: flocked paper


They look as if they feel like
flocked paper in the strobe light
a flicker of pattern pressed
onto everyone’s disapproval

she’s wearing macrame as a necklace
hairspray coiled like a snake ready to
sink venomous lust into her next victim….

She stares up at me
pouted blow job lips
pupils black as full moons
I want to taste her cunt
because I’m sure it’ll taste of peach
ripe with a little fuzz and all the juice

our shadows dance on the wall
the arch of her spine
a bridge
hair cracks in my balled fist
the knots of her necklace
bounce against her breasts

later we’re crumpled paper
on dirty sheets
rush of traffic
steam of cheap coffee
scattered scraps of wrappers
half a dozen used condoms
all I want is to kiss her
run my fingers down the small of her back
pull her to me tight
not let go

but she’s an enigma
and I’m simply earth and blood
and bone

Taste: umami
Sight: something wavering
Sound: a new song that you like
touch: something sensual
Scent: something that makes you feel

 

[Lyricalli]

Taste: umami
Sight: something wavering
Sound: a new song that you like
touch: something sensual
Scent: something that makes you feel



I dream the smell of you
earthy, saline
musk of hard work
wake to the shadows shifting
along the walls
alone in damp sheets
where night sweats bear your name
there's a chill when covers are tossed back
that puckers my nipples
raises gooseflesh from head to toe
my fingers trailing over textured skin
in a sleepy meditation
the temptation to press play
again
on the melody I had on repeat
until I could sleep
that I love because it makes me cry
and hate that I can't share with you
your name on the tip of my tongue
a savory concoction of tears
sweat
and lust licked from my fingertips


Taste: favorite dessert
Sight: flowering tree
Sound: some sort of hum
touch: gritty
Scent: paint

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Taste: favorite dessert
Sight: flowering tree
Sound: some sort of hum
touch: gritty
Scent: paint
...

On a day that promised more than sweat,
'Make it simple,' she had said.
One pleasure for each of us,
vanilla ice cream was a must.
Beneath the aging cherry trees
full of pink and buzzy bees,
time was running as the frozen milk
over hills and vall's made of skinny silk.
Starting from her signalizing lips,
a spoonful rivulet by her hips
welcomed by my hungry tongue,
gritty with cold. 'Oh, so wrong!'
greeting each taste bud
hitting her sweet nub
pinkness surfaced and got caught
A Mid-alphabet Letter on Maude.
A hint of raspberry watercolor lingering,
midday's sun combing her hair gingering
as I held her face.
A kiss at the finish of April's race.

...
Scent: salt
Sight: sky
Sound: whistling
Taste: a vegetable
Touch: cold

 

[Remec]

Scent: salt
Sight: sky
Sound: whistling
Taste: a vegetable
Touch: cold

Almost a Getaway Weekend

The morning is brisk,
even if the sky is bleak--
nothing but dark purple-black
clouds like someone had bruised
the heavens, and tried to hide it
with dirty cotton wadding--
but I settle my plate on the sidetable
between the two chairs on
the simple balcony outside the
sliding glass doors that were most
of one wall in the dining room,
no big meal,
just a snack,
peanut butter on celery sticks,
nice and chilled-straight from the fridge-
the call of my morning tea makes me
run in for a sec, then I am back in the doorway,
breathing in the fresh ocean air,
that slightly salty breeze that always seems to
waft by this time of the day,
I wish you'd been able to get off work, though.


.....
sight: breakfast
scent: fresh flowers
sound: a foreign language
taste: alcohol
touch: regret

 

[Angeline]

Scent: salt
Sight: sky
Sound: whistling
Taste: a vegetable
Touch: cold

Salt drifts with the air on this rocky beach
Salt tickles noses; it brightens the eye
Chill wind rushes in and plucks at our speech
Birds caw and whistle, diving from the sky
And blue? My God it's like layers of paint
Made nature from Art just like trompe-l'œil,
As if Bramante were Maine's patron saint,
Tricking skies into believing they're real.
We'll feast at a fish shack, eat boiled corn
And flaky fried haddock washed down with beer,
Watch the day gray till we hear a foghorn
Bidding skiffs and sailboats dock by the pier.
Halcyon days long gone, days spent with you
Living now in recall, heart floating. Blue.
********

Sight: green
Sound: musical instrument
Scent: alcohol
Taste: something metallic
Touch: warm skin

 

[Piscator]

Sight: green - breakfast
Sound: musical instrument - foreign language
Scent: alcohol - fresh flowers
Taste: something metallic - alcohol
Touch: warm skin - regret

Sodade

Green eggs and ham, somehow the colour
offset the frisson from disobeying Mosaic Law
and I never knew how you coloured the eggs.
Ceasaria Evora plays in the background,
her plaintive voice rising over the guitar and
drums, mirroring our yearning
for our long-lost land.

We sit on the balcony sipping Chablis,
debating if the metallic note is a taste or
scent, like the smell of jasmine back
home and your frigid fingers
nestle in my warm hand.

Sight: sun breaking through clouds
Sound: wind
Scent: approaching rain
Taste: ginger
Touch: dog’s belly

 

[Angeline]

Sight: sun breaking through clouds
Sound: wind
Scent: approaching rain
Taste: ginger
Touch: dog’s belly

Shakespeare

No. He's not who you think.
Here's a hint: he races
down streets headed for the lake,
all goofy leaps, ears lopsided,
bounce bounce, his mouth open,
tongue lolling.

Oh pure joy I name thee dog
running free, dog escaped
trailing leash while nimbus clouds loom
grey clotted, storm blowing shrieks of wind
through branches and heavy, humid air
scents late summer, first fat drops
splashing the road~

"Damnit Shakespeare hold up! "

And he does because he made it
to the bank of fragrant Cedar Lake
and he loves me.

We're both panting and wet
and I need to convince him,
my furry, giant beloved baby
to just come home, wait for the sun
to come back out, wait

so I can dry us off,
drink hot ginger tea,
scratch his soft belly.
**********


Sight: ants
Sound: crunch
Scent: something smoky
Taste: something sweet
Feel: something fuzzy

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Sight: ants
Sound: crunch
Scent: something smoky
Taste: something sweet
Feel: something fuzzy

...

Today the anteater's lunch
made some noticeable crunch
ransacking Big Joe's Ant Farm Outlet
the annual insurance pay Joe won't get
his latest idea of selling bee products too
was the reason the beast didn't even chew
not one grilled insect went to waste
such was the sugary barbeque taste
even the last one on the worn doormat
full of lints it almost spat.

"Joe, I do understand
why after ten years you couldn't hire
any insurance agent to pay for fire
but a life assurance for each ant?
While there's pawprints in the sand,
don't get me wrong, but you're pegged
as I don't see any dead six-legged.

"Umm, Joe, the match is still in your shaky hand."

...

Sight: broken glass
Scent: peaches
Sound: none
Taste: horrible
Touch: gooey

 

[todski28]

Sight: broken glass
Scent: peaches
Sound: none
Taste: horrible
Touch: gooey

I’ve always wondered why
violence tastes like ashtrays
crumbling cigarettes,
the flaky grey-white-black of smokers left overs

The sound of glass like
bells played by tinkerbelle gone rogue
as each scrape and tinkle is met with a silence as red as my eye
as swollen as Jim’s head
as black as Dave’s balls

The sweet scent of peach schnapps lingers on my polo shirt
its collar torn
and stretched
I’m nursing a pint that consists of
3quarters quaevo and a quarter air

Jason was sitting there blinking in slow motion, his normal hyperactive demeanour crushed under the weight
of the hell we just waded through

I poke at the torn flesh in my arm
pulling out a couple shattered shards or someone else’s bottle
the suction of flesh on glass is gooey
makes
my stomach churn
like bad butter

For a victory drink
we were sullen and brooding
because the only win we had
Was that none of us were dead
I chuckle into my alcoholic
delirium

Tell Jim he looks like he growing
a tumour that looks like his mother in law from the side of his fucking head

make some joke about Dave blocking low kicks with his ball-bag
smear blood on Jason’s face because he got out unscathed.

and wondered why all my weekends weren’t this much fun

Later my breath ragged in my lungs
Ashleigh stargazing at the ceiling
ropes of cum drying on her tits
snuggles back into me
whispers that I feel like the sun
asks in the same hushed tone
why I revel in the fights so much
her fingers resting on bandages

I don’t have the heart to tell her
it’s the only thing
that makes me
feel
alive

Sight: tension
Scent: lust
Sound: pop
Taste: meat
Touch: silky

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Sight: broken glass
Scent: peaches
Sound: none
Taste: horrible
Touch: gooey

It was the indescribable mess
and the smell of sweet peach jam
carpeting the kitchen floor
that finally made the tears flow.

It wasn't the thought of cleaning up
the shards of sticky broken glass
or the knowledge that the family
would be back from church any minute.
It was that the gooey mess around her
was all there was to show of the hours
she'd spent preparing the jars,
paring and slicing the juicy, fragrant fruit
then carefully transferring the results
to the tray which fell with a horrible crash
as she stumbled over the needy cat
at her feet.
The children arrived with
the usual, joyful hubbub which turned to
horrified silence at the scene and
their mother's sobbing.

The cat, the chief protagonist,
was nowhere to be seen.

Sight: Stained glass window
Scent: Lilac
Sound: David Bowie
Taste: Italian salami (spicey)
Touch: Fur

 

[Piscator]

Sight: Stained glass window
Scent: Lilac
Sound: David Bowie
Taste: Italian salami (spicey)
Touch: Fur

Lilacs

It must be her perfume
cause it’s still too early for
lilacs to bloom, but the
cloying scent lingers, like
the 1 hour You Tube loop
of Space Oddity incessantly
playing in the background
while the stained glass
Tiffany Sunflower Panel
sparkles in our kitchen
window with the light
fragmenting into a message
from Bowie from beyond
but you never learned
Morse Code and will
never know what was said.

So, you share a bit of your
Calabrese with Sunny
who doesn’t mind the spice
as he leans into you in a
a full body press and you
stroke his sun warmed fur.

Sight: Green flash at sunset
Scent: 420
Sound: Canned Heat
Taste: Two Buck Chuck
Touch: Frigid fingers

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Canned Heat See a Green Flash


Blind Owl and the boys
had been celebrating 420,
now they were all sitting on the beach
to see the sun go down and chugging
Two Buck Chuck. Perhaps it was the
mammoth blunt they’d consumed
earlier or the dirt-cheap booze
but, as they sat together
huddled against the early chill
they all saw it.

The green object leave the dying sun.
“Hey” yelled The Bear,
“that’s a – a “ snapping his cold fingers
in frustration, “a green flash! It’s rare,
we’re lucky to see it.”


Sight – The movie “Platoon”
Scent – pot pourie.
Sound – breaking glass.
Taste – rabbit stew.
Touch – warm skin.

 

[todski28]

Sight – The movie “Platoon”
Scent – pot pourie.
Sound – breaking glass.
Taste – rabbit stew.
Touch – warm skin.

Never been to war the way they used
to wage it, the way it’s portrayed in
movies like Platoon, Saving Private Ryan or Hacksaw Ridge
So I don’t know what to think about it all
and yet it hangs
a crucified man
with his cadre of carrion crows
strung up like a rabbit ready to be stewed and consumed
blood wet on it’s still warm skin
smoke curling in the background
as buildings burn
I imagine it smells sickly sweet
the way rotten meat makes you retch
sometimes I long for simpler days
pot pourie burning on the window sill
no electricity
no tv programs

just hard work
and dreams spun in the exhalation
of breath in the cold
not nuclear holocaust
hanging like a sword of Damocles
and somewhere we became
gods of destruction
with the wisdom of apes

Sight: a music box
Sound: something nostalgic
Scent: petrol
Taste: oily
Touch: callouses

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Sight: a music box
Sound: something nostalgic
Scent: petrol
Taste: oily
Touch: callouses (Schwielen)

Good Evening, Milady

Weathered welcome words from the pre-photo age
dancing so tenderly against the Midsummer dust
falling angels on the checkered floor, shady
like everything here, now so many lives lust
the single red rose on the diner table
next to the hors d'oeuvre on a plate of mine
finding the feta aroma clad in virgin oil
and a lone bar bottle peeling off its label
the whole roadhouse sweating forgotten gasoline
pushed aside by a gentleman's breeze
I long to spoil
stopping short above skin
I wish, further, down to your knees
but the game demands play before win
so we're set to dance the knight away
find the rough diamond his horny hands plight
shrouded in a golden aura cast by the music box
pulling him close, holding him tight
in a blink of an eye
a kiss
a wink
a smile
tearing off the civil hide right down to his socks
not a moment to miss
on the way to the brink
free what's waiting in durance vile.
Make. Me. Sigh.

Scent: vanilla
Sight: a hummingbird
Sound: a clock
Taste: passion
Touch: gentle

 

[todski28]

Scent: vanilla
Sight: a hummingbird
Sound: a clock
Taste: passion
Touch: gentle


She wore vanilla in a too liberal way
as if she wanted you to taste her
whenever she walked in a room
heart used to hammer humming bird fast, ticking like a clock on speed
all I wanted was to hold her hand gently
watch the sunset

all she wanted was to lick the passion
from my throat
and feel my weight on her
in her

the coil of cigarette
it’s small embers the only thing left
as I lay alone
staring at the ceiling
wondering why she used me
screaming obscenities and
Painting sweat spattered Jackson pollacks
on the sheets
to the tune of a jackhammer

she wanted my rage
my hardness
calloused hands
and coarse words
as if there was no room for me to be
human

no room for me to whisper I love you
like they do in romance novels
as if the only thing that really got her off
was the caricature of man
she drew with the wetness of her
depravity
then she could dismiss because she
let me do what I wanted
encouraged it
Controlled it

A hard cock
A night of multiple orgasms
Another handful of the patriarchy
she could wash down the drain in disgust
when she went home to shower
as if the power of her cunt was magical
and she sucked the life from me
one orgasm at a time

Taste: expensive alcohol
Touch: plaster
Sight: moon
Scent: something familiar
Sound: rattle

 

[EllenMore]

Taste: expensive alcohol
Touch: plaster
Sight: moon
Scent: something familiar
Sound: rattle

After I took off my coat
I asked for wine, but instead
heard the rattle of ice
and the slosh of that snobbish
whisky with the blue label
he stocked by the case.
"Drink this," he said but
I choked a bit at its acrid,
smoky taste and sat the glass
on the end table. The lights
were dimmed so that the moon,
reddish and full, dominated
the large window overlooking
the pool. He drained his drink
and nodded toward the bedroom,
but then pushed me against the wall
so that my cheek brushed
against the rough plaster
as he raised my skirt over
my hips and I suddenly recalled
the ashy, menthol smell
of my husband's cigarettes
those last few unhappy months
before the divorce.

Taste: something chalky
Touch: stretched canvas
Sight: life study model
Scent: linseed oil
Sound: scratching

 

[TarnishedPenny]

Oops. Way out of order. Will try again.

 

[TarnishedPenny]

Taste: something chalky
Touch: stretched canvas
Sight: life study model
Scent: linseed oil
Sound: scratching

~ ~ ~

My grandfather’s studio was high in his dustless Tudor house,
the twisting stairs steep, mysterious and panelled in dark oak,
but the room itself was full of both light and fascination for such as I,
intermingling smells of cigars, paints, turpentine and linseed oil,
whole flowerbeds of paint-laden palettes I was forbidden to even approach,
painter’s knives, jars of brushes, stick pens, India ink,
things incomprehensible ad infinitum.

He would tickle my ears with brushes softer than the kitten’s fur,
draw my fingertips in tactile expeditions across the virgin potentiality of stretched canvases,
talk of proportions, shades and hues, light and its absence,
make me feel his equal, if only for the instant.

My grandmother would appear periodically, bringing me lemonade and
him the appalling, tart, chalky green plum wine she concocted every year,
casting each time as she left a withering glance
at an unframed oil painting of what I thought of then as merely
a pretty lady and not, as I now suspect,
a prickly reminder of a perhaps-imagined affair with a long-strayed model.

With his own hands he matched his grand easel with one fit for diminutive aspirations,
provided me pencils, immense sheets of heavy, rag-edged paper and
a brightly-coloured tin box of child’s watercolours,
ones I never did learn to use to advantage.

I could soar then on pretences, the scratching whispering of toddler visions crawling onto my easel
while his easy genius woke estate-producing imagery to flower on his own.

The moments children take for granted…

~ ~ ~

Taste: Apple
Touch: Breeze on skin
Sight: Something flying
Scent: Wood smoke
Sound: Tree frogs

 

[Winter_Fare]

For you I record these few hours
That you'll taste them again
Crisp as the bite of an apple

And you can laugh again
Feel sultry breeze upon your skin
And hear the rain again

Although our end is written love
The arrow flies again
Hours and days run like melt water

Until we share again
Warmth and woodsmoke beneath the stars
Wheeling above again

We'll hear peepers singing to us
Spring will come again

Taste: ice-cream
Touch: hot tarmac
Sight: reflections
Scent: hose pipe water
Sound: train