The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[butters]

scent: a shower
sight: shadows
sound: silence
taste: summer
touch: softness

private library

in the softness of a summer shower
that brings its memories
of ripe peaches to the tongue
and where the silence of petrichor
wraps its own shadows around your thoughts
you sit in your special room
windows open to sights and sound
mind open to the whisperings of books
that line every wall
climb every recess
and fill every table
even as your fingers cross smooth continents
and oceans roll beneath them
round the axis of the faded
fascinating
globe


sight: pale moon in the daytime sky
sound: a woodpecker drilling a trunk
taste: charcoal
scent: old urine
touch: the smooth, organic feel of old oak wood flooring

 

[29wordsforsnow]

sight: pale moon in the daytime sky
sound: a woodpecker drilling a trunk
taste: charcoal
scent: old urine
touch: the smooth, organic feel of old oak wood flooring

~~~

On rue de meaux, it's common law
beneath a smiling cheese-skinned moon
no matter if it's dark or noon
a cat must stride on paw by paw
all ignorance, no sign of awe
for dogs' piss stench right on the ground
a busy beak's jackhammer sound
right next to black suit's constant caw
cars will break for feline chutzpah
crowded streets a catwalk away
the twinkle-toed, dressed in cliche
returns home to Madame Dumas
stairways to heaven, five floors up
first thing to have: a tiny cup
its subtle notes: charcoal, framboise
keeps running down the furry jaw
filtrated first, then eau-de-vie
one drop alone for Aurelie
supplied with taste by grand-papa
Monsieur Leclerc, old, bald, bourgeois
spent, still here, and mostly naked
there's no need to simply fake it
wrists tied with scarfs of black surah
muted by a spoiled matching bra
emptied, he never felt as good
as now, lying on the hard wood
music in his ears as each claw
accompanied by his soft Aah
worms tones out of the stained oak's grain
the audience awake again
his stamina a tragic flaw
and only done when sore and raw
nails sink into the heaving chest
there is no better place to rest
thinks the cat of Madame Dumas.

~~~

scent: salty
sight: umbrellas
sound: heartbeats
taste: something done with lemons
touch: rough wool

 

[XShadynzX]

scent: salty
sight: umbrellas
sound: heartbeats
taste: something done with lemons
touch: rough wool

Breathing in the cold air from the sea
The salty scent tickles the back of my throat
Bringing back memories of summer and sun

Umbrellas brightly coloured line up
Like soldiers on parade
The sun hot and heavy on the sand
Cooling now as winter comes

I close my eyes and remember the
lemonade that you made
the sharp, bright scent of lemons
squeezed to make the drink we loved

Our heartbeats loud in our ears
As my cheek rests on the rough wool
of your favourite sweater
Your arms around me, hold me close
as your warm breath stirs my hair


Sight: Mountains
Sound: Birds
Taste: Honey
Touch: Grass
Scent: Hay

 

[Wordcascade]

Sight: Mountains
Sound: Birds
Taste: Honey
Touch: Grass
Scent: Hay

Touch-a handle
Taste- dirt
Sight - water
sound- ringtone
scent- fresh rain

 

[Angeline]

Touch-a handle
Taste- dirt
Sight - water
sound- ringtone
scent- fresh rain


Penobscot Country Club, July 2004

It was after midnight
when we crossed, no traffic
just an empty ribbon of road,
black and winding in dips
and turns toward Bangor,
streetlights shining on puddles,
glassy and rainbow-hued
beneath a galaxy of stars,
a thousand wishes waiting
to be made.

The air was fresh, clean,
redolent of petrichor and we ran
hand in hand like naughty school kids
sneaking onto the golf course,
sneaking behind the clubhouse
to the 7th green, me holding the handle
of our picnic basket: a baguette,

cheese and a beaujolais,
fruity, sweet and cold.

We made love right there
on that soft bright grass,
mouths tasting of wine
and a hint of dirt too,
from our energetic exercises,
rolling on that wet carpet.

When my phone rang
with its characteristic tone
we ignored it and watched
the Moon instead.






Sight: flowers
Scent: dirt
Sound: bells
Taste: berries
Touch: piano

 

[Tzara]

Sight: flowers
Scent: dirt
Sound: bells
Taste: berries
Touch: piano

Pianissimo

At the end of Ives' Third Symphony
there are the sounds of distant bells,
so faint in some recordings
as to be almost inaudible. So
are my fading memories of you—
like that late spring day,
walking through a field of random
daffodils, the loamy scent of earth
damp from a brief rain on our boots.
How odd I can still taste your lipstick,
sweet as ripe strawberries,
when I kissed you, but your smile
is quite lost to me, the texture
of your hair, the warmth of your arms.
But the hard slickness of the white keys
when you tried to teach me the Gymnopédie
still sits in my fingertips
as if etched there by loneliness
or simply by separation from my heart.

Scent: Some kind of solvent
Sight: Stretched canvas
Sound: Rock music (muted, as if in another room)
Taste: Whiskey or brandy
Touch: Burnished metal

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Scent: Some kind of solvent
Sight: Stretched canvas
Sound: Rock music (muted, as if in another room)
Taste: Whiskey or brandy
Touch: Burnished metal

cold, hard perfection opens her door
every curve as if chiseled and polished
for centuries, and that's just the handle
to the inner sanctuary holding a modern
Velasquez' Venus marvelously hidden
from his stardust in the studio downstairs
guitars, drums and a glass cutter's voice
rich for a minute, Jim, Jack & Johnny his
oxygen to breathe, present on my tongue
like the question if, for a second, she'd turn
thinner invades my mind, adding details
and myself to picture that is his to take
the bare, taut fabric begs for the touch
of the palest pink in my paintbox
and yet I'd love to see deeper.

Scent: something flammable
Sight: an accident
Sound: a lone instrument
Taste: tears
Touch: something turning cold

 

[Angeline]

Scent: something flammable
Sight: an accident
Sound: a lone instrument
Taste: tears
Touch: something turning cold

Accidental Memory

We were driving north
on 95, heading for the Chesapeake
Bay Bridge when traffic slowed,
moving by inches it seemed.

Staties were weaving past
a tangle of cars and trucks,
drivers craning necks, trying
to see but we smelled it first,
smoke and gasoline,

a nauseating combination
that propelled me years back
to a late night crash on the PA turnpike,
car rolling over and over
until we stopped, smashed
into a hillside, five teenaged girls
screaming, trapped till a trucker
pulled us out in shock
and confusion: I thought the sirens
were trumpets.

Later in the hospital
I tasted my father's tears of relief
as he held me. Sister's car was gone
but we were ok.

That memory, the thought
of my frightened then grateful parents
and the sense of safety that would be torn
from us eternally when sister died suddenly,
unexpectedly just a few years later
combined with the smell of burning
gas to sicken me and I vomited.

The memories sicken me still.

You brushed back my hair,
kissed my forehead,
held my cold hands.



Scent: lilacs
Sight: a ghost
Sound: music (be specific)
Taste: honey
Touch: something ragged

 

[XShadynzX]

Scent:Lilacs
Sight:a ghost
Sound:Music ( be specific)
Taste: honey
Touch: something ragged

The scent of lilacs
Heady and sweet filled the air
Tea in fine china cups, hot and sweet
With the taste of honey
Soft strains of Mozart's Quartet in F adding to
The quiet hum of conversation
Looking up, I saw you there
Pale as a ghost
"She's gone " you said
Looking down at the table, tears in my eyes,
The ragged edges of the serviette rough on my fingers,
I took in the words, scarcely believing the truth
But deep down , knowing them to be true
The end of a reign
The beginning of a new era

Taste: Pork
Sight: River
Scent: Roses
Touch: Wood
Sound: Thunder