The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Tzara]

See: lovers
Hear: dancing
Smell: stale beer
Taste: unripened persimmons
Touch: sandpaper

Reconciliation

Things went badly last night.
I drank too much again
and spilled beer on your tablecloth

so the room smelled of spoiled hops
all evening. When we tried to kiss
you recoiled, saying

my lips were as bitter
as an unripe persimmon, so sour
you almost forgave the coarse grit

of my unshaven cheek rasping
along the long flute of your neck.
Thank God your window was left open

so we could hear the clatter and clomp
of the dancers in the square
and for the mirror

on your closet door
where we could see our joined image,
reminding us we were still in love.

Sight: evening sky
Smell: ozone
Sound: rumbling noise
Taste: something acidic
Touch: flannel cloth

 

[_Land]

See: lovers
Hear: dancing
Smell: stale beer
Taste: unripened persimmons
Touch: sandpaper

Reconciliation

Things went badly last night.
I drank too much again
and spilled beer on your tablecloth

so the room smelled of spoiled hops
all evening. When we tried to kiss
you recoiled, saying

my lips were as bitter
as an unripe persimmon, so sour
you almost forgave the coarse grit

of my unshaven cheek rasping
along the long flute of your neck.
Thank God your window was left open

so we could hear the clatter and clomp
of the dancers in the square
and for the mirror

on your closet door
where we could see our joined image,
reminding us we were still in love.

Sight: evening sky
Smell: ozone
Sound: rumbling noise
Taste: something acidic
Touch: flannel cloth

Very well done Tzara. I love the way the stage is set here, each stanza laying the foundation for the next

 

[Angeline]

Sight: evening sky
Smell: ozone
Sound: rumbling noise
Taste: something acidic
Touch: flannel cloth

Heavy Weather

The evening sky was sickly
green as if it might be ill
and neither birdcall, bee drone
nor cricket chirp broke the silence.

Ominous sky. I'd seen it before
in the Midwest. Tornado sky.

The phone cord came nowhere
near the bathroom so no comfort
from the voices of home, just me
sitting on the tub's edge, waiting

while ozone's sharp scent came
with the shrieking wind, crack
of thunder then a fall of breaking
glass from next door by the pool

like a harbinger for the rain
that screamed a cacophony
of nature: Iowa in late March
and I taste the bitter sour sick

I can't hold back, wipe my mouth
with the flannel washcloth. Will I never
see my children again, die the unknown
unfortunate occupant of Room 412?

Jason laughs though not unkindly
when I tell him the next day.
He's a farmer's son, accustomed
to crazy weather and of course

we're working: always this show
will go on.


Sight: bird
Sound: water rushing
Smell: gasoline
Taste: dirt
Touch: rock

 

[_Land]

Sight: bird
Sound: water rushing
Smell: gasoline
Taste: dirt
Touch: rock

Central Park Afternoon
By Bear Sage

A bird arcs overhead,
its wings flashing white against the canopy,
dropping a quick shadow
that runs across the pond
and vanishes in the grass.
Sparrows chatter in the branches,
their small bodies trembling the leaves
like a chorus of restless bells.

Water rushes through the fountain’s mouth,
a steady surge that catches light
and throws it back in shards.
The spray cools the air nearby,
mist clinging to arms and cheeks,
while the basin echoes with coins
that glitter like pinned-down wishes.

The smell of gasoline drifts in
from the avenue’s edge,
a sharp reminder of the streets beyond,
mingling with the sweetness of pretzels
and the faint musk of horse-drawn carriages.
Engines growl against the stone borders,
their heat pressing into the green interior.

A gust lifts the dirt from the path,
fine grit settling across lips and teeth,
the taste of the ground itself carried forward
by joggers pounding past,
their shoes scattering dust into air.
It clings to the tongue,
earthy, unshaken,
the flavor of the park’s hidden roots.

My palm finds the rock of a sunlit boulder,
its surface rough, warm, unyielding.
The stone holds centuries of weight,
yet today it carries picnics,
sketchbooks, the bodies of lovers
leaning close, shoulder to shoulder.
The rock anchors the meadow,
silent but alive with touch.

Here the city folds itself open.
Every sense sharpens.
The park gathers them into one body,
and for just a moment
I feel the whole place breathing with me.


Next

Sight: your ex
Sound: mosquitoes
Smell: mildew
Touch: leather
Taste : cheap liquor

 

[SmilingLez]

My ex,
the asshole,
eyes blank,
free.

Mosquitoes buzz,
annoying,
blood sucking,
just like my ex.

Mildew stinks,
stale and musty,
just rot.
just like my ex.

I touch leather,
cold and rough,
just like my ex.

Cheap liquor burns,
bitter, sharp,
just like my ex.



Sight: ocean wave
Sound: elevator music
Smell: lavender
Touch: ice
Taste: blood

 

[Shady_nz]

The ocean wave seen from atop a cliff
Foams and crashes against the rocks
I take a hesitant step
Tasting blood on my lips as I make up my mind to take
That fateful step into the unknown

Ice forms on the ground beneath my feet
As I carefully back away from the edge
Back to safety
The scent of lavender fills my nostrils as memory engulfs me
I've been here before. Was it a dream?

Just then the sound of elevator music
loud above the cry of the gulls, fills the air
Taking my phone from my pocket, I see the name written in glowing characters
With trembling fingers I press the keys to answer the call.
"Hello. Yes. I'm coming home"

Sight: storm clouds
Taste: beer
Sound: church bells
Smell: toast
Touch: wool

 

[Remec]

Sight: storm clouds
Taste: beer
Sound: church bells
Smell: toast
Touch: wool

---

Post-wedding Disorientation

Eyes open and try to focus
on the unfamiliar ceiling overhead,
Fingers run over the roughness of
the woolen Army blanket covering me
as I sit up;

Head turns towards the sound of
echoing church bells tolling the hour,
later than I thought but it sets my bearings;
Hadn't thought spending the night
dancing and drinking with desperate divorcees
would actually lead to anything;

Feet slip off the bed and stand me up,
gathering clothes and getting dressed,
eyes take in the ominous gathering darkness
in the sky--clouds that might be just a coming storm;
not the omen it seems to be;

Nose itches and the scent of bodily fluids on the
bedding and sweat lingering on me and my clothes
is replaced by the smell of bread being made into toast,
Chest empties lungs as a great sigh passes at
the thought of having a stroke in the strange flat
of an unknown woman in a mystery brownstone,

Heart relaxes as the door opens and she is there,
tray in hand, smile on face, barely tied robe around her.
"Awake, eh? Thought a spot of breakfast might be in order."

Mouth breaks into smile and body relaxes as arms bring
hands to hips and leans lips to lips--then taking tray and
setting it aside for the moment,
"I think I know a spot of something even better."

---

sight: something blue
sound: a question
smell: sauerkraut
taste: buttermilk
touch: something soft