The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

Dimanche, Versailles

Dimanche, Versailles


Together, we pedal
past

antique rose trellises infuse
the air with millions of tiny pollen
time bombs, deployed in
the lazy fan of oversized leaves
attached to cruelly hobbled trees
towering overhead

Fat velo tires crunch gravel paths
waking soft echoes
shadowed satin slippers,
minuet steps to whispered string
quartets, breathed
swish of brocade and damask

We pause to touch pedestals
hidden in wooded areas
Diana’s cold marbled foot
crushes an eternally broken arrow
a hare hops to the underbrush

When the clouds offer rain
We tilt our heads up to
the chestnut cathedral
drops cascading off leaves
from heaven
My sister and I.

********
Sound: Skype call
Sight: alarm clock
Scent: warm blankets
Touch: something wrong
taste: wrong beverage
 
Sound: Skype call
Sight: alarm clock
Scent: warm blankets
Touch: something wrong
taste: wrong beverage

Woken Up

Beeps are annoying,
but, I suppose, that's the point,
they don't clang and clamor,
warning of impending danger,
simply chirp--over and over--
until someone either answers
them or turns them off,

But morning beeps are a
personal pet peeve, they are
just enough to draw me out of
REM and inject me back into
the waking world, although I
rose and looked, hand raised,
at my alarm clock before
realizing the beep came from
the computer, from someone
checking via Skype to see if
I was about. Which I wasn't
so sure about just then.

I grumbled my way to the laptop,
still smelling of warm blankets and
warmer dreams, pondering if she
would still be there if I managed
to return to bed, clicked the icon,
sighed to myself and passed a hand
over my head (pausing to glance
in the mirror as my fingers told me
my hair was badly out of sorts),
then ignored the beeping, shut it off,
headed back for more dreams

Why call me now? After all this time?
I shook my head and muttered little
things to keep her off my mind, then
stopped to finish a cup on the desk,
coughed as the "water" was melted ice
and vodka from the night before,
Great...these should be just wonderful
dreams. Simply perfect.

~~~~~
sight: dogs
sound: forced laughter
scent: disinfectant
touch: slimy
taste: coarse paper, like a napkin or paper towel
 
~~~~~
sight: dogs
sound: forced laughter
scent: disinfectant
touch: slimy
taste: coarse paper, like a napkin or paper towel

Motel Room

We hear two dogs
at the edge of the surf
barking on the gold sand
silver the moon shines
alive in slivers of ocean
wavelets that shadow
to black the far ballyhoo
of the boardwalk ghosting
snickers and wisps of music
the surf and the dogs the
distant barking dogs.

The bathroom smells
like Lysol so we take towels
from the kitchenette you hold
one to my mouth before we wipe
our happy slime away
and shut the balcony door.




~~~~~
sight: mushrooms
sound: wind
scent: your choice
touch: something feathery
taste: something salty
 
sight: mushrooms
sound: wind
scent: your choice
touch: something feathery
taste: something salty

On the Balcony

Breathing in her sweat was
more than I needed to
show her my interest as her
hair brushed my face,
tickling against nose and lips
feather-light, and my tongue
savored the salt of the skin
along her nape and about the
curve of her ear, teeth toying
with that dangling lobe, my
fingers slipping beneath her
Fantasia pajama top, dancing
mushrooms moving atop my
hands in new, yet familiar, ways.

~~~~~
sight: sand
sound: counting
scent: stale air
touch: hunger
taste: blood
 
sight: light
sound: drum beat
scent: pop corn
taste: potatoe chips
touch: finger nails

The warm butter-and-salt
smell of freshly reheated,
packaged popcorn filled
the small hallway leading
from the concourse up to
the auditorium's seating,
it reminded me I had skipped
dinner and rekindled the
stale taste of cheap chips
lingering in my mouth from the
drive over after work,
Just as we found out seats,
a drum roll erupted,
the heavy spot came on,
illuminating the Ringmaster,
She gripped my arm and pointed
with excitement and her
semi-patented squeal. I smiled
even as I checked my arm for
broken skin and traces of blood.
Remind me to trim those nails.

~~~~~
sight: lions
sounds: eagles
scent: manure
taste: leather
touch: fur
 
sight: rusty fence
sound: running water
scent: fresh rain
taste: mangoes
touch: bark

the brain is a wonderful thing:
three years or more of drought,
and i can feel the old dog's bark
as it blindly challenges blank, hot air;

and as i give in,
lick the flaking rust
that grows without fresh rain,
i close my eyes and swear to god i hear

the clouds break on my tongue -
the happy notes of running water,
the mango's golden juice there,
right. there.



sight: stick of charcoal
sound: breaking glass
scent: peppermint
taste: defeat
touch: roadkill
 
Le Diplomat, Dakar

The toubab’s reflection screams
haircut! and so knowing nothing of customs
he searches the street for a candy striped pole
but instead spots a more obvious clue
hand painted with the latest mode

Ok, so maybe a fade would not work so well
At the Ambassade
Still, it looks clean enough
razor blades wrapped and sealed, and
familiar black plastic combs soak
in that blue fluid

So he allows the man with dark hands
To lather his white face whiter
and half asleep, because he touch
is like a blessing, hears
the rasp of his whiskers neatly
sliced off shhhhhhh
Comme ca

He could do without the Axe after
shave that splashes cold on his face
even as the noon heat blasts him
straight to the young girl selling ice
cold cans of lemon squash.

She smiles shyly as she hands
him change in crumpled bills of CFA
tucked safely in the waistband
of her panties.


*******
Sound: dishes being put away
sight: soap
Taste: tootpaste
touch: hot water
scent: dirt
 
*******
Sound: dishes being put away
sight: soap
Taste: tootpaste
touch: hot water
scent: dirt


Memory Like Bubbles

Ca va, Chavelah?
Ca va, Papa.


It's just a memory of voices
some aural architecture
buried beneath the buzz
the clanking dishwasher,

just life prosaic and banal
the ennui of that same bottle
of soap pungently purple
alive here in imagination
yet barely noticed buried

by a thrill recalled, a lover's
minty mouth a welcome sting
of tongue foreshadowing.
Oh cue the moonlight music
cue the groaning bed

then awaken now
hands in hot water again
soapy dishes bubbles
and beyond the sink
my window, the gently stirring
curtain my earthy sweet air.

**********

Sound: whistle
sight: vehicle of your choice
Taste: candy of your choice
touch: paper
scent: steam
 
Sight: frivolous puppy
Sound: voices from another room
Scent: frustration
Taste: liquid
Touch: cold

Remember When

My puppy dropped his baby teeth
everywhere. He grew like a weed.

He'd bark we'd argue in another room
the whine and hue on us like blood

ice cubes ringing in the silence until
all we share is the glacial divide.

**********

sight: marshmallows
sound: symphony
scent: a city smell
taste: alcohol of your choosing
touch: leaves
 
sight: marshmallows
sound: symphony
scent: a city smell
taste: alcohol of your choosing
touch: leaves


Spring

Springtime is not just a
calendar date or the
feeling that comes from
sighting newly returned
robins, or breathing in
dogwood blossoms along
the sidewalk from admin to
the student union.

It's that heightened sense of
everything,
almost time for mid-terms,
sorority balls,
fraternity founding events,
plus rush-week,
and the feeling of release
while lying on a beach blanket
listening to the local philharmonic
play classical versions of
rock and roll, or jazzy blues,
while watching children rush
to fill their cheeks with marshmallow
bunnies and chicks from freshly
discovered baskets

I find it in all that and more,
smiling at an in-joke among the
other theatre majors, seeing
if my skill at dropping hints to
this or that coed had improved yet,
or simply watching the
crowd go about whatever they have
to do, letting myself relax,
maybe just lie back and play
with the leaves left behind by a
still lingering
julep.


~~~~~
sight: squirrels
sound: hammering
scent: something smoky
taste: off-season fruit
touch: gravel
 
A Girl and her Dog on Skunk Hollow Road

The black bitch wags its mud crusted tail
for a six inch bolt the little girl tosses
next to a dead squirrel and rust covered trailer
missing its skirt like a green-sleeves whore
in the fields of summer if you remember
August-cum-winter's hammerlock instead.
Of course you can when winter means April
still as you sink into Skunk Hollow Road

mud where a dead apple hangs from a tree
that makes you wonder if apple seeds blossom,
although you don't doubt the frost will come
to stiffen the tail on the dog again
in the gravel hole it dug through the winter
in which the little girl tosses again
one little two little three little indians
another day down on Skunk Hollow Road.

Taste maple syrup
Sight Empire State Building
Sound traffic
Scent diesel
Touch a lover
 
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Quebec Old City

As he sat,
the engine idling,
adding to the fog of diesel
shrouding the street,
he could feel her touch
him in that intimate,
discrete way she had
and knew
he’d have the empire state
of an erection
when he saw her next
but it wouldn’t be a city
liaison, she insisted, Quebec,
old city, poutine, the saint Lawrence
and maple syrup on snow.
He shifted, impatient to be
With her.

Taste: bile
Sight: lights
Sound: sirens
Scent: lilac
Touch: pin or needle prick
 
Sight: white board
Sound: scolding
Scent: unpleasant
Touch: skin
Taste: potatoes crisps
Chapel

The place smelt like death.
Monks
lectured us for being there,

but the hall was empty.
I wrote my name
on their white board in green ink

as if that made a difference.
We later shared some Walkers' crisps
and I stroked, stroked your quiet, fine skin.





Sight: A city, large or small.
Scent: Flowers.
Sound: Drumming.
Touch: Satin.
Taste: Salt.
 
Sight: A city, large or small.
Scent: Flowers.
Sound: Drumming.
Touch: Satin.
Taste: Salt.

Lunch Date

Just a snippet of
a London restaurant,

not a bar,
or a deli-counter,
even calling it
a take-away would be
pretentious,

or maybe just overstating
things a bit,

I might have said
snack bar or luncheonette,
maybe diner if it had been
self-contained and not
sitting above a series of shops
overlooking the tourist
traffic and droves of locals
milling about sidewalks,
weaving themselves through
not-technically-parked cars,

I waited,
munched idly on chips in need of
something (even malt vinegar) to
cut back on their saltiness,
breathed in the scent of fresh-cut
posies that were at odds with an
otherwise chintzy ambiance
like being at a Woolworth's
(they still have those, yeah?),
listened to the sound of the
West Indian guy on the corner outside
drumming on a mishmash of items
scrounged from here and there,
just pondered when/if you'd make it,
the feel of freshly purchased bed linens
cool against my wrist where they'd
escaped their shopping bag.

Satin feels oddly nice against one's wrist,
never really noticed that particular spot
before.

~~~~~
sight: trash bag(s)
sound: banging
scent: mildew
touch: bare steel
taste: rust
 
Removed



~~~~
Sight: duck(s)
Sound: ice cream truck
Scent: dirty diaper
Touch: prickly grass
Taste: mustard
 
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Removed



Sight: cobwebs
Sound: rain on a tin roof
Scent: cedar
Touch: tissue paper
Taste: cinnamon
 
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Sight~cobwebs
Sound~rain on a tin roof
Scent~cedar
Touch~tissue paper
Taste~cinnamon
Just a lazy old river
going nowhere,
but on this hot July morning
it leads away from this madness.
Now from my perch on the rusty
old trestle, ghost to a train
long past, reverie blooms.
The heavy dew in tall grass
spins a galaxy of cobwebs
beneath a tissue paper fog,
and there you are,
like a street lamp through
a frosted window.
It was a summer
so many summers ago,
in that old shack
we loved in, once.
You were wearing that
shirt, the colour of cinnamon
before button to button
the rhapsody of a tin roof rain
removed it.
I smile now, seeing you pull
that old blanket from the
cedar chest, and spreading it
over the weathered boards
and i miss you
or maybe
the me i was, that day.
Sight~eagle
Sound~wind in the trees
Scent~old spice
Touch~wool
Taste~raspberries
 
Sight: crescent moon
Sound: piano
Scent: rain
Taste: sour
Touch silk



Removed



Sight: your younger self
Sound: laughter
Scent: smoke
Taste: tart
Touch: water
 
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Sight: your younger self
Sound: laughter
Scent: smoke
Taste: tart
Touch: water

Found Photo

Spring cleaning never ends,
I've never understood
why it has a season even
assigned to it. Maybe 'cause
it's easier in the springtime
to go through the house
reflecting on what needs to
go or be stored or simply washed
down and put back in place.

I wipe my moist fingers on what
was once a clean shirt, the glass
of not-sweet-enough lemonade
has been sweating in the humidity
of the attic. I pause in sorting to
wander through memories...toys
I thought long gone, books and games
that really need to come downstairs
where a new generation can enjoy
them, a box of photos of times
I can still picture...especially the
Halloween party my junior year.

I'd drawn a blank for a costume, so
had gone through the wardrobe and
props departments and pieced a little
something together...jumpsuit, work
boots, eyepatch, deputy's badge...
and here was the result...me being
whatever, Dave as a wizard/vampire,
George as an elf--tall, Nordic elf, granted.
The ringing laughter of the night echoed
even as I found myself remembering
the scent of incense and purple skunk.

Yeah, good times.
~~~~~

sight: frost
sound: arguing
scent: pizza/Italian spices
taste: charcoal
touch: rough woven fabric
 
Removed




Sight: raven
Sound: booming echo
Scent: burning brush
Taste: whiskey
Touch: cold
 
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Sight: blue flame
Sound: hail
scent: prey
taste: steak
Touch: earth




Removed




Sight: red gauze
Sound: shuffling
Smell: roses
Taste: mulled wine
Touch: leather
 
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I wrap the blanket,
rough wool,
around my shoulders.
The breeze is cool
from the open window
but I refuse to have it shut.
The door opens
and I ignore the squeak
of the sneakers,
the rustle of a uniform,
the clink of the tray.
Smell of peaches
drifts to my nose.
She bustles about,
fluffing pillows,
babbling about nothing.
She is easy to ignore.
I lift a biscuit to my mouth,
syrupy sweet preserves
smearing slightly on my lips.
I giggle to myself,
imagining my lover - lovers?
there have been so many -
licking the peachy glaze off.
I drift back into my memories
as the door shuts again,
ignoring the tear sliding
down my cheek.


sight: train depot
sound: birdsong
scent: floral scent
taste: cola
touch: silk
 
"I'm sitting in a railway station
with a ticket for my destination"
vies with the blackbird
sitting atop a lilac tree
singing his heart out for his lady.
Whilst I barely holding back the tears,
kiss your cola tasting lips
one last time, your silken skin
slips away from my love
and is gone forever.

sight: The Eiffel Tower
sound: Hooters
scent: Apple blossom
taste: Salty tears
touch: Grit
 
had to keep it from slipping off the front page...

sight: The Eiffel Tower
sound: Hooters
scent: Apple blossom
taste: Salty tears
touch: Grit

She Takes

the stairs up the Eiffel Tower
embraced by iron arms, trying
not to slip on the grit and tears
of strangers before her
who also stepped off
the earth to distance themselves
from honks and the religion
of running circles. Together
and alone they followed
the soft coos and hoots
that inhabit this ferrous tree
some to see out and some to look
inside. She could have quietly gone
to sleep but it felt wrong
to punctuate a life
of loneliness in solitude
so with everything and nothing
solved she smiled
and followed the mourning
dove onto the wind
and deepened the hue
of the fallen apple blossoms below.

sight: small boat
sound: argument
scent: chlorine
taste: caramel
touch: splintered wood
 
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sight: small boat
sound: argument
scent: chlorine
taste: caramel
touch: splintered wood




Removed




sight: grave stone
sound: clicking fan
scent: honeysuckle
taste: tart apple
touch: damp soil
 
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