The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[KatieJones]

taste: kimchee
touch: rough skin
sound: orchestral music
scent: cumin
sight: disappearing road

He was unaware she reminisced|
about a rough palm across her cheek
as he lifted the small vial of cumin
to his nose before sprinkling seeds
across the sinking streets of sauce
running through the pan of kimchee.

It was as affected
as the softly playing Ravel
that would never reach its crescendo
and all because his hands were soft.

Taste: coconut
touch: dead leaves
sounds: silence
scent: fire
sight: turtle

 

[Tzara]

Taste: coconut
touch: dead leaves
sounds: silence
scent: fire
sight: turtle

It is very quiet on the island—so quiet one could hear a pin drop, even if it fell onto the surf-flattened sand. One would think one would hear the rustle of dead leaves from the scrub oaks scattered about the beach above the tide line, but there is almost no wind, and the withered leaves lie still as coffins along the shore. In the afternoon, Marianne split a coconut with her machete and we sat cross-legged in the sand digging out its ghost-white flesh and eating it. There are no palm trees anywhere near our camp, but when I asked her where she found the fruit, she simply smiled and did not answer.

As the sun set, it flamed as red as coals banked in a fireplace and I thought I detected the smell of ashes coming from the hills to the east. I wanted to investigate, but Marianne coaxed me into her bed.

This morning I found tracks in the sand where turtles had crawled back into the sea after burying their eggs. Tread marks from unicycles, ridden back into the deep.

Scent: peanuts or almonds
Sight: reflection
Sound: a very low, almost inaudible, hum
Taste: acid
Touch: slickness

 

[Sinseria]

Broken by Consent

Scent: peanuts or almonds
Sight: reflection
Sound: a very low, almost inaudible, hum
Taste: acid
Touch: slickness

Broken by Consent


Wonder if I went away
If I met my untimely fate
Would my ghost remain
Would I?
Could I?
Wonder these shattered walls
That have kept my life

Would I be lost
Even death as I was in life
That nonexistent being
Traversing the halls
With whispers and murmurs
So scarce the sound
As a dogs whistle for the living
Barely audible to human ears

Or would I venture forth
Traverse space and time
To see the reflections of my years
Memories flowing as movies to my eyes
Color coded by the amount of pain
Lived each day

Could I smell fragrant aromas
From a day so long ago
The sweetened whiff of salted ecstasy
With the almonds roasting on the fire
Cracking and snapping
As their scented essence filled the air

Would I be so bold
So daring or brave
To face that first kiss once again
The wrongness salivating
As acid from parting lips
To the taste of unwanted sin

Could I face again
As now an adult passed
The reflections of my life
Bound by the slickness of his touch
The stranger against my flesh
Silk and smooth with caress

The fear of remembrance
The anxiety
The pain
The apprehension
Imprisoned by the truth of my life
When I was
Broken by consent





Scent: sulfur
Sight: fluffy clouds
Sound: tear drops
Taste: Lemon Drops
Touch: darkness

 

[Remec]

Day by Day

Scent: sulfur
Sight: fluffy clouds
Sound: tear drops
Taste: Lemon Drops
Touch: darkness

Watching from the window,
while lying on the bed,
I could see the rising breeze
gather itself into a storm
in the way the fluffy clouds
sped across the still blue sky
too quickly to let me guess
at their form;

The apartment is quiet,
is always quiet, although I
can just hear the echo of
her tears as they dripped from
those rounded, pink, cheeks
that I was always conflicted as
to whether I wanted to kiss them
or pinch them and see which
brought out the higher squeal,

I'm not sure what happened,
but taking a treat from the candybowl
I have the thought that the whole
thing was much like the lemon drop
in my mouth--hard and having a crusty
sort of shell, that softened even as
the taste grew in both sweetness and
that sour that lets everyone be just
a little bit masochistic,
for a while,

The power fails as the storm finally
rolls in, and even as I go about
lighting candles with fireplace matches,
their sulphuric scent draws the
darkness in close so that the glow
likewise fails and I return to the bed
to simply let the gloom wash
over me.
again.
~~~~~



sight: family picnic
sound: water
scent: ketchup
touch: plastic
taste: heat

 

[Angeline]

~~~~~
sight: family picnic
sound: water
scent: ketchup
touch: plastic
taste: heat

Joanie is clinging to the fence like a little limpet in a sunsuit, sniffing hot dogs and ketchup when Al turns up the sprinkler, sings "I got a girl named Joanie Maroni" and she runs joyful, barefoot into arcs of droplets.

There's rainbows in the sprinkler sometimes if you look just right, anything to knock back the heat that shimmers yellow caution in hazy sun. I stay under the oak or push into lilacs for the shivery petals that fall and their sweet perfume.

Mama brings out a can of Charles Chips and scoots over by Grandpa, who smiles in all my memories. Mama looks pregnant or my muse is pulling my toe, but I see the maternity blouse, the gingham check and a bow. There were stories, later, of a boy.

Cousins, aunts and uncles flesh out the scene, pulling plastic from salads, pies, brownies. The aunts' skirts swish and we kids shoot water pistols. Grandma smokes Camels and Papa has Herbert Tareytons rolled in his shirtsleeve.

This ceremony of innocence is frozen now in black and white faces that bear silent witness to the chasm between then and now, so distant and so close when the ghosts lean in to light each other's cigarettes and chatter in the smoke.

~~~~~

sight: boat
sound: airplane
scent: coffee
touch: someone's hand
taste: drink (booze)

 

[Tzara]

sight: boat
sound: airplane
scent: coffee
touch: someone's hand
taste: drink (booze)

The sloop lay anchored off the point, its sails neatly stowed, in the clear green water above the reef. We lounged about in hammocks strung between some several palms, idly listening to CDs of Mozart and Hawaiian lap steel guitar. Lily sipped some coffee she had brewed from freshly roasted Kona beans; the aroma was as rich as sandalwood.

I kept to my whisky, sour though it was, and tried to write. My fountain pen kept skipping ink, but I had no replacement. I remember wishing I had brought a pencil.

I shook the pen as if it were a rabbit whose neck I was trying to break. An airliner flew by overhead, obnoxious but distant, wholly disconnected from us.

Lily's fingers stroked my neck like a gentle rain. Later, we walked the path along the headlands and saw sea lions resting in a cove.

sight: emptiness
sound: people speaking a foreign language
scent: licorice
touch: something ribbed
taste: citrus

 

[Angeline]

sight: emptiness
sound: people speaking a foreign language
scent: licorice
touch: something ribbed
taste: citrus

She never was one for crowds:
put her in a roomful of people
and she hears only foreign tongues,
their clamorous tolling of words
without meaning and then her heart

thuds against her ribs, her stomach
tightens and sours with bile
when no bright crisp bloom
of citrus has crossed her lips.

She was made for emptiness,
prefers wide fields of grass, quietude,
a bed half full at 3am and at 6,
she'll gladly read the silent dawn
or leavings in a cup of licorice tea.

~~~

sight: tall building
sound: wind
scent: honeysuckle
touch: money
taste: candy (any kind)

 

[Remec]

sight: tall building
sound: wind
scent: honeysuckle
touch: money
taste: candy (any kind)

Summer Vacation

The balcony provided a
nice combination of vantage
point and privacy as the storm
rolled in...bit by bit,
almost a creeping sort of way,
like a cat or when you've been
out past your curfew, again.

Looking over the hair on her head,
the tall buildings across the way
were spaced just enough to let me see
the ocean beyond them, and the
storm's whistling wind brought with it
the scent of wild flowers,
possibly honeysuckle, that were a nice
companion to the smell of her hair and
the suntan lotion that she still wore,

Afterwards, I popped a hard caramel
in my mouth and offered her one as I
counted out the bills I owed her,
but she was content with carrying off the cash,
and left me to watch the heavy clouds
break into a sudden summer storm.

~~~~~
sight: tatoo
sound: sirens
smell: pizza
touch: something billowy
taste: a drink that wasn't as expected

 

[Angeline]

~~~~~
sight: tattoo
sound: sirens
smell: pizza
touch: something billowy
taste: a drink that wasn't as expected

Chambers Street, 1977

They call him Storky.
He has seven daughters, seven
names tattooed on his arms,
but no sons (an embarrassment
in this neighborhood). Sometimes
they call him Lucky, ironic
him paying for seven weddings
and no boys to lose to wars
at home or on the streets.

He likes to sit in his chair
right on the pavement, feet up
on a concrete block outside
the shop, reading the Daily News,
traffic rolling, beeps lights sirens,
the girls in and out of Pat's Pizza,
slices wafting--

Not a care until clouds billow
gray over Eddie's Doughnuts
and rain swells the afternoon
air, boomers close enough
to raise hair on his thick arms.

Then he packs it in
for the back room
past shelves of dusty cans
to the real business--
Books and phones, old Hap
on the horn, smoking a cigar,
the Campari and soda
tasting more bitter
than a lucky man expects.

~~~~~~

sight: beat up car or truck
sound: highway
smell: cologne or perfume
touch: tire
taste: envy

 

[Desejo]

First Kiss

Chambers Street, 1977



sight: beat up car or truck
sound: highway
smell: cologne or perfume
touch: tire
taste: envy

We sat, awkward
sun hot threadbare rubber tire
Burning through summer shorts
My ass on fire

it must have rolled here
though pine needles and weeds
a desperate umbilical cord of ivy
embracing the broken side view mirror
the naked window frames

Beam of sun gasps in
The pine cathedral above,
The sigh of summer wind like
God’s highway

I would have been content
Holding hands, fingers intertwining
The sweet ache between my legs

But he had sprung for Old Spice
His tongue said J’ai envie.

+++++++
Sight: hairbrush
Sound: TV
Touch: nylon
Taste: something you REALLY shouldn't eat
Smell: lemon

 

[Piscator]

+++++++
Sight: hairbrush
Sound: TV
Touch: nylon
Taste: something you REALLY shouldn't eat
Smell: lemon

The handle-less hairbrush pushes
through my Jewfro but
really doesn't bring order
to chaos.

I gaze in the mirror at my
new washed lemon fresh
nylon shirt and know
tonight could be the night but
but dab a little Old Spice and
have a sip of stolen gin just
to be sure.

In the background Mama's
laughing as Archie berates
Meathead, even though they're
married, she still can't fathom him
fucking his daughter although
it's all offstage.

I put a rubber
in my back pocket,
hope
springs
eternal.

+++++++

Sight: cloudless sky
Sound: distant thunder
Touch: water rising above your crotch
Taste: Thai
Smell: rain approaching

 

[Tzara]

Sight: cloudless sky
Sound: distant thunder
Touch: water rising above your crotch
Taste: Thai
Smell: rain approaching

[It was how]

It was how you stood in the river, the current running just below your navel—that was when I so wanted to be a fish, nibbling at the bait under your bikini. But then you stepped up onto the bank, and we walked back to the tent to avoid the rain we could smell coming, as if the wind had rubbed too much hair oil into the head of the storm.

Though the sky overhead was still clear, we could hear the thunder approaching, far away, the beats as erratic as moths landing fitfully on drums.

Your skin tasted mild, like lemongrass; your nipples ginger and curry.

And then, at a time much later, came the storm.


Sight: A famous work of art
Smell: Dust, or something slightly choking
Sound: Something repetitive--a jackhammer, a metronome, a clock, etc.
Taste: Acid or alkaline (pH extremities)
Touch: Something rippled, like corduroy

 

[Desejo]

Could-a Should-a

Would I could
capture you in Rembrandt light
unfocused close, but eternally following me

Would I could
feed you lemons plucked from a Natura Morta
watch your lips sting and swell

We could
share dust stirred from closed rooms
antique laughter tickling our throats

I could
bury eager fingers in the furrows
Of your grey cords, mount the peaks

Hear the relief of the headboard sigh
there. there. there.

I could.
I would.


++++
Sight: iphone
Sound: wind
Scent: Eucalyptus
Touch: pebbles
taste: something picked fresh

 

[Tzara]

Sight: iphone
Sound: wind
Scent: Eucalyptus
Touch: pebbles
taste: something picked fresh

[If you sit long enough]

If you sit long enough outside, you will feel the wind. You even might note that it is more than just air moving to another place; it is change, or pressure, or even/only just movement.

When I stand on a rocky beach, the stones pressuring my soles, I am always thinking about the sea, how it washes up along the shore, how later it recedes. I love the waves, the tide. I think of how they seem like a perfect metaphor for us--how things sweep in, sweep out, sweep in again.

And I think of how you never seem quite to reach high tide with me.

Yes, I get the little pings of your texts, at least when I've finally turned my damn iPhone on. But. . .

What I want, really want, is us walking hand-in-hand, wandering among the fragrant eucalyptus trees in the Los Angeles Arboretum, sharing a newly stolen apple or a plum.

Scent: rose attar
Sight: rolling hills
Sound: animals moving about
Taste: something earthy
Touch: something granular and gritty

 

[Sinseria]

Nature's Grace

Scent: rose attar
Sight: rolling hills
Sound: animals moving about
Taste: something earthy
Touch: something granular and gritty

Nature's Grace



The meal of choice
A hardy meat stew of vegetable soup
A little carrot, parsley root and some potato’s too
A nice chunk of beef tenderized before the meal
Cooked to perfection with a little crunch and sting
Accompanied with garlic and spice
For that perfect earthly bite

She dines alone in calm serenity on her back porch
Set center stage a little wooden rustic table
Decorated with a well worn circular place mat
Beholding a copper colored ceramic bowl filled with aged rose pedals
Almost granulated and gritted to dust decaying with age
But the sweet floral bouquet from Rose Atar oils keeps their poise
While extending their decaying life

Day in and day out she finds her mental peace
Listening to the world of nature at its best
With the squirrels and beasts running amuck through the trees
And the birds in flight, north or south pending the seasons turn

As she watches off into the distance to the rolling hills that never move
Beside the rivers flowing currents passing through the winding mounds
Contented only by shimmering shades of natures greens and blues
Stilled in a mosaic dream with the beauty of nature’s grace




Scent: some type of tree
Sight: perriwinkle
Sound: a metallic sound
Taste: fruit
Touch: absence of touch

 

[Tzara]

Periwinkle

have such small mandala flowers. I strolled
through them like they were ferns
and I was a giant whose footfalls resounded

the way an ingot strikes another ingot
so that its echo sings all along this valley.
Gold and silver are our peach,

however sweet their originating tree,
and when that finally withered and I was left all loneliness,
I was always careful to avoid your razored and accusing touch.




Scent: Something spicy--cinnamon or pepper or something like that.
Sight: A landmark
Sound: Others' conversation
Taste: Some kind of flavored lipstick
Touch: Someone's hand on one's thigh, or the emotional equivalent of that

 

[Sinseria]

Cadillac Mountain, Maine

Scent: Something spicy--cinnamon or pepper or something like that.
Sight: A landmark
Sound: Others' conversation
Taste: Some kind of flavored lipstick
Touch: Someone's hand on one's thigh, or the emotional equivalent of that

Cadillac Mountain, Maine


Stand with me
On the north Atlantic seaboard
Fifteen hundred feet above sea level
And feel the power of lovers
Caressing nature’s soul

Smell that peppered fish scent
Filling the salted waters air
Masking the flavor of that cherry lip balm
Stilled in the misted atmosphere

Shield not thine eyes to the golden glow
Let the sun rise with love and due care
Warming across the glaciers of stone
To the distant slopes of Porcupine Islands
Where the songs, music and lore
Continue to play on for a thousand years

As a distant conversation
Playing to the waters reign
Diminishing to the oncoming rushing waves
The crash of the tide stilling the sands and rocky shores
Claiming with all due peace
Those vibrant luring pastel clouds
Of Cadillac Mountain, Maine




Scent: something burning
Sight: ice
Sound: whispers
Taste: something italian
Touch: blanket

 

[Angeline]

Scent: something burning
Sight: ice
Sound: whispers
Taste: something italian
Touch: blanket

Once I Was

They burn leaves in November
here after peepers leave town
and only pines are still green.

Maybe the first snow falls
in runnels creeping down hills,
but the town smells toasted

and earthy, blessedly unlike
the paper mill so we sit outside,
companionable in our chairs,

watching snow and fire until
I feed you homemade gnocci
and red sauce, parmigiano-

reggiano and we are toasty
warm inside. You make dumb jokes
about ciao and chow and I am

utterly charmed by everything
about you and how can that be?
I'd never felt that way before.

The fires went out but we still
lay burning in blue blankets.

~~~~


Scent: apples
Sight: Cadillac
Sound: music (your choice)
Taste: kisses
Touch: leather

 

[Remec]

Scent: apples
Sight: Cadillac
Sound: music (your choice)
Taste: kisses
Touch: leather

The Ride

Mom always said not to
take rides from strangers,
or candy,
or talk to them,
pretty much don't have anything
to do with strangers,
except help them when they
need it.

Mom was big on the whole
Good Samaritan thing.

But, it had been a long day,
it was raining off and on
(more on than off, though)
and when that big, pink Caddy
pulled up alongside the curb,
I think I would have done
almost anything for a ride,
even without the driver's
low-end wealthy,
high-maintenance MILF,
look.

She beckoned me over and
even through the window and
six inches of space, I could smell
the apple scent of her shampoo,
hear the low bass faux-porno
soundtrack coming through her speakers,
and I was utterly entranced,
"Get in," she told me, and I
was through the door and lounging on
real leather, pressing myself into the
cushioning of the seat as she
pulled back into traffic.

A short ride to a mostly empty
parking garage led to a much,
much, longer one a top a different
sort of leathery surface, breathing in
those apples right up close,
and tasting nothing but the flavor of
her mouth, lips, and tongue as we
kissed almost the whole time
we fucked.

Mom grounded me for being
late that day, would have been worse
if she knew I had been
getting to know a
stranger.
~~~~~


scent: flop sweat
sight: red, white, and blue
sound: chanting
taste: bile
touch: belonging

 

[Piscator]

scent: flop sweat
sight: red, white, and blue
sound: chanting
taste: bile
touch: belonging

Not Nice.

He left the flophouse but the reek of sweat stayed
with him, his T-shirt already stained, so he lit a
Gauloise as he mounted his truck
covering one reek with another
and he took a selfie while time
passed and his ice melted.

The street was a sea of red, white, and blue,
he’d been here more than ten years but
never been touched with a sense of
belonging until the crowd’s chanting turned to
screaming and in a hail of bullets he tasted
bile.

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

scent: frangipani
sight: diaphanous membrane
sound: distant train
taste: ripe apricot
touch: finger tracing inner thigh

 

[KatieJones]

scent: frangipani
sight: diaphanous membrane
sound: distant train
taste: ripe apricot
touch: finger tracing inner thigh

The waves shattered against the shore
with a steady rhythm-a train
of water rushing to its sandy station.
She felt its natural rhythm beat
inside her while she tasted
the apricot brandy and smiled
as he explained the scented flower
tucked behind her ear was more
than a shroud of perfume
but a sign that she might be open
to his finger parting the diaphanous silk
that was slipping
along with his finger
higher and higher on her pale thigh.

Scent: the sea
sight: birds
taste: ice
touch: rock
sound: silence

 

[Tzara]

scent: frangipani
sight: diaphanous membrane
sound: distant train
taste: ripe apricot
touch: finger tracing inner thigh

The waves shattered against the shore
with a steady rhythm-a train
of water rushing to its sandy station.
She felt its natural rhythm beat
inside her while she tasted
the apricot brandy and smiled
as he explained the scented flower
tucked behind her ear was more
than a shroud of sweet scent
but a sign that she might be open
to his finger parting the diaphanous silk
that was slipping
along with his finger
higher and higher on her pale thigh.

Scent: the sea
sight: birds
taste: ice
touch: rock
sound: silence

Ocean

If you sit high enough
above the sea, you can no longer
hear the surf. Yet

even here the very air smells of salt.
The scent is so strong
you feel as if you can gather it

in your hands like wet sand,
squeeze and mold it
into castles or grievances or

those little statues of household gods
the Romans used to place
in a curtained hearth

in one of the back rooms of their homes,
because religion is embarrassing,
though common.

On this outcropping of basaltic rock,
where the lava did not quite reach
its way to water,

gulls hang in the air, sail like drones, but float
indifferent to my presence,
since I am both still

and unthreatening, but perhaps mostly
because my open and offering hands
hold nothing like food.

I chew on the ice left from my soda,
because I lack iron in my diet,
because I am too, too much bored,

and I watch the waves far below,
so regular, so metrical.
I begin to count them, as if anyone could.


Scent: something acrid, like menthol or vinegar
Sight: an open area
Sound: a screeching noise, like railroad cars rubbing over rails
Taste: something very bland
Touch: something that has been machined

 

[KatieJones]

.....

 

[KatieJones]

Scent: something acrid, like menthol or vinegar
Sight: an open area
Sound: a screeching noise, like railroad cars rubbing over rails
Taste: something very bland
Touch: something that has been machined

Her eyes had adjusted to where she was going
and stared at a coyote that broke the monotony
of the arid field. Its stare mirrored her lifeless eyes
but disappeared because she was not yet dead
and not worth the struggle. He’d be back
when she’d surrendered to the steel.

The rails came to life under her fingers long
before she heard the friction that announces
most progress. Two perfect moons traveled
steadily toward her, tightening her grip
on the rails like they would save her. She hoped
the menthol she rubbed under her nose
would keep her upright and that her mom would enjoy
the vanilla ice cream she’d left in the freezer.

Scent: basil
Sight: water
Sound: chair against cement
Taste: wine
Touch: plastic

 

[Remec]

Scent: basil
Sight: water
Sound: chair against cement
Taste: wine
Touch: plastic

Family Dinner

The pot was still on in the
empty kitchen, I noticed,
the smell of basil over-powering
the now slightly scorched
tomato of my grandmother's
timeless recipe;

I took up a spatula, turned down
the burners and began folding the
sauce slowly upon itself,
looking out the window as I did to
ponder how quiet and still the
pool seemed now that everything
was back to a semblance
of normal;

My mind can conjure how Mary Beth
had pivoted about, mouthful of wine
still being swallowed, dashing outside,
knocking over a chair to clatter
upon the concrete pool deck, and hopping
in to fish out one of the non-swimmers
who shouldn't have been out
there to begin
with;

Luckily, Grandma's spaghetti will be
just what the doctor ordered to make
everything alright.

~~~~~


sight: musical group
sound: insults
scent: something grilling
touch: cinder blocks
taste: salted nuts