The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Lyricalli]

Taste- meat
Touch- paper
scent- alcohol from a texta
Sound- loud noise
sight- red letter

I've gone through so many pages
in this tattered old notebook
trying to write a poem
that won't appear
dizzy from sniffing
this red-ink marker
that refuses to spell
anything but your
goddamned name
in capital letters
ruining every inch of fucking paper
matching the blood in my teeth
from chewing the inside
of my cheek
and I can't escape the screaming
that keeps ringing my ears
even though it's coming
from me



Taste – something briny
Touch – leather
Sight – blanket
Scent – meat
Sound – a low hum

 

[butters]

Taste – something briny
Touch – leather
Sight – blanket
Scent – meat
Sound – a low hum


as you spread the blanket
i tell myself the low hum in my skull
is the art of honey-bees at work
not a body needing medication
tired of summer's sauna

we strip and i feel sickened
by the scent of my sex
—meat too long in the sun—
olfactory in hyperdrive.
who said women smell of fish?

your mouth's wet leather as you feast
and i am distracted enough
you smell only of salt—fresh, lickable
your shuddering cum
brined olives on my tongue








----------------------------------
taste - pine nuts
touch - snow
sight - roadkill
smell - oranges
sound - voice memories

 

[Lyricalli]

taste - pine nuts
touch - snow
sight - roadkill
smell - oranges
sound - voice memories

Munching on toasted pine nuts
as they cool
while prepping the basil and garlic
grating the cheese
making my mise en place
for the pesto

It's so damn hot this summer
and we only half-joke
about having a snowball fight
scraping the frost
from our far-too-old freezer

He's cutting cold oranges
into wedges
and the scent of them
creates a heady blend
with the herbs
and aromatics
on my cutting board

Familiar fingers offer
the tangy treat
as he's stands behind me
closer than necessary
rumbles in a voice
that instantly recalled the night before
and as I start to melt
from more than the weather
he gestures to the whirring blender
says it smells good enough
it could make the dead raccoon
we passed on the way home
edible

Still not sure I've found
all the bits of orange
spit from my mouth
in that burst of shocked laughter

Hours after citrus kisses
and testing the effects
of melting ice on skin
there was pesto chicken
and salad for dinner



taste - something bubbly
touch - string
sight - dark clouds
smell - coffee
sound - comfort

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight- water streaming over something
Scent- petrol
Taste- sauce
touch- something sensitive or fragile
sound- a specific piece of music

It was storming in sheets
creating waterfalls on the windshield
that challenged the wipers
and occasionally won

The tension of our slow drive
broken by a turn into the station
when the fuel gauge got as low
as the visibility

I relaxed into the back
of the passenger seat
and contemplated our history
all the roads we'd traveled
the vast unknown of the path ahead
how volatile it all felt
much like the weather

There was something comforting
about the smell of petrol fumes
because refueling
meant we were still moving forward

Your key turned in the ignition
and the radio came back on
not quite in the middle of that song
the one you once said reminded
you of me, when such things came
more easily, your love
still on the tip of your tongue

With a glance, I knew
you were in that moment too
and reached for your hand
brought it to my lips
kissed the scars on rugged skin
that revealed both fragility
and resilience

When we closed the distance
between us, our mouths meeting
with feeling that had felt fleeting
for too long
I giggled first, then you followed
both very aware
we'd chosen kebab with garlic sauce
for lunch

We kissed again to the sound of thunder
and a honk from behind
from the guy who had no patience
for our reconciliation

Seatbelts fastened, we continued driving
in rain that seemed less threatening
my fingers resting on your thigh




taste - green apple
touch - a musical instrument
scent - overly floral
sight - hiding hands
sound - notification sound from a phone

 

[Piscator]

taste - green apple
touch - a musical instrument
scent - overly floral
sight - hiding hands
sound - notification sound from a phone

Eroica


His fingers which pounded
the ivory keys through
a Beethoven crescendo
slide softly between
his thighs and although
his mouth tastes of
sausage and unripe apple
and the air freshener cloys
the bathroom stall, he
ignores the moronic ring tone
your brother installed on his
cell phone and dedicates the
rest of your lunch break to
pleasure
self.​

taste - a ripe peach
touch - fuzz (your choice of location)
scent - charcoal
sight - Perseid shower
sound - wave lapping beach

 

[Voboy]

taste - a ripe peach
touch - fuzz (your choice of location)
scent - charcoal
sight - Perseid shower
sound - wave lapping beach

I remember times
Alive and whole in the outdoors:

Hearing my feet paddle in the water while the waves suck back the sand.
Watching the skies catch fire, inspired like John Denver by the falling lights up there.
Closing my eyes and remembering the smell of cooking over an open charcoal fire.

I remember these times
When I'm stuck at a child's birthday party:

In the city, cursing
The prickled fuzz of drought-stricken grass beneath my inadequate blanket
And the way flies are drawn to the peaches the kids took just one bite out of.


taste - meringue
touch - goosedown
scent - mold
sight - an oncoming storm
sound - birds

 

[butters]

taste - meringue
touch - goosedown
scent - mold
sight - an oncoming storm
sound - birds

that long-abandoned cabin
high on the hill
3-sided by fir, maple
black walnut and wild cherry

ignore the tang of mold
the patches of black damp
remember, instead
the joy of meringue
its dry, sweet crunch
its crumble chew
how it made your tongue laugh

stroke the faded comforter
its colour a ghost you understand
its goosedown a paradox of silky lumps

stare beyond the curtain scrap
dust on the pane shades air
an agitation of birds wheel on distant cries
menaced by bilious thunderheads
silent streaks of lightning






taste: peanutbutter
touch: a raw egg
smell: chlorine
sight: a closed-off bridge
sound: theme tune to Hawaii Five-O


(sorry, but had a bit of fun with those prompts!)

 

[Voboy]

taste: peanutbutter
touch: a raw egg
smell: chlorine
sight: a closed-off bridge
sound: theme tune to Hawaii Five-O


(sorry, but had a bit of fun with those prompts!)

Some money for a baggie:
Mouth cotton-dry,
The thick grip of phlegm
Like peanut butter on the tongue,
With no jelly to relieve it
And a filthy couch reaching up,
Raw-egg sticky
In this shitty part of town.

The rush hits then,
Spastic but antiseptic
Like a car chase featuring
Glitzy people. Magnum, maybe, or NO!
It's Jack Lord, with that song bongo-ing in your brain,
Hammering like your heart as the drug seeps along your blood,
Eyes watering like an overchlorinated hotel pool without goggles, because
You forgot to bring the motherfuckers. And you forgot a towel. And a suit. And you're totally bare.
Exposed...

Just like you forgot what a hit felt like.
Until you remembered.
It always feels the same,
Like pointing your car toward a roadblocked bridge.

"Fuck. That's some potent shit, dude."



taste: buttercrunch ice cream
touch: weeds in a streambed
smell: gasoline when you're a kid
sight: sunset over the desert
sound: a loon

 

[29wordsforsnow]

taste: buttercrunch ice cream
touch: weeds in a streambed
smell: gasoline when you're a kid
sight: sunset over the desert
sound: a loon

Can you feel it fly
the time that passes by
your years like seconds
running away, one reckons
to a final stop

all this speed
maybe you need
and take
a break
and stop

Like back then
years ago when
long distance travel
over dust and gravel
came to a stop

every few hundred miles a gas station to visit
shaken, sleepy eyes ask this is it?
but your nose already aware
of octane and leads too we ain't yet there!
just another stop

where they've put another dead horse to the ground
and you walked away to a lonely loon's sound
down to the river - now, nothing more than a creek
so cool and just what you seek
no stop

but running through your hand
green blades under water send
the endless agony of youth away
your time will come is what they say
and never stop

the best of years melt like the buttercrunch
ice cream was your breakfast and lunch
served in places you'd elsewise forgot
here out where the sand is so hot
you couldn't stop

wishing you'd been already
old enough, able and steady
to walk alone to the magic place
where the sun's leaving without a trace
don't you dare to stop

dreaming!

sight: darkness
scent: moisture
sound: night time
taste: sweet
touch: smooth

 

[Remec]

sight: darkness
scent: moisture
sound: night time
taste: sweet
touch: smooth

I am holding a sweating bottle,
standing beside the balcony chairs
where we can kick back, relaxing
as the people play in the pool and
on the deck below, or just taking in
the soft, somewhat silent sounds
filtering through the edges of another
red-gold sunset--breezes passing by,
setting off windchimes, crickets playing
their chirping tunes in counterpoint to
bullfrogs and the occasional hiss of
feral cats challenging one another;
I am pouring us fresh glasses, savoring how
the wine's bouquet mingles with the smell
of dew on the fresh cut grass below and leaves
me with a scent off liquid--nothing specific,
just the aroma of the aquatic, even the pool water
joins in and I wish we were closer to the shore.
I am carrying our drinks in to you,
sipping on the sweet red wine, then setting both
on the nightstand and sliding a hand along
the smooth softness of your body as I settle in
to sit beside you on the bed and just enjoy
your presence as sunset slowly dims itself
into night.



sight: something frozen
sound: something repetetive
scent: something repulsive
touch: something sodden
taste: something savory

 

[Voboy]

sight: something frozen
sound: something repetetive
scent: something repulsive
touch: something sodden
taste: something savory

Again and again I hear the babel:
Kitchen, bar, table;
Kitchen, bar, table,
Endlessly cyclic, endlessly boring.
The "guests" here pay three figures
For food I wouldn't feed my dog:

Rosemary chicken, balsamic reduction:
A savory mess of overcrowded pullets
And the kind of vinegar you get at
Wal-Mart;

Spinach with slivered cashews and garlic:
Grossly sodden green rags,
Squishy, served over rice that was
Cooked in a bag;

Panko-crusted Chilean sea bass:
Wet. Fishy smelling. Frankly repulsive.
Worse? "Sea bass?" Bullshit.
It's scrod.

And "fresh" butternut squash with cinnamon,
But you never tell the guests
That you saw ice crystals
On the packaging.

But it all costs a lot. Because the chef is
On TV
Sometimes.
Meanwhile? This place pays me
Five bucks an hour.
And none of these rich assholes tips well.
Not really.




sight: a clock.
sound: a grumpy child.
scent: newsprint.
touch: a dry leaf.
taste: black coffee.

 

[Winter_Fare]

sight: a clock.
sound: a grumpy child.
scent: newsprint.
touch: a dry leaf.
taste: black coffee.

A funeral on the front pages
Of all the rags today
There isn't enough coffee
To keep somnolence at bay
The TV is no better
It's enough to turn me grey

I'll take you to the rainbow park
To while the hours away.
In little boots and raincoat
To run and dance and play
In piles of crispy autumn leaves
That tumble in our way

The clouds run like your eyes
Upon your cheeks and on the clay
Turning gifts of autumn gold
To ochre and decay
And what use is a sundial
On a late September day?


sight: cumulus clouds
sound: distant voices
scent: burning
touch: hand made paper
taste: glue of envelope or stamp

 

[butters]

sight: cumulus clouds
sound: distant voices
scent: burning
touch: hand made paper
taste: glue of envelope or stamp


they weren't my letters to burn

were you cruel to dispatch them that way,
distant voices of the dead
elegantly penned in flowing cursive?

words of love and guilt
manipulation and memory
woven across spans of hand-made paper
consigned to ghosts and ashes
nebulous vapours spiraling up
disappear in an armada of clouds
and sun brighter than the flames

you left yourself bereft
tongue haunted by glue
said tears in your eyes just the smoke





sight: a drowned cricket
sound: backfiring car or gun shot
taste: chalk
touch: pond mud
scent: infection

 

[29wordsforsnow]

sight: a drowned cricket
sound: backfiring car or gun shot
taste: chalk
touch: pond mud
scent: infection

school's out forever
we don't sing
anymore

retired from the overworked and underpaid
this room of passing words is where we stayed
empty now, left, and handed back to nature
jars hunting raindrops, a cricket 'yond mature

sailing the tiny ocean in repetition
row, row, row your boat for tuition
the roof is merely a Tilsit cheese
why, could you fund us, please?

one last goodbye calligraphed by wilted hands
the taste of dry mineral stays, has no plans
on fingertips that like to turn the page
for the coming educated age

on the parking lot where once The Potatoe Ban
finally stopped Mr Brown's Cadillac van
from exploding one day the kids couldn't bend
their dreaded numbers to the rightful end

the rain has gone days ago, left its litter
feet slip in, hands, that would beg on Twitter
for a small change too, sink down in the soil
nostrils flare up, a roaring turmoil

the miasma of our open legs
filled by systems all in rags
down in the dumps we smell infection
Is this future shaping in perfection?

scent: apple
sight: light
sound: cough
taste: salty
touch: humid

 

[Voboy]

Bright, hazed sun. Apple.
Coughing noise as I bite in.
Salt-sweat on my lips.



scent: something that's burning.
sight: something that makes a bright glare.
sound: something loud.
taste: something plain and unsatisfying.
touch: something harsh.

 

[29wordsforsnow]

scent: something that's burning.
sight: something that makes a bright glare.
sound: something loud.
taste: something plain and unsatisfying.
touch: something harsh.

A toast
- not golden-brown, but pretty dark -
on you
- impatience swelled and came -
due to
​

the deep down hunger yet not met, I rush
two squares of wheat, lightly charred
feel one's rough edge bite into my lips
like your neatly shaven patch - three days ago

waiting

down the hallway on the bed, I blush
the daylight's fireball igniting me
unhindered by window or curtain
the bedframe lilts its protest song

waking

the morning strollers in the street, I hush
my tongue caught with your pants down
a myriad of tiny drops to quench no thirst
born in the latest ride, still not yet satisfied

waving

lust starts between your feet, my tush
pressing you back into the sheets
toast crumbles between your teeths
a little snack to burn more calories

scent: jasmine
sight: a red shoe
sound: a commercial
taste: almond
touch: slippery wet

 

[Voboy]

​

scent: jasmine
sight: a red shoe
sound: a commercial
taste: almond
touch: slippery wet

Licking her slippery-wet almond,
Her red shoe carving a furrow
In the muscles along my spine:
I smell her, the scent of her,
Intoxicating. Enfolding me
Like the scent of jasmine in the incense
At the corner smoke shop.

I can make her cum. I know it.
But can I do it before the commercial is over?





scent: the dustiness of an imminent snowfall
sight: lace on skin
sound: a train wreck
taste: brandied cherries
touch: a chilly breeze

 

[Winter_Fare]

scent: the dustiness of an imminent snowfall
sight: lace on skin
sound: a train wreck
taste: brandied cherries
touch: a chilly breeze

Should have took a bus
First class
Intercity
Fingers touch
Sitting pretty
Hips up against hips
Love watching her lips
Dark like old blood
Wet like a hot flood
Nothing left of us

All this is just smoke
Tongue slips out stop
Waiting for the acid drop
Kiss like brandy
Cherries like Sunday
Easy let the sun rise
Gold in her brown eyes
Let the world rush by maybe
God knows why baby
I don't need my heart broke

Out here air's cold
Cold enough to snow
Let the wind blow
Away my wet bones
Damn this love Jones
And all your black lace
Burning in that place
We can't touch
It hurts too much
We won't grow old

scent: wood fire
sight: candle going out
sound: phone ring
taste: dry mouth
touch: animal fur

 

[Mrtenant]

scent: wood fire
sight: candle going out
sound: phone ring
taste: dry mouth
touch: animal fur

Leashing the puppy
Fingers weaving through
Her rich animal fur
Walking with her
Down one street
Then another
She stands tall
Questing about
Notices the wood fire
Her nose all atwitch
A brief snort later
And onwards we go
Rounding the block
With home in sight
The one with windows
And the candle burning bright
In alarm do I see
The candle light going out
My eyes widen in fear
There with a dry mouth
When my phone rings
"We need more candles"
She says with a smile
For the light has gone out




scent: rose
sight: green grass
sound: hawk shrieking
taste: cherries
touch: wood grain

 

[Voboy]

scent: rose
sight: green grass
sound: hawk shrieking
taste: cherries
touch: wood grain

Pacing through the wintry-chilled beds,
The garden spreads around you, bare and harsh.
Roses curl, scenting past the heads
Of dormant pussy-willows in the marsh.

Your feet recall the grasses, green with spring
That came before, and soon will come again.
But now all's bare. The still days churn and ring
With hawkish cries, the plaintive wails like pain.

Spring will burst. It must! You look ahead.
But not so far beyond are blinding flakes:
The snow is coming, mocking, past the dead
Branches of cherry-trees, gaunt as rakes.

You run your hand along the chilly rails
Of the wood-grained footbridge, rough beneath your nails.

(...a hasty December sonnet. With apologies to the Shakespearean aesthetic!)

scent: fresh paint
sight: a smile
sound: a guitar
taste: tacos
touch: the prick of a thorn

 

[Winter_Fare]

scent: fresh paint
sight: a smile
sound: a guitar
taste: tacos
touch: the prick of a thorn

You came to live at number thirty-three
The day we came to number thirty-one
Our terraced gardens overlooked the sea
A hundred years or more before we'd come

The smell of paint and plaster was no fun
And clearing back the brambles made us bleed
But afterwards when all our work was done
We barbecued and lounged beneath the trees

The magic made when connections begin
Tequila, tacos and the sound of truth
Acoustic steel string decadence and sin
Fresh scents and songs, the summer of our youth

I'll dare to smile and blow a kiss or two
Wherever you are now may God keep you

scent: typewriter ink
sight: stained glass
sound: traffic
taste: bacon
touch: cold lino

 

[cascadiabound]

scent: fresh paint
sight: a smile
sound: a guitar
taste: tacos
touch: the prick of a thorn

Heat rises in the old Spanish courtyard
The best churros in the world sputter sweetly
Mexico in December, like time has moved forward
Biting into fish tacos, satisfies completely

Small shiney objects beckon my raven spirit
Silver shimmers, mother of pearl, opals and jewels
Gaudy fresh paint splashes and dances, a visual trick
tempting to bargain, gringo girl, playing a fool

Basking in sun, a busker strums
Sweet chords of my youth, elicits a smile
Unconsciously fingers dance mouth hums
A sweet escape, let's walk for a mile

The cathedral calls my soul to quiet reflection
Scarf covers my head, kneeling to pray
The scars of oppression mired in good intention
Thorns prick from our past, a debt we should pay


sound: telephone ring
Scent: honeysuckle
Taste: bitter herbs
Sight: falling star
Touch: sticky fingers

 

[Winter_Fare]

sound: telephone ring
Scent: honeysuckle
Taste: bitter herbs
Sight: falling star
Touch: sticky fingers

Let it ring
Let them leave a message

I am concentrating
On the line where you were made
Folded
Origami
Petals
Scent of honeysuckle
Heavy with the dew of
You are bitter
Bitter water
On my tongue
A tonic
Falling
Weightless
Like a comet
You're my
Shooting star
My light
My fingers glistening
With your life

Let it ring

 

[cascadiabound]

scent: typewriter ink
sight: stained glass
sound: traffic
taste: bacon
touch: cold lino

Morning comes so early
Car door slams across the street
I rub my eyes awake
Dog walkers and paper boys
A quiet shuffle of suburban traffic

Coffee maker turns itself on
Nudging me to trod the cold lino floor
the routine groove as comfortable as slippers
Do you want bacon? I ask
The echoing silence deafening
As expectant pews colored midweek
By streaming sunlight through stained glass

These stray thoughts
Shifting like shadows
Sifted like flour
Await the earthy perfume
Of typewriter ink
On twenty pound paper


Scent: wet moss
Sound: coyote howl
Sight: neon lights
Taste: mussels
Touch: fine wool scarf

 

[Winter_Fare]

Scent: wet moss
Sound: coyote howl
Sight: neon lights
Taste: mussels
Touch: fine wool scarf

Working four colours
Ocean
Earth
Forest
Fire
I made a gift for you
Imagined
Where it might fall
Slipping from your throat
Caught beneath you
Under me
Picking up
Moss and wet soil
Between carefully worked stitches

*

We eat together
Civilized
White wine and chowder
Neatly picking salty mussels
From their shells
Conversation
Bowdlerised
By company
We walk hand in hand
Through coffee shops and
Gift stores
Neon
Blinds us when we
Dare to head
Outside

*

Away
Birds are silent
As the moon
The ocean
Breathes a kiss
Our lips still
Hot and dry
Fearful
Somewhere in the desert we are
Calling from the heart
Chasing tails and
Screaming
Long and loud
Hot fur twitching in our mouths

Scent: shampoo
Sound: crackling
Sight: stiletto heel
Taste: chocolate
Touch: pressed cotton