The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[KatieJones]

i

Sight: tires
Sound: sex, kissing, making out (you decide)
Scent; air freshener
Taste: strawberry
Touch: moth

The evergreen tree

that hangs from the rear
view mirror of his Saab 9000
puts him back in a rusty ford
that smelled of pine
and sex. Seat reclined
every evening he watched
her lock her bike tire, hoping
he’d leave his hand in his pants
and merely covet
but the thought
of tasting her strawberry
lips buried his conscience
with his wife and kids
and he took the evil
from the cage
of his skull and let it free
knowing
she’d never want
to say no and would spread
her legs against a wall
because she wasn’t wise
enough to know
he should offer sheets,
care about making her sigh
and that sometimes
it’s the light that seeks
out the fragile wings
of the moth and burns
them before they even begin
to fly among the trees.

Sight: front door
sound: fork on a plate
taste: maple syrup
touch: sponge
scent: paint

 

[Angeline]

Sight: front door
sound: fork on a plate
taste: maple syrup
touch: sponge
scent: paint

Cops at the front door
beefy and blue they want
in. Linda drops her fork
splattering maple syrup
which drips on my shoe

I'm frozen to the sofa
as they rush up the stairs,
flood the tiny room scowling,
flashlights atwirl. They sniff
the air I try not to evidence

horror it's right there
in the ashtray, my elbow
pointing to it like an arrow.

Linda offers tea as if this
were anything but a whole world
of trouble, just chatting away,
sponging up syrup. She spots
the roach, calculates zero
opportunity. Our eyes meet.

Hey, you been painting in here?

says Blue Boy 1. We stare,
he tosses a last snarky jab,

We gotta go bust a pot party.

Gone. Breathe.

Sometimes I think the 60s
weren't so bad after all.



Sight: hedges
sound: helicopter
taste: ice cream
touch: flowers
scent: citronella

 

[Remec]

Sight: hedges
sound: helicopter
taste: ice cream
touch: flowers
scent: citronella

One Summer

It was a maze.

Not so much like parts
of Versailles or even the
grounds of Biltmore House,
but so much squared greenery
that walking some alleys in
the darkest part of the night
made me stop to listen for a
Baskerville hound,

The only thing I heard, though,
was the whop-whop of rotors
as Smokey did his bear-in-the-air
trick and kept choppers and bright
spotlights filtering through above
our heads throughout much of the
night. Never did learn what they
were looking for, was too taken with
my latest infatuation. Lovely as the

garden, with skin that could compare
to the silkiest of petals and kisses
that seemed to drip Neapolitan along
my tongue, while her hair always
seemed awash in citronella.

No wonder the mosquitos kept
their distance.
~~~~~

sight: pineapple
sound: annoying laughter
smell: burgers
touch: sponge/spongey
taste: saltwater

 

[Desejo]

Must I watch this?

Digital era spectators
of self pixelated movies
most of which are bad.

The worst is failed romance.
hearing my own
voice quiver as I grasp
the arm of my dark superhero

(I made him up up myself)

Because inevitably he stares
stony eyed at me, dissolving
$100 an ounce perfume
into Walgreens knock off toilet water

(If you like Poison, you will love Venom)

Sweet cotton candy scent
licking the jelly taste
of concession stand gummy bears

It turns my stomach
As much as the sticky pull
Of the movie theater floor.

Sound: boom
Scent: gas
taste; red hots (or other obnoxious candy)
touch: rough
sight: lightening

 

[HarryHill]

this one got left behind

Desejo:
Sight: cat doing something foolish
Sound: floor creaking
Scent: protest
Taste: poor taste
Touch: kleenex or tissue

Foolish le chat,
stalking around my protesting rocking chair,
trying to find the creak.

*!STOMP!*

He runs away; a flash across the house,
I wipe away the spider
crushed on sole of shoe
tossed tissue
a whining fart within my mind
the stink of life taken

*creak, creak, creak*
Foolish le chat

(Return to thread)
Sound: boom
Scent: gas
taste; red hots (or other obnoxious candy)
touch: rough
sight: lightening

 

[KatieJones]

Sound: boom
Scent: gas
taste; red hots (or other obnoxious candy)
touch: rough
sight: lightening

Cinnamon Scars

He kept a bag of red
hots in the desk drawer
that whined when it opened.
Not loud
but under her blankets
it seemed a sonic boom
that ripped the silence
like lightening tears
the sky in two-both signals
of danger. Each stair creak
evoked a prayer
to a God she’d long ago
dismissed as deaf. Please.
Please let him go by.

She never wanted
trouble so was still
when her room filled
with the smell of cinnamon
and gas that perfumed
his shirt after a day
at the station where he smiled
at people all day. You're so lucky
dear they'd say.

His touch was never rough
but still it reached through
her skin and squeezed
feelings from her heart
and all thought from her mind.

People tried to help
but when you dismantle humanity
the intangibles are lost
or never fit in their forever
changed home. She lies
and says she’s fine
because that’s a headline
people are willing to read
but somewhere on page twelve
it says time stops the bleeding
but some things never heal.


Sound: sigh
Scent: fresia
taste; apple
touch: pinch
sight: abandoned house

 

[wakingDown]

Cinnamon Scars

sound: sigh
Scent: fresia
taste; apple
touch: pinch
sight: abandoned house

Step through the crooked door slow
Letting eyes adjust, ears attune
Bits of dust float by and soon
Pick up a smell I think I know

There, by the window, under dust
A candle with the clear fresia scent
Stepping towards it when the floor is bent
The heavy sigh of aged wood and rust

The long vacant house groaning loud
Stumble back as boards give way
Cry at the pinch where hand did splay
Shivered board closing in a dust cloud

Cough at the moldering apple slick
Of cider soured and spored so long
The dust puff taste of decay so strong
The slow to settle dust hazy and thick

Why the hell did I come here again?

sound: ticking clock
scent: old smoke
taste: grains
touch: smooth glass
sight: ancient tree

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Sound: amything so loud you wince or cover your ears
scent: frech cooked food (any)
taste: victory
touch:something innappropriate
sight: a beautiful backdrop (interpret as you will hills, beach etc, etc)

Resistance

The end!
Exhausted citizens
line the streets,
Camps Elyse wall-
to-wall little flags,
American, English
and of course French.
We celebrate victory
with a bottle of pre-war
Chablis and eat melting
brie with our fingers.
He jokingly, perhaps not,
wiping his greasy fingers
on my breasts making me
gasp and laugh at his
audacity. American trucks
lumber through the
happiness, hippos trying not
to flatten rioting mice. One
backfires, a deafening memory.
we flinch, instinctually duck.
Next week I will be home
happily free of secrets,
walk on Suffolk's cloudless
downs, untouched by war.

Sound: Modern jazz
scent: Old Spice
taste: oysters
touch: fur
sight: a naked man (full frontal)

 

[Remec]

Sound: amything so loud you wince or cover your ears
scent: frech cooked food (any)
taste: victory
touch:something innappropriate
sight: a beautiful backdrop (interpret as you will hills, beach etc, etc)

The steam wafted just right
when I lifted the lids to check
on how things were progressing,

A hint of garlic, a touch of dreck,
just like most French food, depressing,
without their sauces you might

think, "This is dinner?", and skip the blessing,
but saying grace is such a slight
thing to toss out, a moment of respect,

Unlike a hand upon a tight
ass, on pretense of wiping a speck,
from the surface, but simply caressing

each cheek, in turn, as I might expect,
from someone who had been undressing
me since the beginning of the night,

when the firework finale had been so distressing,
it spoiled how the evening had looked so right,
with everyone's skin all glowing and flecked

We kissed, further blurring my sight,
and my mind as I said what the heck
to going back with you, confessing

that, with you, I didn't seem like just a speck
on a tally bar, but you were just messing
with me, totally savoring your win that night.

~~~~~
sight: clouds
sound: music
scent: happiness
taste: garbage
touch: soap
(today's prompts given by my stepdaughter--making her think on summer break hehehe )

 

[Desejo]

Sound: Modern jazz
scent: Old Spice
taste: oysters
touch: fur
sight: a naked man (full frontal)

First Date Angst

he did not want to take her
well he did want to take her but what I meant is
he did not want to take her out
to the movies or something banal
instead the made dinner and put on Jan Garbarek even though
jazz made him feel like a pretentious imposter
but as long as he was feeling that way he might as well
serve oysters which he did even
though he worried it might be bit suggestive perhaps
and it made him wonder endlessly of downy fur that she might
have around her own oyster and maybe she would let him --
but, oh, he should not be thinking that way
he might sweat right though the Old Spice
he splashed on in the bathroom
while wondering if maybe possibly she might see him naked
and whether the oysters would be effective.

Now use Remec's words...above!

 

[KatieJones]

Sound: kettle boiling
Scent: expensive wine
taste: sour
touch: something sharp
sight: a closed door

Served

The windows are open
so next door I can hear
the sound of fifty years
of marriage as Mrs. Riley
and her kettle scream
for attention, followed
by Mr. Riley’s curse
over the heat souring
the milk and shout
to never mind his tea.

He leaves for his mother’s
with a slam of the door
while his wife complains
about him to the cat.

I shut the window.
We will never follow
in the Riley’s footsteps
of discontent and complacency.

In our bedroom, my finger catches
a tear of condensation
as it drips
down the empty magnum
I bought for you
in Bordeaux and I wonder
if that counts
as pathetic fallacy. I stop
the next drop with the blade
in my hand and look
at your chest
with her arm draped
across it. I picture
the room painted in red
but decide it’s the colour
of love and leave you swathed
in white with the knife
resting on the pillow
beside your face.

A steel mirror to see
that you may have life
but you no longer
share it with me.


Sound: rain
Scent: humidity
taste: chocolate
touch: wood
sight: empty park

 

[KatieJones]

I’m amazed that I can feel
the arrogance
in your fingers as you move
the hem of my skirt
up my thigh, clearly
I am a forgone conclusion
in your eyes all due
to the corner table
at Le Chien Noir and a cliché
of roses plunked
in my grandmother’s Waterford
which you have punched
into your mental calculator
that seems to be powered
by hormones
and it equals a score.

But I’m wearing Chanel
and you laugh
at your own jokes
and clearly can’t speak
French so, non merci.

I’ll drive myself home.

sound: silence
scent: salt
taste: ice cream
touch: splinter
sight: bridge

 

[KatieJones]

sound: a large crowd
scent: dirt after fresh rain
taste: copper, or blood
touch: something cold
sight: approaching storm clouds

The bar was colder
than the street and crowded
with people who looked down
to hide the clouds in their eyes
that amounted to confessions.

It smelled of blood and dirt
and I wanted to brandish
a can of Lysol to whack
down the germs like a machete
through a jungle but I felt unsure
as to whether humour
or honesty could exist
without light and water
so instead I followed
the path beaten
into the carpet by the herds
headed to the bathrooms.

My eyes struggled with the shift
between morning sun
and the darkness necessary
to drink at ten but I recognized
his silhouette sitting alone
at the table in the back
and I wondered if hawks only hunt
from dead trees
or are they just invisible
among the leaves.

Sight- broken chair
Sounds- large machinery
Taste- water
Touch- soil
Smell- bananas

 

[Desejo]

Peace Corps Volunteer Waiting for a Bush Taxi

Jonathan eyes the three-legged
Plastic chair with distrust
instead falls into a Fulani squat
laterite dust in his sandals
feels like crushed brick

White man! Buy some bananas!
I’ll give you a good price

The ripe smell seems to add a layer
to the saturated air
drinking warm water
is not much different than breathing.

I miss the cold, he says.
Somewhere in the distance a generator kicks in.

******
Sound: phone
taste: eggs
sight: someone sleeping
Scent: burnt sugar
touch: cotton

 

[kitten1964]

Lazy Morning

The phone rouses me from slumber.
I look at my lover, sleeping.
The cotton sheet barely covers his body.
I smell eggs and the burnt sugar of molasses
as I get up, hazy-eyed, to stop the ringing.
11 am, and the day begins.



Sound: alarm
taste: coffee
sight: cityscape
Scent: rotting vegatation
touch: iron

 

[Remec]

Sound: alarm
taste: coffee
sight: cityscape
Scent: rotting vegatation
touch: iron

Walking

The sound is feeble, like so
many things these days, I
ignore it since it wasn't one
of my alarms but the last
gasp of battery power in a
bit of Detroit statuary. I do
kick myself and look out over
what passes for a skyline,
making note of other possible
energy sources, Energizers don't
really go on and on, but they
last long enough compared to
sticking coiled copper and magnets
in tubs of acid. I grip the hilt of
my machete a touch firmer, the
iron against my palm making itself
known since so much of the leather
wrapping has worn away. So much
has eroded, but the kudzu still holds
sway as it moves into the empty
orchards and garden plots where
the breeze spreads the fact that
everything is spoiling on vine and tree.
I pop a couple espresso beans, savoring
the taste of coffee I never have time
or facilities to brew, and head out
to check on what set off the alarm
after all. Might not be mine, but doesn't
mean it might not be important. Maybe
I should have gone with Rick, after all.
~~~~~

sight: a pet
sound: animal noises
smell: bleach
taste: something sour
touch: leather

 

[twelveoone]

sight: a pet
sound: animal noises
smell: bleach
taste: something sour
touch: leather

:Tribute To a Fried lost

you were my first friend
a hug, a gentle lick on my cheek
lapping up ice-cream shared
or my tears as I told you my troubles
you listened like no one else


here I sit, in the creaky leather chair
remeniscing in my mind
the times we would play,
when I could sneak you into my room
and tell you my little stories
keeping each other warm

I can hear your panting whines
tears fall, because I love you still
even through the sterile stench of
bleach

I lie to you even though you,
in your own way know I lie
you'll be fine
I promise
the sour taste
as the needle enters

It took six hours to dig,
until two am I toiled
cutting away tree roots and branches
hands torn and bleeding
so you could lie beneath your favourite
place

overlooking the ocean
and the paddock
where you chased rabbits

Sight: a fire extiguisher
sound: phone ringing
taste: sugary drink
touch: lips
scent: perfume

regarding your relationship with poetry:
good luck with it
you are there
you are there
and I doubt if this can be improved much
you know the economy of words

 

[kitten1964]

Her Mouth

Sight: a fire extiguisher
sound: phone ringing
taste: sugary drink
touch: lips
scent: perfume

We sit in the cantina,
Sugary drinks making my mouth pucker.
Scent of your perfume teasing my nose.
A phone keeps ringing, interrupting
My perusal of your lips.
My finger reaches out to touch them,
petal-soft,
with the lipstick I love so well.
"Fire-extinguisher red, right?" I ask you,
pointing to the one hanging on the kitchen wall,
although I'm sure the lipstick is really named
"Red-Hot Mama" or "Little Red Dress"
or some other advertising nonsense.
You giggle and slide your hand up my leg.
I gulp my drink, suddenly thirsty,
and ask for the check, pronto.

Sight: dark clouds
sound: birds chirping
taste: strawberries
touch: velvet
scent: clover

 

[KatieJones]

Sight: dark clouds
sound: birds chirping
taste: strawberries
touch: velvet
scent: clover

The mourning
dove’s questions
who, who, who,
part the velvet
leaves of the silver
maple where I sit
without answers
amidst the purple clouds
of clover, envious
of the bees
and their sense of purpose
stealing honey
by a trail of wild
strawberries, the final drops
of summer’s blood.

I eat one
before it stains
my fingers and think
sometimes
death is sweet.

Sight: round bales
sound: bat wings
taste: banana
touch: mosquito bite
scent: hay

 

[Tzara]

Sight: round bales
sound: bat wings
taste: banana
touch: mosquito bite
scent: hay

Heartland

Even in the half-light,
the bales looked like sculpture
raised like a moon
over the cut fields.

You took off your top
and bra, and I skimmed
your chest, your breasts,
even the speed bumps

the mosquitos left
on your perfected skin.
The flutter of bats
devouring insects

mimicked our rhythm.
The grassy scent of hay
masked my acrid semen.
Afterward, as we kissed

under God’s star-filled sky,
I could still taste
the banana you ate in the sundae
at that Dairy Queen in Fairfield.

Scent: Perfume, delicate or overbearing--your choice
Sight: A skateboard or scooter
Sound: Muzak
Taste: Vanilla
Touch: Sanded wood

 

[KatieJones]

She sits on a swing
and lifts her feet to miss
the snow. Like her
the park is defined
by absence. A set
of forgotten bones
bleached by the sun.

Gone
is the carousel’s musak
and the perfume of youth
mixed with popcorn.

Snow falls as she walks
the cement pathways stained
with spilled tears,
slushies and dropped
vanilla cones. She ends
her journey
on newly-sanded bench
with a ghost on either side.

They watch
as a boy skateboards
by them, a tumbleweed
from her past.

Scent: must
Sight: piles of whatever you want
Sound: airplane engine
Taste: strong alcohol
Touch: hair

 

[Remec]

Scent: must
Sight: piles of whatever you want
Sound: airplane engine
Taste: strong alcohol
Touch: hair

Between Flights

They didn't have the best
of what might be called
a break room, but it was
fine with Jerry since he
wasn't exactly on what
could really be called a break,

Just a pause between one
lay-over and the next, landing
in the middle of BFE and cooling
his heels in a dark, musty corner
of a maintenance shed, hands
pressing against the soft curls of

Whatever-her-name-was today,
pieces of her uniform and his piled
side-by-side, never mingling, very
much the way their bodies would
soon be piled together but still mostly
just doing their own thing, He taking

A moment to unwind mid-shift, and she
finding something to do with herself,
besides listening to jet engines, without
involving passengers wanting her to
bend her over and never, practically never,
tasting of anything but stale alcohol.
~~~~~

sight: a dim glow
sound: a dull roar
smell: dried fruit
taste: darkness
touch: something damp

 

[Wintermute01]

sight: a dim glow
sound: a dull roar
smell: dried fruit
taste: darkness
touch: something damp

The Last Tear
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sun, having set,
Leaves twilight dimness cooling,
Diffuse and coating all,
Yet weak and dying.

From over the horizon,
A distant roar begins its rolling,
As the ocean, source of life,
Comes to reclaim its own.

In this final moment,
the aroma of once plump berries,
Remind him of that autumn,
When she stopped time.

His mouth, dry for the moment
Holds a primordial taste
recognised by all prey, from deep time
The dark taste of helplessness.

He holds her now, tightest
For the very last time, with such love,
As the ocean brine, drowns her tears,
And becomes his final touch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sight: A lone poppy
sound: A child singing
smell: Baking bread
taste: Mettalic
touch: old cotton

 

[KatieJones]

The Devil You Know

The oil pan cracked
and its contents
along with my dreams
of Christmas ran
down our driveway.
I watched the black
fingers reach
into the sewer and envied
escape. I fractured
long ago but hope
bleeds unnoticed
into the air and sometimes
we already live
in the sewer. From the top
of the stairs I listened
to his girlfriend snore
to a skipping record
of I Saw Mommy
Kissing Santa Claus
while our orange Christmas
lights shone down
on presents pulled
from our own closets
wrapped with a stapler.

Hohoho he said, slamming
the bucket of Kentucky
Fried Chicken on the table.
The grease dripped
down the sides
and I wondered
when the weeping
would end. How to warn
my little sister Santa
wasn’t real and explain
for us the best present
would be if he cracked
open his Jack Daniels
early and slept forever.


Sight: boulders
Touch: something sharp
Smell: wet grass
Sound: voices in the distance
Taste: white wine

 

[Wintermute01]

Sight: boulders
Touch: something sharp
Smell: wet grass
Sound: voices in the distance
Taste: white wine

Lakeland Ascent
============
Climbing up Striding Edge,
On to Helvellyn's peak.
So easy in summer,
When the aroma of wet grass
Warmed by briefly intense summer heat,
Fills the air.

The breeze carries chatter
Of families on their day trips,
Tasting picnic Chablis, on the summit.
And of scouts earning badges,
By decoding maps, compass, and the land.

The pollenated haze
Makes distant boulders look soft and rounded,
Almost welcomingly comfy,
Like spindrift candy-floss
From the Kendal fair,
Released and resting here.

In the winter though,
Oh the winter,
This beautiful creature kills.
Wind driving sleet so hard
That the grains form horizontal needles.
Knives of sharpened stone
Pleasantly cut my frozen hands,
Reminding me that, for the moment,
The beast can't carry me off.

Each step, release and regrip,
Movement, blink and breath,
Must be calculated and planned,
There is no margin for error,
Not here and not now.

So onwards, we labour
Upwards, slowly and carefully,
towards the invisible summit,
Which faith alone tells us is there.

Becoming ever more exposed
Until it is just us,
alone, vulnerable.
Huddled downwind in the shade of a boulder,
On this alien, now flat, place.
This summit,
This peak,
This halfway point.

We journey down towards Thirlmere.
Leaving the summit to its sinister solitude.
Failed in its manslaughter,
The mountain yields and the winds abate.
Perhaps being saved for the next contestant.

Through gaps in the cloud, the lake comes into view.
Its growth assuring us that we are getting closer.
Closer to that for which all climbers long -
Steak and Ale Pie, chips, a pint for me
And a chilled white wine for you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sight: Something physical yet unobtainable
Touch: Hair
Smell: Fresh soap
Sound: A car driving away
Taste: Salt