The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[butters]

taste: honey or honey-flavored whatever
sight: water tank
sound: hammers, saws, or other construction
touch: sweaty body part
scent: salt air

bees swarm to the giant tank
strange beast that straddles the horizon
as if it were gravid with honey

are they disappointed it holds water instead
or are bees thirsty creatures too
that rise above the din of hammers
scratch of saws
the thick sweat of armpit and groin
salt air no promise of an ocean
sawdust and diesel no meadow in bloom




taste: the leading edge of a storm
sight: what is unseen
sound: that ringing silence when a loud noise stops abruptly
touch: the rough/smooth interior of an amethyst geode
scent: roses

 

[Angeline]

sight-something confusing
sound-a blender
scent- old books
touch- hard
taste- regret

Daddy did not permit Christmas
trees though we never
went to Temple or kept Sabbath
so why the denial, especially
when we had a lovely ham
every Easter? Why?

1965. I am a child
who rides the bus with Mama
downtown. Lordy
the style, sight and sound
enough to make my eyes round.
My great delight: sprawled
on the attic floor, Scrivener's
Books piled around me, sea
of words, pages' redolent
scent of adventure, paper
dust, motes in the sunstreams.


In 2018 I learn to breathe
again as if I've evolved
or lost some supernumerary gills.
Finally! Knock wood or the side
of my hard head, still breathing,
blending OJ and strawberries
all crunchy with ice, sweet
with no regrets in the cup
or my slightly worn heart.




sight- tarot card (your choice)
sound-water boiling
scent- trees
touch- grime
taste- medicine (again, you pick)

 

[Remec]

sight- tarot card (your choice)
sound-water boiling
scent- trees
touch- grime
taste- medicine (again, you pick)

Lunch, Delayed

It was only a bit of broth,
well,
it was planned on being such
but he'd stepped out of the room
for too long and didn't
need to see the pot to know
it was boiling over,
the bubbling was loud enough
all on its own;

He'd just put a hand on the knob
when bubbling became bursting
and the whole pot seemed
to erupt like the second coming
of Pompeii or Krakatoa,
maybe just Mount St Helen,
and shot out over the stove top,
and the counter,
and the floor,

It reminded him of the Tower, only not the
lightning strike and the flames, just the sudden
outflowing deluge and all the destruction
and general spewing of debris
everywhere,

He found it must not have been the
first such incident, as cleaning up
revealed a whole
ecosystem of grime to his
hand and dishcloth;

A short shake of the head,
both at what he'd let happen as well as
trying to clear the pine from
his nose after cleaning, helped with the
resolve to take his
pink stuff from the doctor,
(was supposed to be a light, cherry bubblegum
flavor, but was more stale Topps ball card gum
in taste--without the powdered sugar they coated it
with)

~~~~~


sight: algae
sound: rainfall
scent: marsh
touch: slimy
taste: something grassy

 

[greenmountaineer]

Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution

Algae exhibit a wide range
of reproductive strategies,
from simple asexual cell division
to more complex forms of reproduction.

Peepers know a thing or two
about slime, indeed how wonderful
it feels as mud when they sing come hither
in the marsh on the banks by this eddy

whose algae twirl like grass in the wind
as drizzle passes with the clouds,
revealing a full moon that shines on your skin,
green eyes, and slicker.

Come hither.


sight: a dirt road
sound: a window fan
scent: freshly mowed grass
touch: rubbing one’s eyes
taste: something greasy

 

[Neonurotic]

sight: algae
sound: rainfall
scent: marsh
touch: slimy
taste: something grassy

Smells Like Green Spirit

The rain tap, tapping, ruins
the last visage of my beach vacation.
But it's not the worst that's happened.

It's the coastal waters at Haystack Rock,
a 'so-called' reprieve from heat waves
across a hotter, angrier nation.

The only waves I see are mucky green algae.
Worse, is sea shell hunting,
more like sliding through snot,
boogers sticking to the bottom of flip flops.
The bloom is a tenacious toxic slime
that smells of marsh and sewer trash
with a hint of a sick and salt.

But, it's all right.
I've got my matcha lattes,
found a lotta' bud (courtesy of
the bungalow host's junk drawer)
and a long weekend left to kill.

Yes, sir, every day all spent
sipping and smoking everything green,
making a good point of view
for a glowing Airbnb review.





sight: night time lights
sound: teenagers
scent: sweat
touch: concrete
taste: something new

 

[Neonurotic]

sight: a dirt road
sound: a window fan
scent: freshly mowed grass
touch: rubbing one’s eyes
taste: something greasy

Sorry gm, didn't see that you had the 5 Senses before me.


Some Kind of Purgatory


The fan set on high hum
blows mowed grass and stinky turds
through the crackling mini blinds.

Breaking off a soft snore, she sits up in bed,
rubs sleep out of her eyes.
I can't help but grin, knowing that a
dog just chased her cat nap away.

"Ew, close the window."

"Nah, time we left,
as the saying goes, still miles
left to go..."

I lick fried chicken crumbs off
my thumb, turning a page
of an ancient album full of
black and white photos

One in particular,
a truck parked on a dirt road
with a boy sitting an open tailgate
swinging his legs.

It's not the boy or the truck,
as they are not me or mine.
It's the road. It's where I left
a different girl in a strange
place that flipped my world
into an uncertain time.

When I go back
the peace of me will return
I know it
I know it

sure as a dog who eats,
he shits.

And it begins again in some
no-tell motel
catnapping
finger-licking good chicken,
it all hits the fan.





sight: strawberry moon
sound: early fireworks
scent: beer
touch: rough cotton
taste: something tart

 

[greenmountaineer]

Lizzie

“Those aren’t craters;
they’re strawberry fields,”
says Lizzie who’s worried about
fireworks on the 4th
torching the moon
before it rises in the sky.

Neither physics nor geometry
works for a five year old,
so it’s best to re-direct
attention to her denim shirt
on a cool summer night
in the mountains,

and does Lizzie like her
Luigi’s lemon ice?
who smiles because the alliteration
is a different way to say I love you
before I sip some India Pale
and reflect for some reason
that only when we are like little Lizzies,
Luigis, Kenneths, or Barbaras
do we get to fly
to the strawberry moon.


sight: pool table
touch: a shoulder
smell: popcorn
taste: Scotch whiskey
hear: Do-Wap

 

[champagne1982]

Con Juan

Yummmm. And todski's poem on the same prompt, Yummmm too.

sight: dirty magazine
sound: wind
scent: damp earth, rain etc
taste: something familiar
touch: a wrapper

A Story In A Dirty Magazine

Look and see this;

nearly electric crackle while the cellophane complains
under eager fingers when they rip at heat-shrunk edges,
cursing the slipperiness of the barrier;
finally a satisfied grunt as a corner tears
and the glossy reality of an augmented breast,
perfect pink nipple nearly glowing, so shiny.
A breeze scatters damp paper wipes resting beside
the step up into the smut seller's petit magazin.​

Now hear this;

sigh and moan around a corner,
whistle at a window, melancholy melody,
and a scream of angry howling that moves
thin blouses, tears at umbrellas and pushes
the trench coat worn by the john
out of the way of sullen pouts as Sammi*
not her real name, kneels
on cobbles in the rain.​

Feel this;

cold slap of the wet fun fur
of a cute leopard print bolero jacket
collar on her jaw as she works
back and forth, back and forth.
His fingers tangling in the cheap wig
as he uses her. Twenty Euros and a quick
release later, he is relieved that she
doesn't want his grateful kisses.​

Smell this;

dingy street in Pigalle at the foot of Monte Marte,
wet cobbles in an autumn drizzle, honeymoons
don't happen in Paris in November;
such a drunk girl, 5 a.m. o'clock shadow - her lipstick
not so much inticing but instead an outline
of a space to be used as he lets her go, heel broken
fishnets torn and wig askew;
but yet a comforting tenderness as he takes
the key to her basement apartment and swings
the door open for her, pressing the fob into her hand;
her whispered, "Merci." speaks volumes as she steps in.​

Taste this;

blue tinted peppermint swish, gargled
bubbles and the nose crinkling mingle of salty
spill at the corners of her mouth and sweeteners
hoping to take the bitter edge off of phoney
smiles and faked passion pretended, earning pay
and contempt in an effort to feel loved.​

I am late finishing this response to a much earlier set of prompts. I'll leave GM's fabulous set here just in case it takes me too long to craft some words for this little vignette.

Lizzie
sight: pool table
touch: a shoulder
smell: popcorn
taste: Scotch whiskey
hear: Do-Wap

Lizzie is a fabulous piece GM.

 

[Piscator]

Lizzie
sight: pool table
touch: a shoulder
smell: popcorn
taste: Scotch whiskey
hear: Do-Wap

"Pool is merely an exercise in applied Newtonian physics and trigonometry." intoned the Professor to Lizzie as he unwound himself from the green table after sinking the eight ball. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, his face so close she could taste the Johnny Walkers on his breath, like him, an anomaly in the bar's atmosphere of Do-Wap, beer and popcorn.

No one knew his real name, some called him the Professor, because of his tweeds and erudite speech, others Icabod due to his tall lanky frame and then for some reason she thought of those long legged flies that appeared at her window each summer. Whatever, sighed Lizzie as she felt the triangle between her legs moisten in anticipation of another lesson in applied geometry.

sight: basement apartment
touch: worn leather
smell: mint
taste: morning after night before
hear: Doppler of passing sirens

 

[greenmountaineer]

Foreplay

You asked that I wear that old sport coat
with the frayed suede elbow patches
while we listen to Beethoven’s moonlight
in your TriBeCa basement apartment.

Oh, we could see its reflection if need be
on the office windows across the street,
but sweet it is to imagine, eyes closed,
while holding hands here on the couch

amid the hurly burly of Manhattan
and dissipation of a siren uptown,
neither unsettling the harmony
of the sonata for us,

sipping our drams of peppermint schnapps;
discussing “The Second Coming”
by Yeats; Sunday will the Jets beat the Pats?;
and that schnauzer you loved as a little girl

before you tuck me in so to speak
on the couch with a good night kiss,
both knowing that tomorrow night
there’d be a fuller expression of lips.

Sight: two cats
Sound: radio
Taste: coffee
Smell: lilac through an open window
Touch: armrests on an easy chair

 

[champagne1982]

Foreplay
<snip>
Sight: two cats
Sound: radio
Taste: coffee
Smell: lilac through an open window
Touch: armrests on an easy chair

Lookin' For A Fight

You see your reflection in the window
and wonder where that other
cat came from, nose twitching
to catch the foreigner's scent.
Rival or insignificant?

Instead of pheremones, all you
catch in your whiskers
is the perfume of those soft
purple flowers, standing tall
on sturdy stems brushing
against the screen.

I watch you and take a sip
of coffee, relishing the sweet
and bitter roast on my tongue,
the noise of setting the cup
back down disturbs your intensity.
The stare and yawning game
of intimidation now lost.

Not willing to congratulate
the winner, you stretch out
on the arm of my leather recliner,
and your tail seems to keep time
with The Stray Cat Strut on the radio.

Sight: corn silk
Sound: bubbling water
Taste: bbq smoke
Smell: vinegar
Touch: paper napkin

 

[Piscator]

Lookin' For A Fight
Sight: corn silk
Sound: bubbling water
Taste: bbq smoke
Smell: vinegar
Touch: paper napkin

Foothills Tritina

Fingers pluck last corn silk
then plop the ears in boiling water
Taber corn, it’s the best.

Low voice whispers, “You’re the best!”
fingers wiped on paper napkin caress hair like silk
in Calgary, city of clear running water.

Mélange of smoky ribs and vinegar swept away by cold water
then to the bench where the river view’s best
fingers seek portal past damp panties silk.

Silk parts, waters flow, Alberta’s best.

Sight: water bombers overhead
Sound: droning engines
Taste: fresh fish
Smell: distant smoke
Touch: canoe paddle

 

[greenmountaineer]

Sight: water bombers overhead
Sound: droning engines
Taste: fresh fish
Smell: distant smoke
Touch: canoe paddle

Fire

There’s no buoyancy left the canoe,
tilted obliquely in the mud.
It’s paddle looks like a crutch.

Fish have ears that can hear water bombers
droning in the distance
that pulsates in the little water left

one beaver, too frightened to gnaw
the skunk maple on which one lone limb
stands a raccoon, nostrils flared,

facing smoke clouds sailing in the wind.
They know different because they are tired
of rainbows no longer fresh.

Sight: high noon sun
Sound: delivery truck horn
Taste: any kind of ice cream cone
Smell: Hibachi meat
Touch: porch railing

 

[Piscator]

Sight: high noon sun
Sound: delivery truck horn
Taste: any kind of ice cream cone
Smell: Hibachi meat
Touch: porch railing

An exercise to release writer’s block

Suddenly September reveals itself
steel grey clouds and dreary rain;
it’s twelve o'clock, but the sun is hidden.
I lean against the damp deck railing
a Brown truck’s backup horn pierces
the distant din of traffic, but at least
it's not one of those damned drones.

Too wet for the Hibachi but
the propane grill will work.
Chicken roasted on the rotisserie,
beans, late summer corn and
apple crisp with vanilla ice cream.
I can taste it now.

A feast for the return of
a non-prodigal son, briefly back
from the Arctic before he’s off again
this time to Berkley, leaving us alone
again but at least there won't be leftovers.


Sight: a paunch that won’t go away
Sound: labored breathing
Taste: tepid water with a hint of lemon
Smell: sweat
Touch: a puff of air from a rotating fan

 

[Polranny]

It certainly wasn't a martini, nor was it a g and t,
But after a night with him
A large tepid water with a hint of lemon
Tasted like heaven

His idea of foreplay
Was to please himself not me:
His self obsessed neurotic watch
a fat bastard with a paunch
That wouldn't go away
Was hardly an erotic watch.
His laboured breathing
Heralding a rank and sweat encrusted stain
Ejaculated into a kleenex
Discarded
Like some puff of air
From a rotated fan
Did not impress
Nor was it quite a Casablanca remake
On a budget

Sight: an alpine ski resort
Sound: parakeets
Taste: whisky sour
Smell:burning turf
Touch : molasses

 

[Piscator]

Sight: an alpine ski resort
Sound: parakeets
Taste: whisky sour
Smell:burning turf
Touch : molasses

Late fall and a few tourists
trickle in to ride the chair lift
to see the alpine larch, golden
against the first wisps of snow.
Some even hike down to the lodge
but most return they way they came
to the new Irish style pub and sip
a whisky mix which really isn’t sour
and inhale the smoke of imported peat.

Time’s passage feels like molasses
yet the glaciers are melting.
Soon enough our grandkids will rise to
mountain parakeets rather than chickadees
but at least they’ll be above sea level.

Sight: clouds of more than fifty shades of grey
Sound: an overhead airliner
Taste: pumpkin
Smell: fall woods
Touch : fingers

 

[greenmountaineer]

Sight: clouds of more than fifty shades of grey
Sound: an overhead airliner
Taste: pumpkin
Smell: fall woods
Touch : fingers


Fifty-one Stars

There are fifty-one stars
half-hidden tonight,
one of which is the moon,

as if they were falderal above
a loosely woven gossamer shroud
darkening our universe.

On my back porch I count them
with fingers like a little child,
somehow fitting with the last

of Margaret’s pumpkin pie
before I open an IPA
while the buzz of an airplane flies by.

I smell the rotting leaves of birch
and maple in the woods,
presaging gestational birth

which comes full term in April
with as many billions of things
as there are stars in the universe.


Touch: concrete sidewalks
Sight: snow-capped mountain(or mountains)
Sound: car door opening or closing
Taste: gum
Smell: diesel

 

[Lyricalli]

sight- melting ice
Sound- a song you hate
Scent- melted plastic
Touch-metal
Taste- tang

Power Outage Aftermath

Holding tight to the stainless
freezer door
half-emptied of non-frozen food

Your hands slipping up my thighs
and I'm dripping
more than the ice melting off the shelves

And you think you're funny
whispering that fucking song in my ear

"Lightning and the thunder
Thunder, feel the thunder"

Sliding into me
a metallic tang on my tongue
from bitten lip
stifled laughter
turns to gutteral groans

Things are turning back on
and the faint scent
of burning plastic
might concern us
when we're done



Sight: hole in the wall
Sound: distant clanging
Scent: stale air
Touch: denim
Taste: alcohol

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Today is the day of clearing out,
it's been put off too long.
In the long shed I hear Patty Sue clad
in denim dungarees, squeal
then a distant clanging.
Opening the door to what was once
the chicken shed, I'm met by a rush
of stale air and a smell
difficult to decipher, sort of a cross
between fruit and rubbing alcohol,
and there's that hole in the wall
where Grandpa (God rest his soul)
proved giving hammers
to kids wasn't his best idea.

Today is the day of clearing out,
throwing out is another matter.

Sight: geese flying
Sound: sneezing
Scent: lilac
Touch: sand paper
Taste: liquorice

 

[butters]

Sight: geese flying
Sound: sneezing
Scent: lilac
Touch: sand paper
Taste: liquorice

all these years later
i recall the geese flying
shades of buff, cream and liquorice,
landing on the lake in the park
water drops thrown into sparkling air

and the train ride into london town
where the traveling gay
american violinist met me
before his AA meeting

how we strolled the banks of the thames
in april sunshine,
intoxicated by the perfume of lilacs&
ignoring people sneezing around us
complaining of sandpaper throats,

him reading aloud
from his sheaves of poetry,
how he called me sister


okay, i didn't necessarily use liquorice there as a real taste, more a colour but with its taste associations


sight: roadkill
scent: pomegranates
touch: ice
sound:wind chimes
taste: roast lamb

 

[Piscator]

sight: roadkill
scent: pomegranates
touch: ice
sound:wind chimes
taste: roast lamb

It seems there’s always frost, cold
against your fingers as you scrape
the windshield, prior to the drive
through Michigan to Grandma’s farm
on our annual Easter Pilgrimage and
I’m always surprised at the number
of deer revealed as the snow
disappears with the spring thaw.

Uncle Jim, who hunts, will comment
that if fresh, a deer leg tastes a lot
like the leg of lamb, which we’ll
have for dinner with Annie’s special
cheese-stuffed potatoes, Jane's rolls and a
fragrant pomegranate-coconut oil syllabub
made by Margaret, who used to be Meg
before she married that professor from Ann Arbour.

After which, if the weather’s fair the ladies
will go out to the front porch to sip Prosecco
laced with Lorraine’s sour cherry hooch and
listen to the tinkling of Sarah’s wind
chimes while the menfolk do the dishes.


sight: first crocus of spring
scent: fresh prairie wind
touch: burrs caught in boot lace
sound: mandolin
taste: cumin

 

[Kadyia]

sight: first crocus of spring
scent: fresh prairie wind
touch: burrs caught in boot lace
sound: mandolin
taste: cumin

He called it The Wildfire,
quilted on the side with
mother of pearl inlay and
bright of tone as
he played under the tree
where mother died.
The breeze off the plains
carries hints of meadow saffron,
poisonous first flower of spring.
I breath deep, remembering,
but then continue to press out tortillas
and ladle mole over chicken,
smiling as my brother whines
how mother used more cumin.
Later, I lace my boots,
wincing when burrs
sting my hands; I want to cry,
but not from the the burrs.

Sight: river
Scent: aromatic
Touch: rough
Sound: a cry
Taste: bitter

 

[AmericanTrash]

Sight: river
Scent: aromatic
Touch: rough
Sound: a cry
Taste: bitter

Peru maps sleepy plans
December? Maybe then.
We'll save when we save
spend what we spend but
breathe the hope of spices
unknown. starch the slack
romantic fantasies with bitter
irony, aspirin swilled down with just
enough blood to flood the tongue.

Probably it wasn't just the one time
you cried. Slack and guilty, I crumble.
Surrender. Listen to you weep. .
Obviously I wear
the rough hands like someone
else's gloves. I wash them. Tell myself
gloves are not skin. Skin
is not flesh. Not blood. Not me.
Every day I love you is a day more near
to naked. More nearly true.

Sight: flag
sound: distant laughter
smell: cotton candy
taste: lip gloss
touch: frayed denim

 

[Piscator]

giving this challenge a bump

Sight: flag
Sight: traffic
sound: curse words
scent: rain on asphalt
taste: something delicious
touch: cold

The sky’s pissing on the dark road
which muffles the sound of cars and trucks
yet amplifies the coarse profanities the
fans shout at the cops and those fools in
the wrong team’s sweater as they leave
the stadium.

Deep down they know that one team
has to loose and their time had come.
The only recourse is head to the bar to
savour the terroir of Lonestar on ice
as they wonder what could have
happened if only

Sight: red fox
sound: train whistle
scent: gunpowder
taste: bitter lemon
touch: wind in face

 

[Piscator]

Giving this thread and my indolent mind a bump

Sight: aging
sound: rasp
scent: home made cookies
Taste: bread
touch: grass
______________________________________________________________

Once the belle of the ball
now noted for her mature
taste and elegant style.
Her once sexy contralto
now a raspy whisper
but no one listens anyway.
And God how she hates
the word mature.

Yet she can’t help smiling
at the grandchildren’s happy
faces as they inhale the aroma
of her home baked cookies
and savor still warm bead
swathed with melting butter.
But is her smile for the kids
or her special brownies
with that touch of grass?
_____________________________________________________________

Sight: swallows
sound: wind in trees
scent: pickling vinegar
Taste: season’s first crisp apple
touch: bare feet on lawn