The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[KatieJones]

Taste: hamburger
Smell: diesel
Touch: a shoulder
Sound: Mozart
Sight: sundress

No One Drinks at This Watering Hole

Four nameless strangers
have stopped for fuel
each aware
of the other
but no one speaks.

Deus Grievous Angel
leans on his bike
his helmet under his arm
Oakley’s making it hard
to guess where he’s looking
until his head fully turns
to watch two bare legs
swing from the little Honda
that just pulled in.

At pump two a grey door opens
releasing the notes
from Mozart’s violin
sonata No. 28. They fly
from the car as a flock
and circle Audi A4’s black suit
his Tom Ford’s completely failing
to hide that he’s also staring

as white accord flips
her drugstore sunglasses up
pushing summer-blonde wisps
from her face. With each movement
sundress straps slip
down freckled shoulders
until she leaves them
where they want to be

to the delight of Chevy Colorado
who is juggling a hamburger
and the diesel gas pump.
Distracted
he almost bites
down on the metal
which causes a small smile
as she flips her shades down
and slides into her car, leaving
everyone thirsty
for her superimposed perfection,
a disparity
in the face of the differences
in each of their eyes.



Taste: lemon
Smell: anything outside
Touch: wrist
Sound: metal moving
Sight: umbrellas

 

[Piscator]

sight; failure
sound: music that has emotional impact for you
scent: gas
touch: a cup
taste: syrup

The fallen soufflé is but a
visible sign of our failure;
like us the egg whites
couldn't hold the air.

Dylan's Sad Eyed Lady
plays in my head
as the east wind brings
the smell of swamp gas
and though I never take
sugar, this cup of tepid java
tastes like syrup.

sight; sunlight through a dirty window
sound: incessant mosquito hum
scent: balsam
touch: peach fuzz or downy pubic hair (poet's choice)
taste: cream that's turned

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

sight; sunlight through a dirty window
sound: incessant mosquito hum
scent: balsam
touch: peach fuzz or downy pubic hair (poet's choice)
taste: cream that's turned


sight: someone needing help
sound: running engine
scent: cigarette
taste: bitter
touch: something hot

Did you mime this one? I missed it.....

 

[Tzara]

sight: someone needing help
sound: running engine
scent: cigarette
taste: bitter
touch: something hot

Tragedy in Five Acts

1.
Caught in the current
her limbs dipped and spun, helpless,
desperate, the flow
sweeping her quickly past us.
She was too far out to catch.

2.
He gunned the engine.
The tires squealed, bit; the car launched
into the alley.
There must have been screams. I heard
only bodies, like sandbags.

3.
When he opened fire
we were still for a moment—
in a theatre
that smelled of terror and blood
and his menthol cigarettes.

4.
Cyanide. The scent
of over-roasted almonds,
bitter on the tongue.
Not as bitter as my heart.
Not as broken as my love.

5.
I could not even
sift the ashes—they were still
too hot. There may be
some remains, the doctor said,
but sleep now. You need to sleep.



Sight: the horizon, however defined
Sound: birdcalls
Smell: ripening fruit (very faint and distant)
Taste: something tangy
Touch: frayed cloth

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight: the horizon, however defined
Sound: birdcalls
Smell: ripening fruit (very faint and distant)
Taste: something tangy
Touch: frayed cloth



Staring without seeing
sea meeting sky
the fall of night
answers the call of seabirds
obscuring the line
of distance
beginnings and endings

A disconcerting scent
out-of-season fruit
carried on the air
ripening somewhere not here

Ripened memories of sweet acid
on my tongue
a slow burn growing
in the back of my throat

Wrapped in the fabric
of circumstance
fingertips idly brushing tattered strings
of things I thought I knew



Sight: street corner
Sound: an echo
Smell: smoke
Taste: something greasy
Touch: scab

 

[Tzara]

Sight: street corner
Sound: an echo
Smell: smoke
Taste: something greasy
Touch: scab

Subtitled

It was weird. The sound,
we just kept hearing it, like an echo,
ingenting, ingenting

like it was telling us
it was all emptiness, everything was emptiness,
to hang around the corner

of University and 45th, picking
at the scabs on our arms,
toking weed until

Danny finally brought some more bags
of white girl and we tied off and shot.
I'm always so trim afterwards

I forget my spoon and have to lift one
from that café
we always eat at later,

where Marge's eggs slide down grease,
bam, into my gullet
and we can smoke until they chase us into the street.


Sight: Some kind of artwork or statue or mural or graffiti.
Sound: A random cellphone noise.
Smell: Licorice, grilled meat, or perfume.
Taste: Something unpleasant.
Touch: Upholstery.

 

[Angeline]

Sight: Some kind of artwork or statue or mural or graffiti.
Sound: A random cellphone noise.
Smell: Licorice, grilled meat, or perfume.
Taste: Something unpleasant.
Touch: Upholstery


Life and Lemons

I bought a couch.
You ripped the upholstery
enough for my hand to slide in
and somehow this, too, is my fault

along with your many jobs
that didn't work out, that noise
the car made, the day your cellphone
whined to a halt and shit I don't know

Thursdays? Am I to blame for Thursdays
as well? I had 22 years of your rage
and futility lingering in my mouth
like burnt popcorn, but now I sing

trouble no more, trouble go way
from my back door. Come in
mountains. Welcome woman
holler honey and chicken painted
bright red yellow streetside art
where bbq wafts blue.

Sight: eyes
Sound: bells
Taste: water
Touch: stones
Smell: pine trees

 

[Remec]

Sight: eyes
Sound: bells
Taste: water
Touch: stones
Smell: pine trees

Reunion

Hard and unyielding, the stones in his
hands were a distinct counterpoint to
the softness of her eyes as their inner
fire dwindled down to nothingness;

He stood in the rain,
the stale taste of droplets running
through his hair and down his cheeks
mingled with the sweat he'd built up
over the last several minutes and
eased their way over his lips;

She laid upon the space cleared around
the old ship's bell built into the
school's memorial to those lost in
the Great Storm, and the sound of its
peals still echoed in his head,
diminishing bit by bit,
even as she did
before him;

He didn't know what more he had
expected to experience, but the
odd wafting scent of the evergreens
surrounding them
was not part
of it.




sight: decline of something
scent: a coming storm
sound: dripping
touch: athletic gear (your choice)
taste: vinegar

 

[greenmountaineer]

sight: decline of something
scent: a coming storm
sound: dripping
touch: athletic gear (your choice)
taste: vinegar

The Fall of Carthage

With a desert storm fast approaching,
the young brides hastened their work
who would be allowed the ornate breastplates,
helmets and sandals but not the swords
of their generals whose heads were piked
to barter for food in the Roman encampment
but were forbidden to use their bodies
for fear of disease among the hastati.

Mazek and Hadl dragged a husband
to one of the many battlefield pyres,
smearing their night of nights henna nails
with what was left of his vitals dripping
before they joined the other brides
with sticks to chase the vultures away
while the hags there pissed and poured vinegar
to establish a safe perimeter
from dogs that no longer wagged their tails.

sight: a train
scent: something boiling
sound: jukebox blaring
touch: chiffon
taste: pretzel

 

[UnderYourSpell]

sight: a train
scent: something boiling
sound: jukebox blaring
touch: chiffon
taste: pretzel

I never was a one for pretzels
but sitting in the waiting room
not much else was on offer
from the vending machine on the wall.
Trying to read my latest downloaded novel,
my ears fending off the blare
of the jukebox as train after train
thrashed on by, but never yours.
Had I got the right message
from a distant voice, calling for help?
Wrinkling my nose in distaste
at the smell of of over boiled cabbage
that permeated these walls,
I fingered your chiffon scarf
all that was left of that far off Summer,
and kept my vigil.

sight: a dog cocking it's leg
scent: baking
sound: raucous laughter
touch: a bruise
taste: mint

 

[Tzara]

sight: a struggle
sound: water splashing
scent: eucalyptus
touch: rough
taste: delicious

Voyeur

I hid
.....among the eucalyptus trees, bathed
.....in their minty, pine scent, touched
with honey and I watched
.....how Deborah fought with him.
.....In the river, the splash of water
as she thrashed even louder than the current
.....as it ran lively over the rocks.
.....I peeled a peach, its skin roughened
and bunched, its taste as I bit into it, so sweet.





sight: a sandy beach
sound: music of some kind, perhaps distant
smell: burning cannabis
taste: someone else's lips or skin
touch: the strings of a vintage guitar

 

[Piscator]

sight: a sandy beach
sound: music of some kind, perhaps distant
smell: burning cannabis
taste: someone else's lips or skin
touch: the strings of a vintage guitar

Nimble
fingers
caresssilk
wrapped
bronzed
steel strings
stretched tight across
the board of a venerable
Martin mixing minor chords
with quick, sharp arpeggios
which drift across the sandy
spit, knifing through the sweet
aroma of Mary Jayne as my lips
nuzzle your slender neck and I
savour the rich mélange of dry
salt and your rich warm blood.
​

sight: a bare light bulb
sound: the doppler of a departing siren
smell: curry
taste: a well hopped ale
touch :a hand moving up your thigh

 

[Piscator]

Bumpity bump

Taste: gunpowder
Touch: cold
scent: pussy
Sounds: groans
Sight: male or female writhing in exstacy or death throes

Things that go bump in the night

There’s something about the hour
after midnight, when the moon is
full and the metal cold against your
finger as you pull the trigger and fire
a round of blanks, leaving a bitter acrid
smell and the taste of cordite in your
mouth but at least it covers the smell of
her cunt which lingers on the sodden pillow
under your head, which was under her
ass, when you heard her rapturous cries and
entered unexpectedly to see them
cavorting in your marital bed.
Maybe next time they’ll use a motel.



Taste: cherry pie
Touch: footsie
scent: lavender
Sounds: muted polite conversation
Sight: church supper

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Assembly hall Soul brunch
Served up in Riverside all denomination
International church is rich.
This bite of sour cherry pie
Stings water up around the teeth
That grazed the long finger of that
Fine man serving. Across from me,
South African artists
Displaying sculpture on the 9th floor,
Above the second balcony, murmer
Sexy somethings. Then her stockinged toe
Snakes my calf to hem.
I wink but rise. I know the man who breaks
Ache like watermelon. His strong
Long hands around my waist, still felt.
The powder room puffs lavender and mango
Welcome. Just cool water on my neck
Straight hem and walk out tall.

Sight: lipstick
Sound: waves
Scent: bay leaf
Feel: marble
Taste: primativo

 

[HarryHill]

Sight: lipstick
Sound: waves
Scent: bay leaf
Feel: marble
Taste: primativo
..
She applies lipstick, eyes darting to mine in the mirror,
rapid speech washes over defective ears like heavy surf,
lunch simmers on the stove,
dried beans from Guatemala,
bay leaves, sage from the iron pot beside the kitchen door,
chorizo, chicken broth,
I imagine her seated on the smooth counter top, naked,
silent,
waiting for my mouth and dessert .

<all to kill the e-mail notification>

eta:
sight: pastoral
sound: rural
scent: wet dog
feel: air
taste: fruit

 

[Piscator]

Sight: rain clouds
sound: wind
scent: coffew
taste: cool water
touch: something soft

The New Normal

The west wind brought in a
precipitous rise in temperature
serious steel grey sky rain clouds
and our second February thaw.
Almost all the snow vanished overnight
leaving brown fields and skeleton maple
trees with sap buckets full of rain.

I sip the cold water finding just a
hint of sweetness and rub the
soft fur between the dogs' ears,
then we continue down the
concession line but the creeks
overflowed the culvert and
the road's under a foot of water
so we turn back to our warm
house and the smell of wood
smoke and coffee.

Sight: downy woodpecker (or local equivalent)
sound: Leonard Cohen song other than Hallelujah sung by somebody else
scent: jasmine
taste: curry
touch: polished wood

 

[Remec]

Sight: cards
Sound: open
Scent: smoke
Taste: metal
Touch: cold

The Reading

The barely burning bundle of
grass and herbs felt cold in
my hand, the warmth at its
core not penetrating the dead
nerves of the fingers holding it
while wafting the grey tendrils
coming off the active end in a
slow pass about my body and the
immediate space around it.
I could smell it as we cleansed the
work area--bit by bit--and the smoke
left a dry, acrid taste in my mouth,
like touching my tongue and lips to a
live battery and savoring the metals
inherent in the interaction between it
and me...between me and the space...
the space and all Eternity...mind unfolding
and sound having no meaning as my
eyes focused on the Celtic Cross
pattern we had laid the Tarot deck out in.
Maybe this time we'll get a proper
answer to all of our questions.
~~~~~

sight: boys and girls
sound: drums
scent: (choose your own adjectiv) water
taste: hair
touch: latex

 

[Piscator]

sight: boys and girls
sound: drums
scent: (choose your own adjectiv) water
taste: hair
touch: latex

No longer Parkland

School boys and girls
marching to their own
drum, knowing that fear
smell like piss wetting
your neat Ann Landers
undies, tastes like a
mouthful of nettles
and feels like the finger
of a disposable glove
shoved up your rectum.

It comes from guns
and those behind the
trigger but only without
guns can things get better.


sight: Casino
sound: one armed bandit
scent: alcohol
taste: soy sauce
touch: slap on the back

 

[AngelicaS1780]

No longer Parkland
sight: Casino
sound: one armed bandit
scent: alcohol
taste: soy sauce
touch: slap on the back

The stacatto of metal tips on tile
echoing sharply as we cross the marble
competing with the digital chirps
the flashing screens
of the one armed bandits.

The sting of your palm on my backside
as I cross the elevator's threshold
then spun round gasping
my back against the wall
the rice wine on your breath.

The strength of your grip on my wrists
as you cross my hands over my head
the salt of the soy sauce on your tongue
again you order for me
the omakase.

sight: dark sky
sound: thunder
scent: burning wood
taste: leather
touch: rice paper

 

[Tzara]

sight: dark sky
sound: thunder
scent: burning wood
taste: leather
touch: rice paper

Realism

I helped her hold her brush
as she outlined the mountains
on the damp xuan paper

she had stretched and pressed
onto her easel. She managed
to fairly capture

the wash of dark sky
that had settled over the foothills
to the east,

and she even caught that sound like thunder
we never could quite hear.
But later, when

we lay together before the fire
and its cherry-scented smoke, I thought
while I gnawed

at her constrictive leather bra,
which gave her the taste of an animal,
how I did not understand calculus,

or flowers, or life.
I didn't understand anything of that.
So the next day I painted another mountain.

Because a mountain is a fact.


Sight: A card deck
Sound: Music (blues, rock, jazz) in a crowded bar
Smell: Cigarettes
Taste: Something acrid
Touch: Tight denim

 

[Neonurotic]

Sight: A card deck
Sound: Music (blues, rock, jazz) in a crowded bar
Smell: Cigarettes
Taste: Something acrid
Touch: Tight denim

Con Juan

The Ace of Hearts
he says is me, a new romance
though one-nighter is what he means
as he claims the Six of Clubs,
meaning victorious.

It's tarot with his scuffed deck of cards
a con game I let myself
be played for an amusing hour or two.

Oh, he says, I'm not gay, but something
about you ... ha-ha-ha!
Ya, I get that a lot
grin at his nerves, lighting the
wrong end of his cigarette

I taste his acrid smoke.

Then cliche, across the crowded bar,
I Saw Her Standing There,
barefoot, painted on jeans
peek-a-boo top and
Godiva red hair, all legs.

Bi-curious has folded; like it
or not, I steal his game.

The Ace for her, the Clubs for me.







todski, I'll come back for this since these are good prompts too:

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

 

[Neonurotic]

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

Café au lait Casanova
Born in a Treehouse


Summer 1992, felt like this:
Wind snarling through the pecan tree
shaking the fort snug in a fork.
The nuts rapped on the wooden roof
as rain swept teenage
lust out of the other window.

It wasn't the first time I saw tits.
I saw many of them in Playboy
but it was first to feel them.
Stripping her bra was like
unwrapping a dirty magazine,
flipping to the Centerfold,
but finding a better secret.

Though, hardly a mouthful,
her realness was sweet saltiness,
had me thinking of cream,
caramel and double macchiatos.

It' funny, I realize now, that's when
my moniker was born, in a treehouse,
not a coffeehouse, where the
beginning of everything that felt good.

Ya, coffee came later,
but I remember, sex and lattes
were first topped with nubile cherries.






sight: sequoias
sound: birds
scent: pine
taste: citrus
touch: something rough

 

[greenmountaineer]

The Soft Skin of California

Sequoia was her name
because Mama had wanderlust in Georgia
where pine tar from paper mills dripped
like summer sap on black capped chickadees
that slumbered in the nectarine trees,
the fruit skin of which was no longer soft.

Orangeade was orange aid,
minimum wage what you got paid,
and 200 bucks two paychecks away
to fix her ‘96 Chevrolet
to drive to heaven through a tree
with Sequoia in California,

old enough to drive next year,
maybe best to wait til then,
and Cousin Hanna in Little Rock
maybe can get them waitress jobs
to help the rest of the way
or in case the car breaks down again.





taste: eggs over easy
sight: the other side of the tracks
sound: freight train
touch: a cheek
scent: stale beer

 

[Angeline]

taste: eggs over easy
sight: the other side of the tracks
sound: freight train
touch: a cheek
scent: stale beer

The Key Word Is Survival

Eggs over easy, no salt, ersatz
coffee is the new frontier. Only
recently I escaped, taking
the tracks with me. I own this

landscape stitched now on arms
and belly. Tammy the nurse
is an angel who brushed my hair,
cheeks, said You've such clear skin.

___________~~

We parked by the train tracks
at Old Orchard Beach, 2010,
lonely whistles harmonizing
with timeless waves, air heavy

with stale shrimp, onions, beer.
We knew that ending, reverent
for it in our silence and unaware
of train wrecks to come.

I love you so. I miss you so
much I can't breathe sometimes,
but I ain't ready to quit trying.










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

 

[butters]

taste: eggs over easy
sight: the other side of the tracks
sound: freight train
touch: a cheek
scent: stale beer

tastes like stale beer inside my head
the thought of eggs over easy slippery
greasy
nauseating
as he turns a cheek when I aim to kiss his lips
and the mournful note of a distant freight train
echoes only down imagination's wind
reminds me i'm from the other side of the tracks
and will always be a foreigner around these parts
never acclimatising to the ways of others





sight: hand-written schedule
sound: frogs after the rainstorm
smell: hot rubber
taste: engine oil
touch: emptiness