In Spring, we find our senses becoming heightened. Write a poem that involves a sense (touch, sound, etc.). Or it could be a sense of direction, common sense … what ever makes sense to you, write about it.

Marie Elena’s Sense

A Spring Internment

 We buried you today,

lowering you into

the short space

between wives.

 I sensed murmurings

among the living

and the dead –

the air dripping with lilac

and admonition.

 “She wasn’t even gone a full year,

when he began seeing

h   e   r.”

 Whispers breathe down my neck,

or perhaps it is the night air,

 but I realize life is too short

to concern yourself

with who lies in the grave

next to you.



All my thoughts converge

random ideas bombard

making little sense.

253 thoughts on “IT MAKES SENSE – PROMPT #51

  1. P.S. I feel the need to let you know my poem is not autobiographical. I don’t want any of you to think we just buried a loved one.

    Now, write on! 😀

    Marie Elena

    • 🙂 ME, I love the cynicism of yours. Walt, I think we’re coming from the same place. NOTHING is making sense for me just now. I may think of something later.

    • Marie: Glad it’s not autobiographical — but it IS beautifully done!
      “the short space between wives”, “dripping with lilac and admonition” and “life is too short to concern yourself with who lies in the grave next to you” — all excellent! 🙂

      And, Walt: Always enjoy it when you put your “2 cents” in — and I can definiitely relate to this one! :-))

    • Yes, thank you for that; my creative writer’s mind usually goes into many directions with everyone’s words. Happy Sunday to you both! 🙂

    • Marie! I love this, “the air dripping with lilac/and admonition.” Very striking!

      Haiku penned well on thoughts, Walt and thank you, I just realized that converged became converged with my poetic thought today.

      Smiles to you both!

      • Marie…the lines Hannah metioned really stood out to me…and the way you finish it! I read those lines multiple times. another WOWIEE poem

        Walt, so very concise and clever! I love it. Thank-you for the inspiration and this prompt!

  2. Out of the Sea

    A crowning of brilliance for optimistic fools,
    the glint of sunlight denudes the alders of winter,
    inciting the subtle poison of caterpillars.

    As voices coalesce into a mouthful of echoes,
    I throw my walls wide open until they fade away
    and she stands as my nearest border.

    Like ice-cold droplets on leaves,
    she often wonders how one might live inside
    a snowflake, shaping hands and lips

    into pallid chateaux and bursts of flamingo.
    It seems to her as if only the rumble of plows
    can bring a lasting quietude to a changeling world uncoiled.

    In wicker morning, her eyes pine open as scrawls
    of lorelei. I push June air across her fingertips—
    mulberries burst at her touch;

    she reveals saline, breathes steam deeply.
    One never knows when a giant tentacle will reach up
    out of the sea


    My poetic senses
    are edged in,
    hedged in
    by etched messages;
    written in
    your brailed body.
    I decipher the codes
    placed in breaks of bark,
    fingers travel
    wise ridges.
    My senses are reeling,
    feeling of this
    story revealed
    in long lengths
    of the tallest timber;
    prose proposed
    in the telling-texture
    of your edged skin.
    My senses converge
    with depth and folds
    as I unravel your life’s plot,
    your tenderly-wrought novel.
    As you breathe out
    I inhale your breath,
    as I’m breathing out
    you breathe me in;
    again and again
    and again.

    © H.G. @ P.B. 4/15/12

  4. Fellow poets, my feebleness knows no bounds, and shows no sign of dissipating. Please will you excuse me for giving you an old poem?


    A whiff of Charlie says Mum to me,
    while 4711 brings Grandma back.
    Chypre brings thoughts of a rival,
    encountered via my man.

    Cabbage and sweat and the outside loo
    take me to my first wartime school;
    polish and piety, to the convent.
    Intense incense and I’m on my knees
    fasting, struggling not to faint.

    Roasting lamb is my in-laws’ house,
    mixed in my mind
    with the odour of dust
    and disapproval.

    Plenty of smells around babies
    make me wish for those days again
    when adorable powdered skin
    demanded to be kissed,
    or the pong of poo cried
    “change me now”.

    A tropical interlude taught me
    aromas I’d never known –
    frangipane and stinking fish,
    fresh sea breeze and rotting seaweed .

    Memories push and shove to bring back
    the mixture of perfumes and stinks
    that have been my life.

      • Yes… I’m thinkin’ homemade Cinnamon Rolls… aroma wafting from my elementary school cafeteria…

    • This is GREAT…oh, I hope you feel strong again soon…I have to admit that smell for me, living in farming country is a blend of country-fresh fragrance and this time of year…foulness, as farmers fertilze their fields:)’Memories push and shove to bring back
      the mixture of perfumes and stinks
      that have been my life….:) LOVE it. The sense of smell seems to arouse sudden memories like no other sense!!! except maybe hearing an old song…

    • Such a marvelous tour of the world, and a life. You did very well, my friend. You showed us so much through nothing more than brilliant descriptions, distilled from lengthier interludes of time.

  5. But you may prefer a more sensual poem, written last night when I couldn’t sleep.


    A crepuscular butter-coloured glow
    gilds the misty mauve boundary
    between earth and sky.
    Sound subsides,

    Songbirds sway on frail twigs,
    heads curled for warmth
    under wings.

    Stealthy velvety darkness
    swaddles them until, unseen,
    a restless ragged rustling
    betrays the entrance
    of the creatures
    of the night.

  6. Pingback: ~RECIPROCAL~ « Metaphors and Smiles

  7. Thru These Eyes

    Thru these eyes the colors are so vibrant.
    Still all that’s seen fades into shades of gray.
    Thru these eyes there’s quite a grand illusion.
    The spinning sphere brings forth another day.

    Thru these eyes time is rarely considered.
    The clock upon the wall is standing still.
    The world we know keeps moving all around us.
    Look after those you love, I surely will.

    Thru these eyes there’s laughter, tears and blindness.
    Nothing comes to light thru a locked door.
    It’s brighter than these eyes will ever show me.
    My soul knows all of this and so much more.

    Thru these eyes nothing compares to true love.
    Opened for a moment brings blue skies.
    Only good this day, forever more
    is what I choose to see now thru these eyes.

    By Michael Grove


    Bright sunshine warms my face.
    Breezes tickle my arm hairs.
    Floral scents spread through my brain.
    I am showering in a fountain of Springtime.

    Bird calls echo in my ears.
    The sight of gently rocking branches
    quickens the rhythm of my heart.
    Hope rises like a phoenix.

  9. What Goes Last

    “Go ahead.
    She can hear you,
    maybe see you too.”

    I thought smell was
    the last sense to go,
    or was it taste? How
    can we know until
    we go what goes first,
    last? I hesitate.
    Beneath the beeps
    and whirrs of machines,
    I take her hand

    and smooth the skin
    along her thumb, where
    she is not so badly burned,
    hoping not to hurt her,
    hoping the medicinal
    smells don’t sicken her,
    hoping she is up there
    floating by the ceiling

    looking down with
    all her senses intact,
    new x-ray vision
    penetrating the robes,
    gloves, and masks
    of her loved ones
    standing wrung out

    and helpless to say
    a single word that will
    make this parting easy.
    Will she see us
    draped in gowns and
    long for laundry

    flapping on the line,
    smelling of sunshine?
    Will she hear a ping that
    resonates as her song of life,
    fluid and triumphant?

    Will an errant whiff
    of cologne conjure
    a last lilac breath
    and petals scattered

    on a wind, or a tang
    of lemonade smoothing
    the smoky tightness
    in her throat? Or will

    she, senseless, eschew
    pain’s weight and rise
    like a phoenix from
    these ashes?

    Who knows what goes
    first, what last,
    and what stays

  10. ~ Sixth Sense ~

    It makes no sense,
    But I’m still here,
    I watch the night,
    The dawn I hear,
    I smell the rain,
    I touch the sky,
    I feel the taste
    Of bitter “I” –
    Sweet “we” no more.
    And something else:
    I live the loss –
    My own sixth sense.

  11. SENSES

    I catch fragments of
    her fragrance even when
    she is gone.

    Strawberries and cream
    on my tongue brings a
    vision of her face,
    smiling with eyes closed.

    Jazz from New Orleans
    reminds me of our trip,
    walking hand-in-hand
    through the Quarter and
    along the river.

    Her silhouette is imposed
    on every sunset, a
    contented shadow admiring
    the colors.

    There is no part of me
    that she has not

  12. Pingback: Sense of Duty « echoes from the silence


    a mask covers nose and mouth
    eyes dart left and right
    as someone tries to strap him down

    Where am I? he struggles to ask
    but the loud thumping
    serves to mask his words

    the taste of blood
    from the slash in his flesh
    touches his tongue

    images flash in his mind’s eye
    a light, blinking rapidly
    the button, lit bright red

    sounds ring in his ears
    bells, whistles and popping sounds
    as that of a balloon

    his heart throbs beneath the strap
    he feels the welt above his eye
    begin to balloon with each beat

    reality starts to slash at his memory
    recalling the last thing he did…
    to snap and button himself into his harness

    surrounded by rugged mountains,
    the spinning blades of a chopper,
    and medics in camo…

    his world fades to black

    P. Wanken

  14. Sense and Nonsense (a double nonet)

    I am not imbued with a sixth sense
    or I might have felt marriage one
    was doomed, cloud cast a gloomy
    filter behind which hid
    common sense, napping.
    feel no true
    sense of
    I woke,
    my eyes clear
    for the first time,
    I smelled the rank stench
    of foul jealousy, not
    flattering, nor was ripping
    phones out of walls, face distorted,
    remotely related to true love.


    I have washed my hands
    In warm fragrant lavender.
    I begin to write…

    • Ah, the sweet spicy scent of lavender, how clean it always smells. Good job on this, Hen. Would that I could do the same. Sis can’t stand the scent, and I won’t trouble her.

      • Yum…. My husband used to love me to give him Peppermint foot rubs… I can hardly wait for you to try it!!!

  16. Here’s my Day 15 attempt from across the street, at PA, which I just realized is an expression of my sense of wonder:


    On Sunday’s, I strap on
    my go-to-meetin’ best,
    (which is not much, really),
    and head off to the Unity Center,
    my spiritual sanctuary,
    where struggle and strife
    get left at the door, and
    all social masks are deposited
    in the bin next to the umbrella stand.
    I seek a non-anxious presence
    in an anxious world , which
    can be work of a sort, but
    not if the trying is removed,
    silently slashed away by
    that still, small voice.
    Unity is not a bumper sticker type
    of place, and we don’t wear buttons
    with witty sayings of positive thinking.
    We do wear name tags, however,
    and “effortless effort” is present in
    invisible ink on each.
    On Sunday, when we gather,
    it is clear that it is love and light and good
    that are real in the world,
    not evil, that nonsubstantive thought balloon
    that goes “poof”, as we sit like
    the lilies of the field.
    We sing and pray and meditate,
    rejoicing in the effect that community brings.
    I don’t know what name to give to that effect,
    but it is tangible, and even though,
    like the wind, it is invisible,
    we experience it.
    Unlike the wind, it reaches inside,
    warming and shaping, often healing.
    By the time Reverend Wendy speaks,
    the talk is almost unnecessary.
    Wanted, always interesting,
    definitely challenging,
    but unneeded.
    Really, she could just stand there and
    smile at us.
    It would do.

  17. It Doesn’t Make Sense to My Senses

    Eighty degrees in Phoenix,
    the desert landscape
    decorated with pinks, yellows, purples
    of queen’s wreath and bougainvillea,
    their light fragrance stifled by traffic fumes.
    Then up the hill through
    fields of tall, thick saguaro
    lifting their three to five or so arms
    in salutation. And then
    flashing signs on Arizona mountains
    warning motorists of winter weather.
    Switching off the AC, careful on the black ice,
    but my eyes lingering as long as possible
    on snowy cover, bright blue sky and tall pines.
    Then popping out on lower ground,
    reddish orange earth
    contrasting pale blue sky
    with whip cream clouds hovering low.
    Then other worldly rock formations
    pale gray monoliths, red, then sandy mesas.
    Then back to where the mountains
    meet the desert in Southwest Colorado,
    the sky uncharacteristically gray,
    with the smell of rain in the air.
    This morning, I restart my life
    where sunshine from the east
    and clouds in the west
    seem to dare each other.

    • What a great last line to an absolutely delightful tour! This reminds me of when we were in Colorado on my honey-moon…Freezing in the mountains and sweltering in the lowlands! If I could return to any state I visited it would be Colorado…Its contrast is stunning!

    • Beautiful, Connie! I used to live in Tucson, and you have captured the lovely desert!!!

    • Lovely journey, Connie, along I-17. I know that trip well. You captured the dichotomy very well indeed. Thank you for reminding me.

      I love this part: “Switching off the AC, careful on the black ice,
      but my eyes lingering as long as possible
      on snowy cover, bright blue sky and tall pines”

  18. “Seeing Green”

    Someone turned down the blue.
    Yellow comes forward
    in all its hues
    trying to claim
    the top spot
    in the pantheon of spring,
    but tricks of light
    only carry so far
    and soon
    yellow falls back
    ceding its time
    to green.

  19. Making Sense out of the Senseless…

    Mere thought of you
    Keens sharply
    The dew
    Reclining against the
    sweep of the grass
    Where yesterday we
    Leaned heavily
    On pride
    fortifying a foolish impasse
    because nothing is solved
    by insults hurled
    against mid-day dark
    where bright-eyed daisy
    nods, hapless and lazy
    its contrast subtle, yet vivid and stark
    as now, thought of you
    returns, subdued
    in the echo of words
    better left unspoken
    while remorse and regret
    weigh every word said
    beneath the gavel suspended
    above guilt’s token
    As I weakly toy with
    Thought of pleading the fifth
    I scan its offering
    Of futile glory
    Then I bow my head
    Uttering what I should have said
    When it all began…
    I’m sorry,
    I’m sorry

  20. To all of you…What a treat to the senses this prompt is! I have an unexpected day off and I am revelling in the ‘keening of senses here’! Spectacular work! Thank-you Walt and Marie for this ‘sensational’ prompt!

  21. Sorry I’m late for the party. Here’s my little entry for this prompt. I’ll be back later to read and comment. Enjoy.

    Sense and Sense Ability

    We hear world’s echoes,
    And see daydreams unfold.
    Aromas fill our heads instead of humor,
    With joys known or
    Disgust at odorous repeats.
    Fingers trace life’s passing,
    While feet feel roads beneath.
    And taste sensations
    Keep our appetites replete.

    © Claudette J. Young 2012

  22. Papa

    My skin feels the lingering
    touch of your hand
    strong, callused hands
    that were never supposed to leave
    Still feels the soft curly hair
    on the tips of my fingers
    You are the booming laugh
    that echoes in the hollows
    your absence leaves in my heart
    I was so sure you were
    too strong to ever fall
    The cold marble proves me wrong
    the only tangible reminder
    you ever were here with me
    I don’t need that stone
    to know what I lost
    every shaky beat remembers
    brings a pulsing ache
    I’ll never forget being held
    in the gentlest of embraces
    will never feel as safe
    as I felt in your love
    so sure and true
    Wait at the gates of heaven
    I’ll be along soon enough
    soon enough the missing piece
    will be whole again.

    • Oh my … so very touching. As Hen said, “sadly beautiful.” Tracy, forgive me if I’ve already done this, but I don’t remember welcoming you to Poetic Bloomings. We’re so glad to have you join in the fun!

      Marie Elena

    • Oh, Tracy… remembering is a sense of it’s own. It is what is synthesized by all those things we felt and saw and smelled and heard and tasted as we were held in moments that we will treasure always.

  23. Viv, thank God! You gave me the courage to post one from earlier in the week, which was orig. for 3WW but actually fits this prompt to a T. It’s for my wonderful husband, Lex, marking our 14th anniversary.

    MY MAN (the texture of his soul)

    Jagged thorny corners where
    nuns did a number on him

    Nearby, a fountain that weeps salt
    for this father, gone too soon

    On one side, blown glass
    Cool to the touch, warming now…

    Burlap covers newly planted notions
    He will wait for blooms

    Devotions in denim, closed eyes
    weary after work of worship

    A patch of stubble – not 5:00 Draper
    but his biting, familiar sarcasm

    A kazoo juts out of one side
    waiting to play “Bridge On The River Kwai”

    Settling in to meditate will be hard
    what with all the racket, but he’ll get there

    © 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

    This seemed to be the week to write about Lex, who pastored during a Seder on Thursday, spent quiet time on Good Friday, went to the vigil with me on Saturday, and rocked the church with an amazing sermon on Easter Sunday. Love of my life; man of God; sweetheart of a guy. Trust me, you’d love him.

  24. There are definitely some sensuous aspects to this and a definite lack of common sense, so I think it works…and not autobiographical (just had to throw that in!)

    Tequila Sun

    The sun’s intrusion through my bedroom window
    Pushes back the Patron-induced fog.
    Tequila’s evil tricks swirl in my head,
    Last night’s events only a hazy blur.

    Angry words ricocheted around the room:
    You’ve changed…
    Why do I even waste my time?
    I need someone younger…richer…
    More energy…more flexible…
    Then after our dramatic exchange, the bar…
    Shot after shot of smooth agave blend
    Stoking vengeful flames…
    Attitudes soften, igniting a different fire…

    And now, with daylight rudely insisting
    I return to coherent consciousness,
    I feel his hand splayed across my hip,
    Forceful and possessive,
    His hot breath on my bare shoulder.
    I cast a sleepy glance
    Toward his sweet brown eyes and whisper,

    “What was your name again?”

    • I love it, Mary. It’s a romance novel, steamy and insistent, in a short poem. Are you sure you don’t write these for a living? Had me nailed to the screen throughout.

    • You know, I hadn’t really considered it as a poetic romance novel. It’s kind of funny, my mother was completely addicted to Harlequin Romances, had thousands of them at one point, and I know I’ve probably read hundreds over the years.

      Definitely not recommended behavior to be sure in this day and age but certainly does still happen…just not by me!

      • So true, Mary, I am so glad that my folks were sooo “strict” with us… now I hear myself repeating their words over and over! (Oh, and I knew it this was not you! :)!) Hen

  25. Wow. So many poems here gave me goosebumps. I’m in awe of the few poems I had a chance to read. Wow.
    This is a tritina, a poetic form I’ve wanted to write for awhile because its rules are so tricky to follow; following the poetic rules, following ten syllables, following the pentameter.


    Curious, and how! spring wakes the senses.
    Hard, unyielding, frozen by winter, life
    Births again a promise bright. Curious.

    Seasonal cycles catch me curious.
    Winking world, you beckon me. Consensus
    Would whisper I, too, greet a bright new life.

    Do you, too, breathe in this beginning life?
    Oh, feel the tug, the heart wake. Curious,
    Daring, glaring, foolishly sensuous.

    Now all I sense is life. I’m curious.

  26. I rarely merge prompts, but I am a little overwhelmed this week. This was actually written for Poetic Asides “fantasy” prompt today, but it applies here, too, and I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to “sense” out another poem. 😉

    In this Poem

    you can taste verbs. To love
    is butterscotch with a touch
    of Tabasco, see? You can
    touch sound, because it’s in
    -digo now, and corrugated,
    but satin on your fingertips.
    Hold this whisper; grasp that
    sob, caress it against your
    cheek, speak in vermillion
    and scarlet and jade and
    amber. Pick hope and fly
    and laugh and shine from
    silver slivered sparrow trees,
    breathe an amethyst breeze
    and sink your toes into the
    giggling longing in your lungs.
    Become these sweet and spicy
    hues, and sprinkle their
    sugared sands into your
    soul. These senses are no
    longer invisible, immortal now,
    in their own fresh skins. Dig in
    and savor this salted sapphire
    song. Press these licorice heartbeats
    to your palm, and follow them home.

    • To love
      is butterscotch with a touch
      of Tabasco

      THAT’s great! Love that. I think I’ll actually try it and see. I tend to believe it will be just like love.

  27. Music

    I am the reed that bend before the wind
    And echoes its sigh.
    I am the log that lies forgotten until a pair
    Of hands pummels their rhythm against
    My bark and send s it through the forest…
    I am the string, plucked by a lover parted
    Whose reverberations of his loss
    Pierce the hearts of all the forsaken.
    I am the wail of the lost child seeking
    The comfort of its mother.
    I am the keen of widows and mothers
    And all who mourn for those who sleep forever.
    Forever with the wind that moans
    And stirs and roars and sends the leaves
    Swirling to the ground.

    I am the babble of the brooks
    Dancing over pebbles
    I am the calling of the birds
    Returning in the Springtime.
    The successful hunter’s shout, the newborn’s
    Squall, the happy lovers’ sigh, the child’s delight
    The greeting of old friends –

    I am the weaver of sounds, listen and all
    the melodies of the universe are
    Dwelling in my tunes.
    I am life’s accompanist, and my melodies
    Echo all the joys and sorrows
    The sounds of life unending.

  28. Pingback: At the Race « This Girl Remembers

    • Welcome, TGR! Inspiration, and promotion of each poetic soul is what “Bloomings” is all about. Your poem is not just suitable, it is inspiration in and of itself. Beautiful work. We hope to see you here more often!

      Marie Elena

      • ALL: If you have not yet seen TGR’s blog, it is worth your perusal. The photographs alone are gorgeous, and the poetry is top notch, IMHO.

        Marie Elena

  29. Here’s a re-write of a poem I wrote long, long ago in college years…which I only remembered in part. Lost it long ago. It was always one of my favorites. This is nowhere near what it was, but in an attempt to re-write it, I realized it sort of fit the prompt. BTW, such lovely work all, I’ve really enjoyed the senses you shared.

    Night Opera

    Outside, past
    the windowpane, a woman sings
    an opera in the night.

    Just thin glass between
    the flash
    of her stormy pain,
    and mine,
    between my tumult
    and the thrash
    of her song’s anger.

    Her quavering rain,
    like impatient timpani,
    drums incessant ire
    on the sill.

    I wonder will
    she stay.
    Her thunder
    groans regretful moans
    and I agree.
    The song sounds sad
    to me.

    I lay back in my bed.

    I pray her fury
    would break the glass
    so my tears could mingle,
    then vanish,
    in a mercy flood,
    by a settling rush of dark wet
    quiet mud.

    I lie and cry
    and listen.

    In the dark my ears
    see—they see
    the reverberating
    thunder of my heartbeat,
    the rushing anxious
    gales of
    my desperate respirations

    The sad song
    blows long, blows long
    inside me too,
    as she sings on.

    • Ohh…… captured!

      Interesting, and a bit lighter, yesterday, I was having a sad day and as I passed my open window, I heard a guy outdoors singing/shouting out: “… Make the world go away…”! I had to stop and laugh at the appropriate timeliness of the words :)! (…and GET IT OFF MY SHOULDERS!!!) :)! LOL!

  30. Sense of Self

    I inhale the scent of hope
    As you squirm to fit on my lap
    And hear the future in your voice
    Humming between the lines
    Of the book we are reading

    You pinch my elbow softly
    Then study my eyes to make sure
    I am okay with this; I am
    Lately you have been trying tactile
    Things; I bury my face in your tummy
    Blow hard just to hear you shriek,
    Feel the texture of baby against my lips

    I have noticed recently you are done
    With performing – you are smart, “know”
    Things but if you are not in the mood
    To regurgitate your knowledge or
    If you are asked to do something that flat out
    Does not make sense to your two year old
    Self, you flat out refuse – I like this about you

    Watching you develop and find your
    Sense of self is wondrous …
    You could sell tickets


    • Hee, hee, sooo sweet…. “If you are asked to do something that flat out Does not make sense to your two year old Self, you flat out refuse…” little two-year-olds most certainly just KNOW how to set boundaries for us Grandparents :)! I think that I will now try to “like this about you” when my little peanut visits me this summer… :)!

  31. Pingback: Free Friday Freeforall « Margo Roby: Wordgathering

  32. Ok, am finding my bloggin-way. And guess I start and post here even if this is now ‘old hat’. Senses …. feelings deep within..

    I can feel your nearness when time and space
    are vast between now and our last encounter.

    A small part of me remains forever intertwined
    within your being, as does a part of you in me.

    The parts of us we shared,
    the moments, places, friends,
    all worked to build special parts
    that go towards the making up of each our wholes.

    To wipe it all away would serve no purpose
    but to cripple a part of the wholes.

    We were, at times, as one.
    As life moved on that one became two
    and we went forth on our separate ways
    in each our own new oneness.

    I would not give up those shared parts.
    Without them I would not be who I am today.

    I am thankful for all the parts of our past,
    together and alone.

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