Best Sense Of Smell Poems
Being sensual isn’t necessarily about sex.
I recall a night of such immense innocent delight
that all my senses -heightened- far exceeded
my teenage expectations of romance.
My sense of sight had already been triggered
from the moment I first met the young man
whose eyes so flirtatiously met mine.
As sweet as chocolate, his eyes melted me.
His smile was honey and his voice too,
which dripped with an accent which was French -
instantly attracted my sense of hearing.
In the front seat of his Buick Riviera,
this boy from Quebec taught me the allure
of taking time . . .
taking time to gaze into each other eyes,
taking time to feel . . . to really feel
each little nibble on my ear lobe
and the sweetness of his breath
at the nape of my neck; to feel his fingers
as they softly traced the features of my face -
worshippingly -
as if I were a goddess he was touching.
Even my sense of smell was aroused by his colgne.
Taking his time . . .
such lingering precious time,
he arrived to that first anticipated kiss,
and my sense of taste was then aroused,
for his kiss was ambrosia of the gods.
To touch his silken skin and hair,
and then to feel his lips moving smoothly over mine!
In synche with him -
romance was nothing but sublime.
All the while his hands – so magical -
caressed my hands, my arms, my shoulders,
and my back down to my waist.
Feelings I’d never experienced before
overwhelmed me with bliss.
I was still a virgin, and he knew exactly how far
not to go.
Keeping me at the brink
of something I was not to know till I was married,
I was more than satisifed and never before in my life
had I felt more cherished.
Every sense of mine was totally engaged
by his dulcet whispers
and the beauty of his eyes, his nose, his mouth,
and his entire tall slender body.
The touch of him, the feel of him,
and the feel of MY burgeoning emotions -
for me this was a virgin’s dream
of sensuality.
Feb. 3, 2021
for the Sensual Poetry Contest of Charlotte Puddifoot
Almost a month since that fateful night
That I was bitten under the full moon's light.
I am still here but with a yearning
And wonder why a fever is burning.
I feel pulled out into the night's air
Hoping that someone will hear my prayer.
I look up into the nights black sky
And realize why I so want to wail and cry.
For there I see the full bright moon
Hanging there like a golden balloon.
As I look I feel like I am on fire
And know my situation is most dire.
Oh god... most agonizing pain!
As my bones begin to strain
And my flesh begins to rip.
I cannot seem to get a grip.
I open my mouth to scream
But from me that does not stream
Tis something that is so foul
As I recognize it is a howl!
Oh god ...this..can't...be
What is happening to me?
Blood pulses through my veins
As new thoughts slam into my brain.
I have a brand new vision
One that gives great precision.
Oh what a great sense of smell
A feeling of anticipation I can't quell.
I can't even believe my new speed
But it is blood that I do so need.
Time for me to go on the hunt
As I begin to run, I let out a grunt.
I stop and sniff as a scent comes to me,
Oh me oh my who is it? Let us see.
I turn in werewolf form to see who is here
As I thought I caught Mr. Loving's fear.
Tis blood that I do need
Time for me to feed.
He senses me and runs away
I smile as I give chase to my prey.
Mortals mortals everywhere
Of all immortals do beware
Run and hide if you can.
On the loose is this very lycan!
Just for anyone's curiosity this is not being mean to Mr.Loving the III this is my respect
for him as he tapped me for the duos and gave me the challenge for the Haunted
Poets....thanks John
The nose he wears sits on his head
It's big and round and very red;
And in the dark it always glows
It must be awful to own that nose.
There's two dark holes filled with hair
With whatever else that's hidden there;
Each time I see with great surprise
That glow that sits between his eyes.
It shines as though when night meets day
There never could be another way;
I wonder too if he can tell
If red affects his sense of smell.
Perhaps the problem is I think
He's had in time too much to drink;
I suggested then to paint it white
And he seemed to think this was alright.
For Frank Herrera's Zaniest Poetry Contest
Elizabeth Wesley
Oceans of loneliness forgiven
petrichor slowly dances away
a strawberry kiss commencement
in deepest recesses of my mind
just linger
with desserts of pleasure
wrapped around
the very essence of my soul
brandy hints, a take of summer
shining down upon her grace
footfalls ambulate the shoreline
docked, the harbour
is way too too full
no rush of roses blushing in the daylight
there's a new day sense of smell
fresh cut green green grasses
as she struts and shakes her ass
there is no weeping for the lonely
I'm going to take it all away
GREEDY POACHING
Rhino poachers often hunt at night
When the Rhino has poor eye sight.
These prehistoric creatures
Cannot distinguish human features.
But with a well-developed sense of smell
Fortunately they can always tell
When danger or a poacher is close,
Thanks to their sensitive nose.
Every horn that they take back,
And Rhino body that they hack,
Is yet more money in their belt,
To which no sentiment is felt.
Subsistence Poachers who randomly
Kill, fit a less important role,
Their profit cannot compare,
To syndicates with international flair!
These professionals are sourced
From a military career,
Using weapons and tactics that
Inflict unimaginable pain and fear.
Rhinos are darted from the air,
Without hesitation or human care.
Some Rhinos are found still half alive,
And veterinary surgeons rush to help
Them survive,
But could these same people perhaps
Be involved and accept,
These horrific acts, could they in fact,
Be suspect?
Will Rhinos become extinct,
This is a worrying fear,
Statistics do indicate that this scenario,
Is realistically near!
Woman, you are most beautiful within you.
When you show wisdom that is treasured in your heart.
When you proclaim the truth to save lives.
When you give with compassion.
When you open your heart and consider those in need.
Woman, you are most beautiful with your soft voice.
When you give gentle answers that repels anger,
And say the right words that give comfort.
When your tongue gives wisdom and good advice.
When your voice sings to comfort the downtrodden and entertain the fun lovers.
Woman, you are most beautiful with your gentle touch.
When you heal and close the open wounds.
When you softly pat our backs with comfort or to congratulate us.
When you multi task at home and out to produce warmth and creativity.
When you sway your hands to direct the lost and persuade the confused.
Woman, you are most beautiful with your distinct sense of smell.
When you choose the right spices to cook a good meal.
When you pick the correct fragrances for specific occasions.
In the garden, when you pick the best flowers to brighten our lives.
When you are able to smell trouble, wickedness and avoid it.
Woman, you are most beautiful with your wise foresight.
When you are able to predict events to come.
When you see unique things and make the right choice.
When your eyes are able to pierce through the hard hearts.
When your eyes smile with love and exude light amidst darkness.
Woman, you are most beautiful when you lend an ear.
When you patiently listen to the frustrations of others, and
When you understand and are able to give good advice.
When you listen to God’s guidance and act accordingly.
When you hear the cry of the needy and offert your help.
Woman, you are most beautiful with your delicate stride.
When you pave the way for others to walk.
When you step out in fashion and set trends.
When you walk with pride amidst the battle.
When your footsteps echoes and set an example.
Woman, you are beautiful
Every single thing we enjoy -
whether it touches sight, hearing,
sense of smell, or the working
of hands and feet - was given
by the God who created us.
Before man thought to produce art,
manufacture goods, or write stories,
poetry or music, God put all the raw
materials in our minds and hands,
all we would ever need -
then waited for us to develop
sensitivity to his leading
and the responsiveness
which produces obedience. Those who
achieve the greatest success and
benefit mankind most are ones
who hear that inner voice,
that spark within, listen
with their hearts, and follow.
Imagine all those things we love so well -
the scent of sweet perfume or baking bread -
have disappeared; we’ve lost our sense of smell,
and with that loss, fond memories have fled!
We must learn to adapt but are still graced
with an ability we can’t believe
is soon to perish too - our sense of taste!
All food now loses flavor, and we grieve.
But the worst is yet to come, and what we fear
arrives one day, and all the world must mourn,
for not one soul is able now to hear!
We stay with loved ones not to be forlorn
and cling to them when comes the loss of sight. . .
our final plight - to fade into the night.
*The other day I watched a movie on cable called Perfect Sense. It inspired
me to write this poem. Just think of it - to lose our senses one by one until
the only thing left is to cling to a loved one. That was a very intense movie!
The sense of sight…
To picture our world each day.
The sense of touch…
To kiss the pain and tears away.
The sense of smell…
As lungs fill with the air we breathe.
The sense of taste…
As flavors on the tongue they weave.
The sense of hearing…
For the music of children at play.
But the most valuable sense of all,
A sense of humor…
So no matter what, you can laugh each day.
I heard an owl last night
as I walked in the forest.
It was just past the full moon
and so there was some light.
It's screech raised the hairs
on my neck.
Suddenly the lights
and the darks became
clear.
The trees and bushes
all stood in high resolve.
I felt the cool air intake
throughout my lungs and
a sense of smell long gone
suddenly returned.
My ear heard a flutter
of wings to the right.
On my left from a long dead ear
I heard,
the frantic scurrying of small prey
in flight.
What if, what if,
in some other place and time,
I had been the prey?
Would I have known what to do?
As my senses cooled down
I became more aware of
what an alien I was in the forest bare.
Books I can read but I am
illiterate here.
What must it be like to always
live life
in a screech owl moment?
We faced each other in a circle as
we sat on chairs inside her classroom; then
she had us close our eyes. Perhaps we used
some blindfolds. I’ve forgotten details, for
it happened in my high school years ago.
Our sense of sight was gone. She walked around
the circle, giving each of us a taste
of something we would savor in our mouths.
Then each of us would guess what it had been.
We must have sampled spicy, sour and sweet!
I can’t recall the foods we tasted or
how many times we guessed them right or wrong.
She also had us use just sense of smell,
and later, she played sounds for us, and we
made guesses as to what it was we’d heard.
This happened in the first week of the class.
It stands out sharpest in my memory,
but I recall we’d share our written work
inside a circle. This I loved so well
because we heard each other clearly then.
I can’t recall the name of her who taught
Creative Writing. She was young and sweet
and knew the trick of using every sense
to help us be in tune with what we felt.
And that’s why we used blindfolds that first day!
Those words like “imagery” I’d only read
about in English class would come alive
because this woman knew the secret of
good teaching was to let her students learn
from real experience, not just from books.
I don’t recall the many things we did,
but all the fruit I bore from what she taught
is with me still; the stories that I wrote
and little poems saved since eleventh grade.
I kept no work from any other class!
I never guessed those many years ago
would find me on a thing called Internet
or that I’d end up writing mostly poems
when little stories used to be my “thing!”
Real writing days came once my kids were raised.
But always I’ll recall that precious class,
The funnest and the most inspiring one.
Perhaps a bit of what I am today -
A teacher and a writer - I owe to
The miss who taught Creative Writing Class.
Brenda Chiri-Carroll's "Who Has Inspired You the Most In Your Life" Contest
(I have learned this teacher's name since I wrote his back in 2011. She is Ms. Deborah Rozeboom)
There is a truth in you my friend
both heady and unique
that makes my sense of smell
take flight,
and drives my curiosity.
I carve away voraciously,
cut deep and cut again
til glossy bulb is
ringed layers
of dazzling luminosity.
Sweet orbed bands,
I plate them out,
in artful presentation
gleaming rings I praise, admire
the aim of my pomposity
I peel, and peel,and peel again
core’s perfect pearl revealed
And I in awe,
Relish, delight
devour you aromally
"My word," said the cat,"you certainly do stink.
Methinks water's for bathing, not just to drink!"
"Retract those sharp claws," the dog stifled a yawn,
"I get plenty clean when I roll on the lawn."
"So much for you dogs having a great sense of smell,"
cat wrinkled his nose and whipped his long tail,
"now you just stink like the hinges of Hell."
"Get lost," snarled the dog, "with your sense of perfection,
"you only act sweet when you want some affection."
"At least they can kiss me," the old cat purred,
"without holding their noses since you smell like a turd."
"I am Man's Best Friend," the dog said with great pride,
"and I got that way by not being so snide."
"YOU'RE Man's best friend?" the cat said with a hoot,
"I feel sorry for Man, if that is the truth!"
"Don't make me get up," the old dog growled,
"I'll tear off your head," his eyes looking wild.
"I have speed for protection,"
he stretched with feline perfection,
"and as I go now, I fart
in your general direction."
©Danielle White
Could anything transcend the seduction that permeates the kitchen
More than freshly baked cake?
I love to deeply inhale, fantasize; and then partake.
Anticipating the marvelous marriage of my sense of smell and taste,
My mouth starts to water… a slice to be embraced.
Dark chocolate, rich and moist, with just a touch of vanilla in the flour.
What could be more passionately devoured?
Yet, I staunchly refuse because I choose to savor
This gloriously sweet mixture of flavor,
Enticingly covered with vanilla butter cream.
Well, maybe just one morsel taken on my finger---
A cake lover’s dream.
09/16/15
I wonder if I’m the only one
who smells the fetidness
of dead daylilies,
carrion that lies concealed
off the beaten path.
Could it be my preoccupation with death lately?
Reviewing my will, perusing my prepaid
funeral expenses and life insurance,
that have acutely enhanced
my sense of smell for the morbidities
of death.
It’s not a pleasant state of mind
to live with and act unconcerned
concerning the inevitable conqueror worm.