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Grounding: five senses


By Hannah MoorePublished 5 months ago 2 min read
Grounding: five senses
Photo by Jonathan Pielmayer on Unsplash

I wrote this in answer to the Sensational challenge...but transatlantic timekeeping and life lead to a missed deadline. Never the less, I brought it here anyway, rough edged and open to critique. I based this on the five senses grounding exercise.

The pores of his bulbous, mottled nose, black hearted, slick craters pitting a turbulent, flare-flanked ledge.

The door frame, white gloss, chips near the ground.

The pinked white of his eye, the vast black pupil thinly haloed in blue, no master left to wield the cane or subdue the petulant child.

The kettle, black plastic handle, shaped to grip, not slip, or burn.

The stubble bound bow of his poison tipped lips, slack jowled, loosing all his spittle flecked ammunition, firing wildly.

The chair, four splayed legs planted firm.

Dead skin in flecks on his polyester shoulder, granulated self, potency ground to impotent specks catching on man-made garments.

The tree outside the window, branches that flex and do not break.

The tree outside the window, vivid new leaves, tossed on creaking branches, flailing in the violent wind.

The dog, brown eyes, searching my face, seeing me now.


His fingers, bloated, reddened, stronger than you might expect, pointed pressure immobilising my shoulder.

My fingers, light on my forearm, softness passing one way, fine hairs coming back.

The spine of his knuckles in my stomach, dull ache brightening fast to fierce, oxygenless burn.

The wood of the table top, rubbed even, varnished to wipe-clean smoothness.

The pinprick zaps of spittle on my cheeks and brow, a rash of cancer-causing acid rain freckles.

Frozen peas, ice cold on my face, a hundred beads of little pain in my hands.

Cold floor, hard and unyielding, beneath toes curled ape-like to grip the smooth, flat tiles.

Cold floor, solid beneath planted feet, toes stretched, touching the ground.



Cars in the street outside, drawing near, passing, in a whoosh of sound.

Abba, on the radio, anywhere, anytime.

The ticking of the clock, rhythmic and constant, seconds passed and gone.

Breathe, short hard-rushing air, mine or his?

Breathe, mine, slowing, soft intake ruffling the hairs of my nose, firm release, between lightly pursed lips.


Sour-sweet booze breath, warmed wine turning bad.

Coffee, spreading slowly on warm, wafting steam, rich with promise, bright and bitter and sure.

Flesh, burning untended in the pan.

Soap on my skin, a perfume, perhaps flowers, or a spice, as light as whispered hopes for this clean new day.


Acrid bile in my mouth.

The sweet-sour of citrus, like thirst and quenching at the same time, demanding my attention, my recognition, it is today, and it is now, and there are segments of joy that are mine.

sad poetry

About the Creator

Hannah Moore

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