Bedazzled

The birds can be dreadful

I tried to catch a falling raindrop.
Instead a black bird landed on my tongue.
I knew that he was bad luck.
Stammering, his voice was changing,
when he asked me to come along

Where, is it that you wish to take me
I inquired uncomfortably.
Just over to the lush meadow near the trees.
Ah, the meadow, yes,
yes ,I’d like to go.
Just as quickly as he landed
he flew right off my tongue.

Trying to keep up was tricky.
He became a very small black dot in the sky.
Follow, I must. Summoning to me, I ran because
curiosity is my name.
Arriving was sweet
Butterflies and fairies,
were dancing through the trees.
A scent of flowers wafted universally.

There were toads on lily pads lazily
adrift. Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit
they did sing, a
most sacred lullaby.
Approaching my view was a tiny man
a crooked three cornered hat, atop his head,
with brown knee length pants.
A snug vest at his waist, pointy shoes and
decorative digits covered in gems.

He clutched a bag with an emerald drawstring.
Treasures and pleasures were sure to be within.
He asked, surely you know what’s inside?
I couldn’t help but notice how his sparkles
blinded and lured at the same time.
Of course I do, let’s unwrap your goodies-bag.
Fingers shaking, animation, domination
and a feeling of dread as I pulled
the cord; the container fell, revealing all.

I glanced at the man and saw the sneer on
his distorted face.
Fixed canary eyes looked at me
as the goblins flew passed my face.
I hadn’t noticed the pointed teeth,
due to his blinding light. Or the
smell of sulfur that reeked from every pore.
The black bird had cleverly placed
A spell on my senses,
the day that he landed on my tongue.

If ever a black bird
invites you to a land of greenery,
run, reject, refuse him.
Send him back from whence he came.
To lands unknown, dryness,
darkness, the abyss or
he’ll meet you there,
among the deceived.
Copyright Janet Caldwell 2001-2009

Stunned

I thought you cared, maybe even liked me a little.
Yet, you threw stones, over a poem I had written
many years ago.

You know not the back ground or it’s birth.
Just jumped on the stone wagon
and threw as hard as you could.

My eyes are blackened, my soul is bruised,
weak and a bit scarred, but
I shall recover!

Before you blast your self
righteous rhetoric again, think twice.
Oh and what is that in your eye?

Janet Caldwell Sept. 18, 2009

Dancing Through the Madness

From my book 5 Degrees to Separation

Oh impulsive one, twist and coil,
how you dance with delight.
The lotus in your hair reflects
the token efforts, that brings a smile.

Making love to the man with the boyish grin.
Watching old movies, the scent of candles burning.
Honeysuckle and magnolia are thick in the room.
The secrets that make you beam, this is part of you.

We flew kites today, your
eyes lit up and you smiled,
said you’d like to fly away too.
Your life dangling by a thin string.
I worried.

Woman-child get out
of bed. Brush your hair, let’s
go for a walk. So many possibilities
for freedom. Come on Sweetness,
it’s not too hard; you’ve done it before.

No, no, no!!!
Not the gloomy room, my near and
remote one. Where the curtains are
black and swallow you whole.
Gulping you like cold water.
On a hot day into hell.

Where you’re convinced
that you deserve to be.
(Deserve to be)
I stay for the chemical shift.
Inside your brain, head, brain.
So that we can walk again.

I wait.

Janet Caldwell
2002-2009

What Lies in Sight

Arrogantly you stand in the corner

of an obliquely lit dining room.

Never needing sunshine for your

emerald radicals bereft of chloroplasts.

Your plastic roots won’t touch earth

or drink from the water’s edge.

Not a phenomenon from God

or Mother Earth.  Yet

you seem alive, much like

the hottest mannequins

attending any dinner party.

An orbiculate adorned

in jade, a twiggy arm juts

slightly right, out of place.

So easy to rearrange.

We’re both beautiful

but I’m alive, breathing, animated.

Your artificial trunk sits in

a vessel of twisted bamboo.

You and your urn, imported

created by the calloused fingers

of children.  From an island

which i can’t pronounce.

You reek of slavery, without essence.

A decorative graveyard of souls

I gaze at you, your hideous

superficiality and I can hear.

Unspoken secrets, notice the tears of

children with hardened hands.

Mass producing a reality in

sweltering assemblies,  another

fruitless icon of malnutrition.

Does it not make you care?

Who are these people anyway?

The ones dining in polite veneer and

those working for a cup of rice,

both starving.

What  is wrong with this picture?

Does it define who I am or you?

©Janet Caldwell 2009