Words - A reading

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Clouds (2 April 2009)

Clouds - Bronwyn Desjardins Thursday, 2 April 2009 at 23:35 Our source, your source, the source; Three states Of which we are one; Gaseous, like the sun. See us soar, Hear us roar, As we pour out over you. A band of brothers Endless shapes quietly hover Above your head Even as you lay asleep in your bed. Clouds are we, white-grey liberty - Roaming, Groaning, Gliding, flying - low and so very high, Since the beginning, for eternity, A sight to see for all, And all for free. 
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Ode to Bluebells - Bronwyn Desjardins (In Memoriam: Eric Laver)

Ode to Bluebells - Bronwyn Desjardins (In Memoriam: Eric Laver) Sunday, 7 December 2008 at 00:46 Bluebells swell deep Where hearts fell asleep. Once a carpet of blood swept fear, Now a sea of bluebells dear. They ring for the men in silence Who stood up against, and in gruesome violence, Despite the pounding screaming Of the pulse that raced unfailing. Where you slumped from your blue-blood driven mission, Blue blossoms come into fruition. Long dead, these men and women who battled here, Now honour and perfumed peace replaces their fear. Blades of green intermittently peak and stutter, Standing up for the names this generation does not utter. Parents, siblings and children of whom Are too, but barely a faded photograph hanging in a room. No longer do canons roar and bullets sing. This field’s harmonious silent blue ring, Reminds all to forever give thanks To the young men and women whose blood fertilized these banks. Bluebells blossom dear In a field once carpe...
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A Scene (Writing exercise)

Red, blue, green and yellow – a smorgasbord of coloured balloons of various shapes and sizes, bobbed above the poster “Happy Birthday, Dylan”. This is the standard billboard for these kinds of events. The children’s voices, shrill and merry, a hullabaloo of party pandemonium grew louder with each step. Candy-saturated and cake gorged faces greeted the late arrival at my side, and in a second, my son disappeared amongst a blur of face painted buddies. Alone, I turned to brave the clique of mothers seated at the tea table. Painfully and embarrassingly aware of every move of my awkward frame, I approached the women with a self-conscious smile. The voices in my head were critical: you should have washed your hair; why didn’t you put some make-up on; and what were you thinking putting on that oversized, floral-print top? A glance to my left revealed a happy and enthusiastically received boy perched barefoot, atop a jumping-castle parapet. “Look at me, mom!” he yelled before he leapt with...
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