Cindered heart
Dark, this burn of afterwards a glacier growing, vacant void, too drained, too cold is this: my cindered heart. Once it flamed, it blazed for bliss of worth, but ash […]
Author Archives: Björn Rudberg (brudberg)
The last of the acorns
The last of acorns from my stately oak now rests; a poem in my open palm and echoes stories that the summer spoke, it tells of rainbows, storms and evening […]
For the stars (if anyone cares)
I sense it: the void I am filling with sixty percent water, some average bones (more solid than air); yet my thinking is silent and dreams are much more than […]
Goosebumps
Joy is barefoot tingle- fleshed; a trickleburst of woodwind, strings and icicles. Joy is melt of snow the eavesdropping of water, gigglebrooks and bloom. Joy is fireskin and itch, your […]
February Monday
Another February Monday. Streets are grey with slush and water seeping through my shoes. On the the subway I am sandwiched between an elderly lady with a flu so bad […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 