War of ants
I’m from the weighted coldness of a key-chain round my neck, when all my friends had mothers waiting with a snack. I’m from dinner-tables where my father spoke alone, and […]
Author Archives: Björn Rudberg (brudberg)
Our Laughter
Afterwards. When only veins remain, when the bursting buds of love, the “yes” and tingling taste of flesh has faded, there is silence. Today. Fine lines of sorrow etch your […]
Ink-dance
This poem is an ink- dance, it’s my trance, a riddle-maker’s tune for buds-a-bursts and barefoot-walks. A poem for the sake of sun-glassed stance for red-eyed-dawns and dusk of cotton-candy-skies […]
The answer is the not to be
When answers come today it’s not to be a thin white duke, a purple prince; a year the music died (again); in haze it’s seen comparing to a summer’s day […]
Tree of you
Dance me forests flowered glades dappled sunlight barefoot you. Dance me leaves arched above waving arms canopy of you Dance me oxygen chlorophyll breath of mine from verdant you. Dance […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 