Solace is a red balloon
He was six and got a red balloon; his sister got a blue. A day in spring when suddenly … the wind sneaked up behind and stole her blue balloon. […]
Category Archives: free verse
The tern, my ink
My page, yet blank, the thoughts are sea in doldrums, waiting, waiting for a morning breeze; my hands are soft; I’m less a sailor than observer. At just that moment, […]
March is war
No earthworm yet can break this frozen soil — yet this solstice talks in tongues of thaw and blue of anemones. March is war, it’s cloak and dagger waiting, waiting […]
Octagon of home
I. The walls of any home is less its stone and mortar than the spyglass on the upper floor. II. Coming home is a piece sandglass being polished on a […]
Acorn
Home is like your fist, an acorn waiting to spring root. Home is not your prison of convention, nor a migrant’s shelter, it’s neither pillow nor the pavement. Home is […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 