Foghorns
I remember mornings waking to the sound of foghorns; as if the harbor was my room or maybe me extending to their calls. I remember reaching for the moon or […]
Category Archives: Real Toads
Leaving and returning
A journey is much more the time it takes preparing, and the time when memory becomes another dream to leave again. A journey is to seek for silence just like […]
Apocalypse
Weired the river’s low (1) it’s flow our hunger (2) wind blown,owned; (3) the soil is scorched (4) from carbon torched. (5) A weir is used to dam the water […]
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 […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 