Nothing can be perfect
We have a bearskin in our living room it meets me every day with open mouth. I don’t know where or why it met its doom my father bought it […]
Tag Archives: memories
The prisoner
I’m prisoned – cringe at pasty faces, grins and hate from fellow inmates, noise of jailer’s lock and key. serving stew at dawn. Exotic roaches, rats and worms. are company […]
Outhouse scent
A scent of outhouse brings me back to leisured days of youth, to sunwarm gneiss as smooth as ice beneath my bare feet running for seclusion. Its sense is not […]
The precious jar
The young man hesitated before he left; the house foreclosed was empty, furniture collected, walls repainted, but on the kitchen counter was their jar of batteries; collected; ready for recycling. […]
My Christmas passed
I miss my father’s calloused hand in mine the silence when, on Christmas morn, we walked into the snowy woods to find some greens to decorate, adorn our crib, the […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 