Björn Rudberg's writings

Windward running carefree wilddancing with your inner child,summer beaches wine and songevening music makes you strongSo, forget November with his rainSun still smiling, yet no painNot counting days cause it’s timeto mix your gin and cutting limes. The Great EscapeDeborah Azzopardi Today it is Quadrille time with Sanaa at dVerse and the word is care. July 27, 2026

A story ’bout the sailor’s lifehe had the sweetest girlIn happiness his trust he gavewhile she seduced an earl He built a cottage close to seait was the sweetest placehe asked her and proposedto marry not to chase. And she accepted, oh what joythey shared a bed of blissbut sailors need to leave for wagehe left her with a kiss And every time he left for seawhile she enjoyed in townshe sang and…

From the day we got married it went downhill, not even a honeymoon before you told me I am the villain, the cockroach, the beast. I stayed silent pretending that the sweet days of dating would come back. It did for you, but not for me. You would come home late bringing with you the reek of sour beer and cigarettes but you said that I am the creature … who smells. Your darkest thoughts about me…

Before the thunder in sweltering heatwith air being oil and windless the skyclose to the surface swallows would fleetsd heard from afar the rumble and criesfrom nature revenge approaching in rageThe wind filled our sails to send us ashoreto breakers of bones, a frightening stagewith lightning close a rainfall would pourrelieved from the heat but utterly soakedwhen reaching the harbour to safety…

It’s hard imaginingan ancient starinside a constellation seenfrom the earth’s perspectiveto have a meaningfor a planet where its heartis sunshine far awayin a time already gonebefore a humancould imagine it to be a partof a lion or a battlein a midwinter sky. Map of the Southern Sky, with representations of constellations, decorated with the crest of Cardinal Lang von Wellenburg, and a…

These I have loved:a blackbird singing for the apple blossomsto hail the spring transition into summerend-of-school songs in never ending duskthe scent of new-cut grass and dew on my bare feetbitterness of new-brewn coffeeand a morning silenced by my absencethe mysterious path leading upward through the woodsgiggling mountain-streams and snow capped peaksa breeze moving through the canopiesa…

He knows his worthperfection pricedin the pale reflectionof his golden hair and in the wayhe puffs and strutsArmani suitsa Rolex watchsix-pack belly he believesthat everythinghe touchesturn to gold, a perfect manis all alone. David by Michelangelo Florence Galleria dell’Accademia Today Lisa hosts dVerse with the Quadrille and the word today is puff. My choice was to describe a person who…

Poetry is a cloudy day in summer,a veiled sun with assurance of rainweightless like a kettlebell resting.It is promise and a riddle,unmoving, stillborn until read,but when spokenwings unfold, a bat or butterflydepends on sun and moon,the time of day orif whispered to a westward wind,or if night and moon conspirewith the reader’s dreamscapeto bring the rain and soak the soil. Waiting for the…

After midsummer eve’s celebration I am still a bit nauseous, but it is not like the pounding hangovers of my youth. The longest day used to be the shortest night, but now I am off to bed before the end of daylight. Mornings are a different matter altogether. I am awakened to the cooing of wood pigeons as it is full daylight already at four in the morning. Summer solstice is the time to be…

Close to summer solsticewe dance to endless songs of birdsblackbirds, willow warblerseven nightingales,it’s a time of endless dusksalmost seamlessly meeting dawn. I remember being awakedancing barefoot in the grassdrunk on strawberries and creamuntil I fell into your arms… asleep. Tomorrow at midsummerwe celebrateeating new potatoes,while slow dancing with summer. Midsummer Dance by Anders…

I knew the end had come, so on the evening stroll I made you stumble off from the cliff.  You never cried… I only had to make sure… as dusk tiptoed closer to your grave among the hills so dry… so dense the underbrush… that where I pushed my way. The giant hush was changed… to soft explosion of your battered body…blood pooling into sand… the first blowfly entering your nostril.  Your hair,…

“A penny for your thoughts”,he smirkedso smart, a charmer’s grin and chiseled chinbut deep within his eyes the devil lurkedtemptation growing, she considered sin and seeking shadows walking hand in handbut she was primed with holy water, stakea sixpence in her shoe and all was plannedher virgin sweetness all pretence and faked to lure and tempt the demon to his endbeneath a pregnant moon it’s…

Sipping on sweetnessof flowers and sun,swimming in songs of a wrenand the breeze from the sea I still find my solace disturbedby hornets and snakesmosquitos and ticksby sunburn and sandso sometimes I longfor the shadows inside. A Summer’s Day at Skagen South BeachPeder Severin Kroyer Today Lisa hosts the Quadrille at dVerse, and the word is horn which has to be include in one way or another…

Do.. Not.. Go.. Gentle.. Into.. That.. Good.. Night.. Acts of being humanmake your destiny, find a purpose,chores, resluts, obituary to be. Deny your urge to restwhat comes before you sleepto unfullfill your dreams Walk from cairn to cairnyour doom is somewhere in the cloudsa precipice of forever not The wings of blackbirdssongs of flowers in the springthe wreath upon your…

Let them ban my books, suppress my voiceand I will turn my back and walk awaylisten to the trees to let myself be free Let them bark about their grape and victimhoodlet their voice grow bitter, hoarseand I will let them ramble ‘til they’re dumb Let them fight their wars in silenceignore but let myself record, collect and savefor a time when tides have turned Let them tie themselves, from lies…

I listen to the blackbirds and stroll in the perfume of lilac blooming remembering the late nights walking home from student parties, I remember endless dusks merging into dawns and returning home with the warmth of kisses still on my lips. So much has changed but the blackbird’s song and the scent of lilacs is still the same. between my heartbeatsin a moment of stillness —song of a…

They claimed that books were obsolete, a strainto keep, a home for spiders, dust and moldwe trusted traces, texts in clouds, not drain of ink on paper from the days of old,we were modern, but we failed to seehow knowledge was transformed, and cold unknowing we became, enslaved, not freebecause what was on paper had been changedto fit the tyrants lust to rule, to be our core and being that we…