Poetry

Wiggle and Jump

The moon, the early hours,
breaking through
swift-moving clouds,
the north like day
is calling us,
as autumn chill
presses the brow.

Sixty years pass,
beat down like raindrops,
fill a bucket
that's never full.
Still we rise
each new morning,
laugh and cry,
wrapped warm in wool.

The leaves may fall
while children slumber,
branches low
release their loads,
we wiggle and jump
through pools of light,
like weary farmhands
we ebb and flow—

As champagne pours,
we flush out fear,
a thousand doubts
we hide inside—

The moon and
north wind wait,
patient,
until the carousel stops—

October 29, 2026
A day after my love turned 60

Remains

Let us feed the harvest to the fire, glowing embers from the black coals of night— The crops are gathered, the forest colored fallow, bright from the burning, dry leaves lie scattered, still on the ground— The crop machines parked now and cleaned, farm animals at peace, the dinner table

Autumn, You Golden Bed

Eyes closed, in bed I lie, I see my screen, I scroll down and down, the day’s remains passing, the searching, tender touches, nigh the morning light— till I feel her breathe, like waves of solace, an oasis of burgundy blankets, her warming arms in coldest night. Autumn, you

The Conversation

In a dimly lit restaurant nestled in the cobbled alleys of Zürich’s Niederdorf, ten of the world’s most eminent (and eccentrically over-dressed) mathematicians gathered around a table buckling under the weight of antipasti and wild gesticulation. Archimedes, having insisted on entering the premises wrapped only in a

Dare

Dare I dream of roses, a night sky passing proud, Orion and all his friends standing, in heaven’s dark blue, not loud— Like children we remember, the home from where we were, the rocket then we boarded— steel forged and smoothed our nerve. The first kiss, the awkward bumble,

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Remains

Autumn, You Golden Bed

The Conversation

Dare