Sirens Blaring!

engine #30

At 3AM my carbon monoxide detector tweeted me awake 3 nights in a row. Batteries were replaced.
I became more and more cranky with sleep privation.
I called 911 to get fireman advice.
The City of Hudson sent this beautiful contingent in full regalia!

Did you know?

The law requires a carbon monoxide detector on each floor of a house. The 9-volt battery covers when the electric is out.Read the life of these devices on the back. Change battery every year. Check other 3 fire detectors at the same time.

In my HOA there is no building manager, no house alarm company to call the fire department. I have to purchase and maintain the detectors or speed dial Michael
who does it all immediately and disposes of the radio-active devices at the dump.

Oh great tiny city of Hudson
thank you for the details.

I’m as hungry as a …


I’m as hungry as a fang
dripping juices that hang

ready to burn the tongue below
I know you know how drops can blow

a hole clear through like bites
that melt the bumps and glow like lights

hungry holes that hang and blow
and bite and glow like lights below

my fangs.



on the move

on the move



Some People Think

that poetry should be adorned
or complicated

I’m not so sure
I think I’ll take

the simple statement
in plain speech compressed to brevity

I think that will do
all I want to do.

“Some People Think” by James Laughlin from The Collected Poems of James Laughlin. © New Directions, 2014. Reprinted with permission.




by Robin Chapman

There is always enough.
My old cat of long years, who
stayed all the months of his dying,

though, made sick by food,
he refused to eat, till, long-stroked,
he turned again to accept

another piece of dry catfood
or spoonful of meat, a little water,
another day through which

he purred, small engine
losing heat—I made him nests
of pillow and blanket, a curve of body

where he curled against my legs,
and when the time came, he slipped out
a loose door into the cold world

whose abundance included
the death of his choosing.

“Enough” by Robin Chapman from Abundance. © Cider Press, 2009. Reprinted with permission.

Yellow Roses


I Meet My Grandmother in Italy

by Katrina Vandenberg

I find her where I least expect her,
Santa Marguerita, with yellow roses
in her hair. She laughs, deep

in the arms of that American GI,
her hair rolled like Hepburn’s, her lipstick
red as tiled Verona roofs. Then I remember

the Saturday before she died, the way
we stopped at a greenhouse and she said,
I’ll take for my granddaughter all

the plants you have with yellow flowers,
ignoring my protests until the Pontiac
was heaped with roses and verbena,

with lemon gladiola perfume I could gather
in my hands. She said, Take them
all; you need to have a happy life.

“I Meet My Grandmother in Italy” by Katrina Vandenberg from Atlas. © Milkweed Editions, 2004. Reprinted with permission.

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