March-May 2015

Critters have shown up in the three by 3  postings of December 2012,  March 2013, December 2014. This trio might be the last of their lot.

As for time and place, Windfall was written in 2002,  A Widow’s Diary in 2005,  both while I was residing in Brazil. Style vs. Content is the earliest of any of the posted three by 3 poems. It was written in 1985, my last year living in Mexico.



A bonafide bluffer, the chameleon can lie
flat out on a rock—even when
the sun stares into his eyes,
the wind rubs him the wrong way—
from the front, down his snout.
Still—he doesn’t blink or twitch,
appear to breathe, turn tail
as the crows approach. 

Early risers, they’re ready to eat
anything—from the ground up—
that happens to be there.
By dawn the flock’s airborne, soaring,
some on top, the rest circling
lower, around his whereabouts.
In a few more loops, they’ll be
within swooping distance,                                                                                                                                                cawing for blood.

Could the wind change sides,
blow the crows black into the sky,
give him a chance?
There isn’t a chameleon born
whose camouflage hasn’t fooled
scores of high flyers;
nor one alive
that hasn’t been lucky—once
in a while. 


   A Widow’s Diary


Web…web…what did I expect
        from a spider stuck
               for months in a closet?
She’s accomplished a lot—
          strung her’s up and down,
                netted one..two..shelves.

Spring’s arrived. I’ve brought a taste
          from my garden, seasonably
                 sweetened by nectar.
Won’t the spider be pleased?
          She’ll have a butterfly
                   for company, bluer
                         than the sky outside.


  Style vs. Content


“Yoicks,” you sputter
as the hounds bound off,
brindle through the dust,
and the flushed fox
hithers across fields,
under fences.
Helter skelter we trollop
on our high horses
to where
four quarters land us.
And ho to the hunt!
Tally towards the bloody beast!

Sods on the spot:
the last hedgerow
is overrun
by an uphill onslaught,
as our straight away
wins out.
Now victory runs right.
The fox, too tired
for further feeling,
sulks tight.
The hounds badger him
at bay,
until we muzzle in.
Up close
he’s nothing but
poor sport.











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