Thursday, October 22, 2015

The Donald Trump haiku

Billions and not
a thing to sell. Billions.
No trump, none at all.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2015)

Some people appear to have it all. Well, maybe in the bank. Other than that: nothing at all.

Wednesday, October 21, 2015


Rose's jabs at me while we were having our weekly candlelight dinner at the Oasis, that place of Nouvelle Cuisine fine dining and excessive pricing, seemed a bit labored or even makeshift.

"There's something wrong with your jabs tonight, love," I said during a break.

She took her time chewing a morsel of boeuf whatever.

She cleared her throat; this was always a bad sign.

"My jabs, as you so conveniently call my part of our conversation, have come to an end. I'm leaving you."

"Don't tell me it's Julian Dent."

Julian Dent was her posh and good looking dentist. I'd long suspected that something might be going on there.

"No. It's not."

She took a sip from her glass of Merlot and savored it.

"Someone I know?"



"Your brother."

Now that was the final jab. Like one with a knife. And it had come easily from her, sounding neither labored nor makeshift.

She rose quietly and walked out of my life.

– Leonard Blumfeld ((c) 2015)

Written around jab, labored and makeshift from 3WW.

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

The thanks but no thanks haiku

To Elsie and her dog Chihuauzer

Thank you for your grrrr
picture. I know you love your
dog. But I do not.

– Leonard Blumfeld ((c) 2015)

All too often dog owners are so enamored with their furry friends that they assume everyone else loves them just as much (or should). Barking, penetrating and unwelcome interest, sniffing, showing teeth, planting paws on someone's chest are just a few choice items of dog behavior not everyone appreciates.
Disclaimer: I do not know anyone named Elsie, nor do I know a dog named Chihuauzer. However, I did know someone years ago who had a mutt resulting from the union of a chihuahua and a schnauzer and proclaimed that his dog was therefore a chihuauzer.

Sunday, October 18, 2015

An excerpt from an interview with Anna K., actress

“I hate smoking, especially Lucky Strikes.
And I hate kissing – or worse –, especially old lechers like [name omitted], my so-called romantic partner in my most recent film.
Both make me vomit, and that’s not a good thing to do in front of the camera.”

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2015)

Some names have been shortened or suppressed to avoid legal issues.


Actors are supposed to act like normal people, but more often than not it's the other way round.

– Leonard Blumfeld

Friday, October 16, 2015

Throwing sand into the wind

She went to the sandy beach to throw sand into the wind.
She threw sand.
She threw more sand.
She kept throwing sand.
Into the wind, which was sometimes stronger
and sometimes milder
and sometimes blew the sand into her face.

"Why are you doing this?" a voice said.
"It's a statement."
"What kind of a statement?"
"It's a concept."
"What kind of a concept?"
"It's art."
"But there's no-one around to watch it."
"That's part of the concept."
"I see."
"Plus there's always the universe and eternity."

– Leonard Blumfeld ((c) 2015)

Thursday, October 15, 2015

About A. H.

What a nasty, greasy character to have ignited this hellish chapter in the history of mankind.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2015)

Written around the words greasy, hellish and ignite from 3WW.

No need to explain who this refers to. At least I should hope so.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

My jewelry is missing

My jewelry is missing … he wouldn’t have sold it … or would he?

Endless GIF loop created from a scene from Lost Highway by David Lynch. Starring Patricia Arquette.

Sunday, October 11, 2015

Doggone it

I've got the blues a-
gain. It is infectious, the
meanness of this world.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2015)

Not really needed. Could give you a long list of things that are wrong with this world – if you insist.

Sunday, October 4, 2015

Today’s misread haiku

So it was the mush-
room’s black underpants that made
me smile and write this.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2015)

Sometimes misreading something results in something more interesting than the intended word. Anyway, what I was supposed to read was “of the mushroom’s black underpleats” in Amy Newman’s poem Sylvia Plath Is in Paris with a Balloon on a Long String. That’s rather stating the obvious. We all know that mushrooms tend to be dark on the underside, even though it might not occur to just anyone to call that “black underpleats”. But a mushroom with black underpants – now that’s something that makes a leap as prescribed for poetry by Robert Bly.