From the office

Occasional mouse
clicks and the roll of traffic
outside. Steps going by.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2011)

A slightly overstuffed haiku. Oops! Somebody might die from that. But the truth and nothing but the truth.

From Gertie Dreary's diary

I simply had to get to L.A. to see my auntie Nell as she was about to leave for Nepal. They did not renew her job with the UN. Being an attractive young girl, I drank lots of my favorite cherry liqueur to muster up the courage to hitch a ride in the deep dark night. Too late for buses. And no money for a taxi, not even to the nearest train station. Who knows how long the train would have taken anyway. Also, my experience with trains is limited and bad. However, all went well as I got a ride from an elderly gentleman in a vintage white car with white hair who reminded me of Kenny Rogers. He played country music and smoked cigars, but what do I care. Kept telling me about his five ex-wives and the twelve children he had with them, and the grandkids. Remarked with a smile on the cherry flavor I kept burping up. Told him about my nervousness and how I overcame it and how I was praising the Lord to have found such an excellent ride with such a lovely old man. He gave me a look then I thought was a little on the lecherous side, so I quickly changed the subject, asking about his current wife Louisy Ann, or how ever that's spelled. She's a sexy little fox, he said, and I'm looking forward to a lot of lovin' once I pick her up at L.A. International Airport. That made me burp some more, with a cherry flavor so strong I could smell it myself, and he kept his head turned towards me for a long time so I had to remind him to watch the road as everything was pitch black. But it all went OK as I wrote above and before any more cherry burps and lecherous looks could happen we were in my auntie's neighborhood, where he dropped me off, telling me on parting that there sure was going to be a lot of hot lovin' once he'd picked up Louisy Ann, that sexy little fox and sixth wife of his, at L.A. International Airport.

– Leonard "Speaking for Gertie" Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written using drank, hitch, muster from 3WW.

The Atacama desert stone fib

Have
been
there for
two million
years, rubbed smooth by earth-
quakes – clang of a thousand hammers.

– Leonard "Deserter" Bloomfeld (© 2011)

Note
Scientists from the University of Arizona have discovered that earthquakes are the reason why the rocks in the Atacama desert in Chile are smooth even though there has been no water there for two million years. The Atacama is shaken by earthquakes with a magnitude of 5 or more every four months on average, so that the rocks have been subjected to an estimated 50,000 to 100,000 hours of polishing.

Old dog, new trick

"You know, James, I could be more than fond of you … if you altered your tranquil ways."
"You could, dear Anthea?"
She was standing behind his work chair, hands on his shoulders.
"Yes, I could even love you, James – love you passionately, if I felt more passion coming from you."
He patted her hands.
"It's good of you to say that, dear. But it also makes it perfectly clear to me that you'd never love me the way I am – for what I am. I could probably try to change my tranquil ways, as you call them. I would do that for you, you know I would. But in the end it would exhaust me. And perhaps –"
"Perhaps?"
"Perhaps you have been barking up the wrong tree."
She furrowed her brow.
"Just what are you telling me?"
"That you might be better off looking for another tree. Or another dog, for that matter. This old dog would never do for you. Don't you think I'm right?"

– Leonard "Tranquil" Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written around alter, fond and tranquil from 3WW.

Qasida of the Lost Tribe

By the time I reached the campsite of my beloved,
her caravan had already moved on.

I contemplated the harshness of Nature
and my self-imposed life away from the tribe.

Tribal life may be blessed, but is it for you?
I smart for the caravan, and for you to diverge.

– Leonard “Heretic” Blumfeld (© 2011)

Notes

In the quest for a quasida according to Poetic Asides I looked at the Wikipedia definition and wrote one that is 100% true to the old concept (quoted here from Wikipedia):

In his 9th century “Book of Poetry and Poets” (Kitab al-shi'r wa-al-shu'ara') the Arab writer ibn Qutaybah describes the (Arabic) qasida as formed of three parts:

• a nostalgic opening in which the poet reflects on what has passed, known as nasib. A common concept is the pursuit of the poet of the caravan of his beloved: by the time he reaches their campsite they have already moved on.

• a release or disengagement, the takhallus, often achieved by describing his transition from the nostalgia of the nasib to the second section, the travel section or rahil, in which the poet contemplates the harshness of nature and life away from the tribe.

• the message of the poem, which can take several forms: praise of the tribe (fakhr), satire about other tribes (hija) or some moral maxim (hikam).

A big part of the fun I have with poetic forms is to distort, overcome or disobey them (hence the “Heretic”). By the way: Federico García Lorca also wrote qasidas (“casida” in Spanish), and if I remember correctly, he didn't give much of a hoot about adhering to the form either.

Still life in big building

I'm nearly alone in this big building
which houses more than a thousand.
I ran into a few when I made my way in this morning.
Nobody's come by my despacho since then.
The phone's been silent.
It is a still life except for my fingers typing.

– Leonard Blumfeld

Written upon inspiration by Sunday Scribblings' Nearly.

Note
Things ain't as bad as the above makes them sound. I suppressed a few people encounters for enhanced effect. This is what you call poetic license.
My daily e-mail horoscope told me that romantic change is impending today. Can't wait.
Does that horoscope apply to all capricorns?

Shopping

For her

I'm
not
that grey
box way back
behind the glossy
brands. No more. Have never been.

– Leonard "Branded" Blumfeld

The signals people send out are largely self-made. The grey box there at the back of the shelf must stop thinking of itself as the ugly grey box at the back of the shelf that nobody could possibly want.

Addendum
What does shopping have to do with relationships?
Ideally it should not, in my opinion.
A year ago or so I got into a discussion with HER about this. She'd more or less bluntly told me to look elsewhere, even citing some eligible females.
To which I replied that it wasn't like a supermarket where you picked a brand from among a few.
But perhaps I'm the one who's wrong.
She appears to choose according to rational criteria (and forget about the ones that really count).
But perhaps she's right – and I'm wrong, hiding my more complex shopping habits behind romantic (or merely sentimental) trim.

Parasitic ditty

Well, I’m sure glad today’s words are
dabble, lean and utter
instead of
babble, unclean and stutter.

– Leonard “Paraphraser” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Played around with the three words from 3WW CCXIX, and this was the outcome.

Reinventing the dog

This
old
dog has
been barking
up the wrong tree for
years. Another trick is needed.

– Len "Old Blue" Blumfeld

But then there's the saying "You can't teach an old dog new tricks." Ouch.

Daisy and Kuno

(Scenes from a not so reminiscent love story XVI)

“I treasure those immediate gestures of yours,” he said.
She heaved a sigh of relief.

“And I’d feared that those very immediate gestures
were the reason you’ve been silent all week.”

“Why, I love the immediacy of them! I wouldn’t
treasure anything else nearly that much.

Not nearly that immediately or moderately
or even vaguely.”

By that time she had forgotten who he was
and could not for the world remember

what gestures these might have been, and why
anyone would have called them immediate.

Happily, she began to look forward to another
day of grazing. In fact, to many other days of grazing,

to many months, or even years of grazing
on luscious alpine meadows like this one.

Or like another one.
The alfalfa of the future was shining brightly.

– Leonard “Silliness Alive & Well” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written around gesture, immediate, treasure from 3WW.

Semi-Borgesian notes on this one
Borges was always good for a library-steeped, erudite explanation to make something purely imaginary entirely real. To confound my readers, I volunteer the following background information: Daisy was a black-and-white stuffed cow I brought back from a trip to the U.S. for my daughter when she was about 5 years old and going through a stuffed cow phase. Kuno was another black-and-white stuffed cow that my mother-in-law brought from the U.S. for my daughter, who was still going through the same phase, even though by then it was waning. I would tell my daughter bedtime stories about two cows called Daisy and Kuno. Kuno was madly in love with Daisy but occasionally unbearably overbearing. Daisy was capricious and could not make up her mind about whether she loved Kuno, detested him or was merely oblivious to him.

A world of friction

An attractive youngish woman dressed in some kind of frumpy lilac frock walked up to the desk that had been set up for the reading.
“Hi, my name is Frue.”
That surely had to be Sue, and I was about to quote Johnny Cash (“So how do you do!”), but thought better of it and smiled politely.
“I hear you’re a writer of friction,” said the woman.
“Of friction?”
“Yes, of froze.”
“Froze?”
I was beginning to sound very dull to myself, simply repeating her cues.
“Yes, froze, as fropposed to froetry.”
“That is true, I hardly ever write froetry. How about you? Are you a writer too?”
“No. I come from Frampton, which is near Frondon, and that is –”
“... in France?” I simply knew it had to start with an F and an R.
“What gives you that fridea? – No, it’s in Frotland, of course.”
“Which makes you a true Frot, I suppose.”
“Indeed, and I’m froud to be one.”
Was I ever going to snap out of this fruity world of friction?
I decided to steer the conversation back to the realm of reality ... err ... freality.
“So, Sue from Hampton, would you like me to sign a copy of my book for you?”
“It’s Frue and Frampton, and I don’t want you to frign a fropy of your frigging frook.”
“Oh?!”
“I came here for friction, and what did I get? Only frustration and fret.”
I frinally frinked my freyes – and that frid it.
Frue, with a frap of my froes, went up in a frume of froke.

– Leonard F. R. Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written for Sunday Scribblings and Friction.

The late phone call fib

For her, as usual

Late
at
night my
love did ex-
hibit the friendli-
ness of a steel brush when I called.

– Len "Will He Ever Learn" Blumfeld (© 2010)

Reality notes
What is it with her? You call and inevitably get the distinct frosty feeling she'd like nothing better than to shake you off the soonest possible. And it's not like I call at uncivil times, either.
But perhaps I'm only ultraresistant to hints that are as clear as a totem pole.
Started this one with the first words of a song by Joan Armatrading that is among my all-time favorites:

I need you

Late
At night
I feel so lonely
Here's a body next to mine but I'm feeling cold

And baby in the morning light
When I look in some stranger's eyes
It's then I know that the need in me
Is really for your paradise

I dance
I sing
But there's something missing
Every night a different name to call

But you know when I hold 'em tight
I always give the game away
I try so hard to make it right
But it always ends up the same

You know I need you

I need you
Like I needed you
The first time we kissed
I need you
And I need you now
And I can't resist
Standing by your door in case you leave

I miss you mostly in the night
And I miss you through the day
I hate myself for hurting you
Yes I know I drove you clean away

You know I need you
But now I need you

(Written by Joan Armatrading, from me myself I, released in 1980)

55 words or more

There's a story called 55 words or less by J. M. Collinz (here), which inspired me to write this one, titled 55 words or more. Forget everything you've read so far. The story follows below. Hold your breath. Tie your shoes. Adjust your tie. Take your foot off the pedal while observing traffic to see that it's safe to do so.

Here it comes:

More

– Leonard “Dil Maange More” Blumfeld (© 2020*)

*This story is so leading edge, tunnel blasting and futuristic that I’ve put the copyright date ahead a bit.

She used to be an ...

For her, more than ever

Up to twenty-one
things were all pink; at forty,
there are some grey streaks.

– Len “Incorrigibly Hopeful” Blumfeld (© 2010)

For Haiku Heights and Optimistic.

Everyone’s dream baby

A hint of lust in
an otherwise perfectly
smooth sheen of beauty...

Oh that’s the way Carmela
Hiller trots down High Street
on stiletto heels,
tired for once from relentless
pleasure seeking.

Wish I could fall in love
with her and have things
uncomplicated like the rest
of the world, having
smooth sheen of my own
and more than a hint of lust.

– Leonard “Vicariator” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written around hint, lust and sheen from 3WW.

Note on genesis
What started out as a simple haiku (1st stanza) spread out into much more of a story than originally thought of, becoming geographically and emotionally situated and, finally, self reflection-saturated.

Soledad en …

Some­‑
times
there is
nothing as
lonely as a crowd
milling merrily around you.

– Leonard "Master of Truisms" Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written for One Single Impression and Lonely. The title, added retroactively, alludes to García Lorca's Poemas de la soledad en Columbia University from Poeta en Nueva York (1930).

Love is all around me / he tries again

For her

“Here’s a budge, Lucy. Fresh from the garden.”
“Thank you, Homer. What lovely leaves.”
“You do not seem to be very happy about this present.”
“How can you tell?”
“By the slight wrinkle of your nose.”
“You’re right, Homer, I’m not that pleased. I’d hoped for a pretty little nimble garnished with theory instead of this vegetable, fresh as it may be.”
“Sorry to have failed you yet again.”
“You know me, Homer. Hard to please.”

– Leonard “Still Mystified” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written with budge, nimble and theory from 3WW.

Trembling night

The tenuous bamboo bridge spanning the double tide of the Malini river has been carried away, and now my beauteous one is cut off from me upon an island. The rain continues. Each night I climb up the hill from which I can see the trembling night of Sarmicha's house. It shines in the wet darkness like a glance through tears.

– Amaru

Not much is known about Amaru, an Indian poet who lived in the 7th or 8th century and wrote in Sanskrit – mostly about erotic love, including passion, estrangement, longing, rapprochement, joy and sorrow.

Posted for One Single Impression and Trembling.

Address to Ms. Lina Crumbpet

Go on living in
your birdhouse. But don’t complain
about the birdseed.

– Leonard “Haikai” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written for Haiku Bones and Birdhouse.

A reign of smiles

Shrink calmly like a dusty girl.
Flowers stalk!
Walk loudly like a cold flower.
Action is an old door.

– Leonard “All Smiles” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written and posted for One Single Impression (Reign).

Oh my, these are times of personal crisis! What better than dada poetry to carry me through.