My gripes with you

1. You do not rinse the dishes before you put them in the dishwasher.

2. Forks go in with the fork end up, knives with the cutting end up. You do it randomly.

3. I have a system for the plates you do not follow: the big plates go on the right, the smaller ones and soup plates on the left.

4. You teach the children how to put things in the dishwasher the wrong way.

5. You move things around the way it suits you or do not put them back in the right place.

6. This includes books on the shelves, CDs and framed photographs.

7. Your cynical remarks imply that you have a liberal view of things.

8. This includes remarks that imply that the current president is not a good choice for the country.

9. You once said that you hoped for my sake that my son would end up marrying a black or Asian girl. Later you said it had been a joke.

10. But I know it was not a joke, even though it’s true that you may have had too much to drink as you said.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2026)

Note

Written for Friday Writings #243: By the Numbers.

Disclaimer

All similarities of the people mentioned or described here with real characters living or passed away are entirely coincidental.

Riga, Latvia

Posted for Wordless Wednesday

Leica R4 with 50 mm Summilux lens on Harman Switch Azure film, a creative film with color shifts.

A not so uncommon perspective

I can't stop staring at him from across the classroom. Such a dear face – good jawline, honey brown eyes with a warmth that mark my universe, and the way his dark curls fall just so over his forehead. He's laughing at something the guy next to him said, and that smile – it’s like a halo. My stomach flips every time I get so see it. Why does he have to be so ridiculously handsome? It's unfair.

And the guitar. Yesterday after school I hung around the music room, pretending to look for a lost something, just so I could hear him practice. Those fingers caressing the strings like they were born for it. The soft acoustic notes filled the room, and I stood frozen, heart pounding so loud I thought he'd hear it. He plays with effortless passion, eyes half-closed, completely lost in the music. I imagine him playing for me someday, but most likely that will never happen.

He doesn't even pretend to know me. Whenever he happens to look at me, which has happened a few times, I feel I’m just another face in school. While I'm composing entire futures in my head – us walking home together, him teaching me a few chords, maybe even kissing down by the lake during a bonfire – he's probably thinking about next week's soccer practice or whatever popular girl is currently orbiting him. I saw Ginevra lean in close today, whispering something that made him grin. My chest tightened so I could barely breathe.

I try to focus on the teacher's voice, on the scribbledegook on the board, but my mind drifts right back. What would it feel like if he looked at me the way I look at him? Long enough to notice I catch my breath whenever he walks by. Long enough to notice that I exist. I stay quiet, keep my head down and let the crush eat away at me in silence. It's stupid. It's painful. And still, every morning, I hope this day might be different.

– Invisible Paula

Written for Friday Writings #242: Perspective. 

Bog trail in Estonia

 

Posted for Wordless Wednesday

A contemporary haiku

 

It’s adamantly
innocuous, tangibly
delicious, munchy.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2026)

Note
This one sort of parodies the contemporary (over)use of unusual adjective / adverb constructions, which must have originated from some creative writing workshop teachings or simply is trendy. Their purpose seems to be to inject more poeticity.

A street in Hamburg

Posted for Wordless Wednesday

New Delhi at Night

Posted for Wordless Wednesday.

Diagnosis

 I went to see the doctor.

“What are your symptoms, Mr. ... Um?”

“For a while now I’ve found it hard to enjoy myself, to see the funny side of things. Whatever the news, things are always on the sad side. Global and personal.”

The doctor took out his stethoscope and started listening to my inner workings in various places. Finally stopped to follow up with palpitation. Sat there without saying anything for a minute.

“Doctor?”

“Mr. ... Um ... Blumfeld. Your funny bone is broken.”

“And what can be done about that? A cast?”

“Nothing whatsoever. It simply takes a lot of self-healing. And the realization that both sad and humorous things don’t depend on you. It’s all about what you make of them.”

“Thank you, doctor. I could have come to the same conclusion reading Deepak Chopra.”

“That will be 120 euros. The receptionist handles payments.”

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2026)

Written for the prompt “down to the bone” at Poets and Storytellers United.

Hamburg Skyline

 Posted for Wordless Wednesday.

The August in Rome Haiku

 

It’s brutal out there –
feels like getting cooked as you
walk on the pavement

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2026)

Note
Nothing but the not very poetic global warming truth.