Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 12

MEDITATING WHILE WASPS FIGHT

Take a few minutes to sit, I suggest.Enjoy the quiet, the sunshine,Pull up a chair,Close your eyes and breathe;You know how. Now go.Ooh, it’s nice out hereIt’s hot.Maybe I should grab a cap.No, just sit, quietly.You’re wearing sunscreen, you’ll be fine.Besides, your latest blood test showed you’re low on Vitamin D.Soak up some of the real stuff, woman.Now shush. Shut your eyes. Big inhale.There are wasps under my chair.It’s fine. Small bugs don’t eat big bugs.Shut your eyes FFS!Sorry.My vision becomes a deep red kaleidoscope,Populated by two big Tetris floaters practicing naval manoeuvres.Ignore the damn floaters. Inhale.A big bumbling buzzy bug bangs into the wall behind me,Bringing me away from Buddha.Mind you, my spring rolls are rather Buddhist, at the moment, haha.Bug off, bug.Inhale. Exhale. I’m doing it. Why is my stomach rumbling so loudly?Just bloody inhale! The mare next door just squealed again, her new companion must have come too close, I hope they’re not shod, they might kick out and break each other’s legs.What should I eat from now on to try to fix my IBD? Should I revert to lamb and sweet potatoes?It was pretty boring but I didn’t get sick much. Lost a ton of weight, too.But you weren’t on the meds back then, you twit. You hardly eat anything.Inhale. Helicopter. I hope there’s not been a crash on the motorway.Where’s that plane going to? Ibiza maybe. Wonder how Victoria’s doing…I wonder who blew up the cash point next to my sister’s house at 4 this morning.Hey, it’s cool I got my poetry accepted for the anthology! That’s a magical first.How on earth do people sit here watching their thoughts like clouds for hours at a time?Also, I’m having some cool thoughts I need to write down for a poem.Inhale, you moron.I wonder what the stock market is doing after Liberation Day.Why am I even thinking about this? I never wonder about the stock market.I hate that a portion of my brain is infested with snarling, lying politicians.How can anyone tune into the Cloud Channel with all the devastating news polluting the airwaves?Shit! The wasps under my chair are fighting. What on earth could wasps have to fight about?Ignore. It’s static. Pull up. Pull up. Levitate to Cloud Level. Bzzzzz….Get off!Oh, forget this. Besides, it’s almost time to go get my nails done.

This is my monkey brain today. Could have won a slalom.

FYI my nails are a pretty bright pink.

A WOODLAND CONCERTO: VIVALDI, LIVE, IN THE FOREST

(watching the mice and moles drink bluebell juice!)

 

Way up in the woods today

I heard a party underway.

With music blasting from the trees

A sort of flash mob if you please.

I had to listen carefully,

The birdsong struck me as jazzy.

But that was just the overture,

There came a silence, a thrilled murmur,

Before a famous melody,

Floated from a huge oak tree

And an orchestra of birds

Left me at a loss for words!

 

I soon recognized this tune

Embellishing my afternoon,

So, I sat down upon a log

To listen carefully with my dog.

 

The Four Seasons floated through the air,

The part for spring, that lively affair,

Sung by sparrows, finches, hawks,

With blackbirds showing off, of course.

These stars trilled through the solo parts,

And stamped a smile upon my heart.

 

Soon the entire forest came alive,

With not a single life deprived.

Woodpeckers pecked the percussions,

While rabbits danced and shook their bums.

Young foxes gambolled around with glee,

Their parents sipped dandelion tea.

A group of deer went all doe-eyed,

While a hedgehog literally cried!

Delighted bees played hide and seek

And circus squirrels climbed and leaped.

Mice and moles drank bluebell juice,

While badgers shared fresh forest fruit.

 

When this enchanting concert stopped

You could have heard a pinecone drop,

Before rapturous applause

Erupted from hundreds of paws.

Then all the birds twirled through the trees

And celebrated Vivaldi.

 

What better way to welcome spring

Than with the joy this refrain brings!

I’m sure the birds will have a go

At The Four Seasons next concerto.

When summer comes, I’ll be up there

As Antonio’s tunes dance through the air.

My poetry book, ILLCIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN, will be available very very soon, and look how gorgeous the cover my daughter Olivia Bossert designed is!!!

 

©Francesca Bossert, 2025

 

 

 

POETRY: THE OTHER PRESCRIPTION, How I wrote ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN (and other poems)

A few months before Covid, I gradually went from being an active, sporty woman whose life revolved around horses, to an aching, anxious person whose body hurt all the time. I saw numerous doctors who couldn’t find anything wrong with me to justify so much pain, and who repeatedly sent me home with high doses of anti-inflammatories. Soon, my intestines became extremely unhappy, to the point where I couldn’t leave the house. A diagnosis for this came relatively quickly: I had developed an incurable Irritable Bowel Disease (IBD) that would hopefully be “controlled” with medication. The initial medication prescribed didn’t work. Meanwhile, the pain throughout my body continued, gradually getting worse.

 

I have always had the capacity to reinvent myself according to my circumstances and make the best of whatever life throws my way. I’m creative, I’m happy to crochet, sew, paint. This time, however, I became increasingly depressed. My thoughts began to scare me. I knew I had to find something to grasp onto, something to pull me forwards. Something to replace my passion for horses.

 

In June 2023 I republished JUST LIKE A MOVIE, a romantic comedy I wrote years ago, after getting the rights back from my publisher. I enjoyed lightly editing the book; it put me back in the writing groove. But could I put the groove back in my writing? I hadn’t written anything in two decades, apart from a couple of blog posts for the website my daughter set up for me during Covid.

 

In the following months I wrote a few pieces for my website. When I heard about Substack and went to have a look I was intimidated by the quality of the writing and all the “big names”. Nevertheless, I plucked up the courage to tiptoe in, calling my account Just For Fun, hoping that the name would show people I wasn’t a “serious writer”, and that I wouldn’t get in trouble if I published stuff that totally sucked. I reposted a couple of pieces I’d written for my website and shyly began to interact with other writers.

 

Someone told me about Beth Kempton, a writer who runs a popular, quarterly “Tiny Poem” series, proposing daily word prompts over a few weeks. The goal is to write a poem in ten minutes, using the word, with no editing.

 

Although I’d never been interested in poetry, hadn’t read any since high school, and believed it to be obscure, undecipherable, and reserved for literary intellectuals, Beth Kempton’s challenge sounded like fun. So, I jumped into her winter series and wrote my very first poem on February 12, 2024. The prompt was “WOLF”.

 

To my surprise, I began to wake up excited every day, wondering what the prompt was going to be. I was having fun with words, and my Substack handle now made perfect sense; I was writing poetry for fun!

 

When Beth’s prompts ended, I kept going. I wrote a poem every day, sometimes even several. I wrote poems in my head; I wrote poems in my bed. I wrote poems on planes; I wrote poems in Spain. I dabbled with haiku; I found inspiration everywhere. I bought poetry books, subscribed to poets on Substack. All I wanted to do was read and write poetry!

 

I have written close to 400 poems since publishing “Wolf” last year. I’ve written about friendship, relationships, old crushes, holidays, kindness, self-confidence, mental health, trees, food, horses, my parents, getting older, American politics, children, clothes, shoes, cats, rabbits, birds, acupuncture, and meanies. I’ve mentioned the rooster next door, and the owl in the tree behind our house.

 

Encouraged by some of my subscribers, I began to toy with the idea of putting together a poetry compilation illustrated by my daughter, Olivia, who is fashion photographer and mixed media artist in the UK.

 

I knew I didn’t want to go through the process of querying agents to try to find a publisher. I’m 63 years old, I’m not exactly glowing with health, so why hang around waiting for a miracle? I had an agent years ago; I know how hard it is to get fiction published, and I’m pretty confident that no publisher in his right mind is going to get excited about a collection of poems written by an old, sick newbie who lives in Switzerland.

 

I’m still sick. I’m still in pain. I have good days, meh days, and bad days. My IBD is not under control (yet), and last autumn I was at long last diagnosed with fibromyalgia and given appropriate pain medication. I’ve found better, more specialized doctors, but my life remains much smaller than it used to be. There are weeks on end when I can’t go out much, and all the medication makes me tired.

 

But writing poetry and putting this book together has given me a purpose, taken my mind off my problems. It’s made me feel excited and given me some of my confidence back. It’s connected me with people all over the world in a time when I’ve felt lonely and isolated. I love my book’s title, ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN. I love the cover and all the artwork my daughter, Olivia Bossert, has produced. I’m proud of myself for doing all this work despite being unwell, and I’m especially proud of how funny, joyful and uplifting most of the poems in this collection are!

 

 

Even if you’ve never read poetry before and believe – like I did – that poetry is obscure and indecipherable, maybe you’ll change your mind when you dip into ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN. I don’t consider myself intellectual, I just love playing with words. I write to keep myself entertained, so hopefully you will find my words entertaining, too.

 

And if you’re a poetry connoisseur, I still hope you’ll read my poems and emerge with a grin, or a sigh, or a sweet memory, or a nod of recognition. I hope they’ll touch you as much as they touched me.

 

ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN will be available very soon.

 

And, gosh! Look how pretty the cover is!

 

With love and thanks to all those who have encouraged me on this journey,

Meanwhile, my romantic comedy, JUST LIKE A MOVIE, is perfect to chase away a head full of world cacophony. Escape to Ibiza and fall in love. Not just with a man, but with the island, the lifestyle, the views. Although the man is super hot. And so nice!

Francesca

 

 

 

 

 

FEELING HOT HOT HOT (NOT)

 

My oomph is gone

It’s disappeared,

I’m not myself

It’s really weird.

 

My body shakes,

My bones are sore,

My brain’s fogged in,

My husband’s bored.

 

I loll about

Get nothing done,

I sleep all day,

I am not fun.

 

Am I wuss?

A lazy bum?

Am I depressed,

Or a tad glum?

 

Is all this pain

Just in my head?

Why am I such

A sleepyhead?

 

Does everyone

Who takes these meds,

Turn into such

A dunderhead?

 

I knew they might

Deplete my oomph,

But seriously

This isn’t cool.

 

HOW TO TAME YOUR TULIPS: THE VIDEO

My poetry book, ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN, will be available at the end of April!

I used to be wary of tulips,

Standing so rigidly in plastic buckets.

They seemed so prim and proper,

Lips tightly clenched

Like disdainful Dutch spinsters in period dramas,

Tutting as they eyed potential buyers,

Whispering, “Seriously? I don't think so!”

But in Dutch of course,

Which sounds absolutely terrifying.

 

Yet I’ve come to enjoy the company

Of these stick-in-the-muds

Who become gorgeous giddy gigglers

When I bring them home in multiple bunches

And mix them among each other,

Throwing them their own multicoloured cocktail party.

 

Despite initially claiming they’ll only have a little sip,

These damsels always manage to get

Thoroughly sozzled,

And never say no to a little top-up

During the after-party.

 

And then there’s the mad singleton,

Springing solo in the middle of the lawn.

Usually, she’s a redhead with a bad colourist

And wanton manners,

Bound to soon be

Opening up wide,

Displaying her yellow knickers,

Eager to make sexy-time with the bees.

 

She invariably gets plucked,

Then kept in solitary confinement

In an ugly skinny vase by the kitchen tap,

Where she eyes me furiously,

Swearing in Dutch,

While still taunting the bees

Who find the cheerful smiles

Of a thousand dandelions

Far more charming.

 

 

©Francesca Bossert 2025

ADRENALINE JUNKIES: A HAIKU

They rev their death bikes,

Eager for a hit of speed.

Their last words don’t land.

 

 

 

Every weekend, so many ambulances and police cars rush up the mountain behind us to pick up the pieces of speed-crazed motorcyclists on a road apparently begging for acceleration. I hate to think of what they find when they reach the accident. I hate to think of those poor policemen having to contact the families of the crash victims. Please, if you love to drive a motorbike, try to rein in your desire to go fast, to take mad risks. Please be extra careful, if only for the rest of us.

 

Want to put some change to my tipping jar?

FORMULA FORSYTHIA

Did you watch the race today?Did you cheer for that banal, relentless bush canoodling every last sunbeam before the cold front rumbled in this evening?Did you whistle along to the joyful jam intoned by birds all over the country, encouraging this nondescript hero who invariably says no to greeting the first day of spring looking drab?Wasn’t it great?!Hello, Yellow!Congratulations, Forsythia! Forever fast and fabulous.Happy First Day of Spring!!!This poem is dedicated to my beautiful Mama, who is celebrating her 87th birthday today!

THE LIST OF UGLINESS

(Artwork, G. Cordero on Unsplash)

Love muddles sometimes.

 

Old wounds throb beneath our skin, our pulse spins and bolts, and suddenly Pandora crashes through the floorboards, all smirks and pearl-twirling as she brandishes a list of grievances that slowly unrolls and keeps on unrolling, spewing a lifetime of secrets, frustrations, failures, broken dreams, guilt and shame and misunderstandings and anger and fear fear FEAR.

 

And as emotions haemorrhage, we grab this list of ugliness to shake at each other, but it becomes love tangled, hobbling us, toppling us, strangling our thoughts, choking our words.

 

Pandora rolls her eyes, stiletto-turns and stalks out, all hips and attitude.

 

So, we sit, winded, undone, imprisoned in our tear-soaked list of grievances, eyeing each other with wild, love-hurt eyes, wondering how we got here and how we might clean up this mess.

 

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REFLEXIONS POETIQUES D’UNE BLONDE EN TRANSAT

Trois buses planent et plongent,

Braves salvatrices de souris

En danger de mort.

 

(Haiku)

Paie-moi un café!!! Stp? Click ici...

 

BLONDE IN A RECLINER: A HAIKU

Such a sweet bird…

Three hawks swoop and dive

Airlifting mice from danger.

Nature warms my heart.

Buy me some Chocolate Digestives. Please!