Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 15

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.

 

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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!

THE SLY WARRIOR

Hasta la vista, bullies!

Do you sometimes feel like a cloud,

Vaporized by inconsiderate words,

Shocked into momentary inexistence?

 

Does your mind whirl,

Flailing like a crazed inmate,

IQ in freefall?

 

Vaporize, sweet pea,

And flail if you must.

Let your brain add flowers and pretty cushions to its dishevelled nest.

 

Then,

Once your world has recalibrated,

Your self-worth re-puffed its chest,

And your warrior’s whisper intensified to a roar,

Fling your aggressor into the bin

Wrapped in a sly, satisfying poem.

 

Ha!

BUY ME A COFFEE!

 

VOWELS AND PLUM PUDDING

Twinkling a gin and tonic,

His jowls deformed by decades of vowels,

Sir Edgar Broadwick regularly doused his guests

In endless, plum pudding-laced

Life lectures.

 

So, imagine the hoots of laughter

Echoing through stately homes

When, two years ago, in the springtime,

Both his cheekbones imploded

From the effort of holding his own against

The Duke of Marbles’ second cousin’s best friend,

A man whose legendary jowl control

Had already caused considerable cheek carnage

Among the upper crust.

 

Epilogue:

 

Despite several surgeries and the online services of a world-famous voice coach operating out of Bondi Beach, Edgar never recovered the posh vowels of his youth, and eventually emigrated to Australia where he met the heiress to one of the biggest cattle ranches in Queensland and married her. He takes pride in the fact that his sliding jaw matches his sliding stops. Yeeha!

 

Now that’s better, isn’t it!

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

If you enjoy my sense of humour you will surely enjoy my romantic comedy, JUST LIKE A MOVIE, available on all the Amazons.

ARRIVALS

I know a place where love lingers

Long after everyone is gone.

Stand among people gathered there

And immerse yourself in essence of love.

 

Oh, this place doesn’t always smell delightful!

Not everyone has the time

Or the courtesy to shower prior to scurrying in.

You may suffer a woosh of armpit juice

Mingling among that wonderful fug of love.

 

But rise above!

Find the wonder, weave among the crowd.

Cosy into the comfort of someone’s laundry detergent,

Experience a twinkle of Miss Dior, a swoon of Shalimar

Or a rush of Aromatics Elixir.

 

Then stand back,

Enjoy the invertebrate wriggling of impatient children,

The waggling of accepting dogs.

Listen to the chatter, to the anticipation.

Tune into so many sounds of love!

 

You could find amusement in certain unfortunate sartorial choices,

Or ponder Piero Paccione line of business as he strides through the sliding doors in full suited swagger, dark eyes locking onto the sign featuring his name.

 

Then you might gasp unexpectedly,

Winded as an old flame caresses your mind,

A memory roused by the lingering kiss of a love-starved couple.

 

Shake it off!

Zoom out,

Back to bubble-light emotions as drunk-gaited toddlers

Fold into enchanted grandparents,

As adolescents awaiting friends gambol like puppies,

And golden-aged girlfriends slow-dance with giddy delight.

 

Yes, there is baggage there, lots of it, because such is life.

 

But how irresistible is that love-fug

Suspended in the arrivals lounge of an airport?

 

My poetry book, ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN, will be available towards the end of April.