Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 15

WEATHER FORECAST: FEBRUARY 16, 2025

It’s a fresh, blue swoop of a day!

Ideal for gorgeous assassins

To glide, majestic,

High on airs of innocence

Only to crash-land on tiny targets

Who’d been admiring the primroses

While airing their winter furs

On this lovely sunny day.

 

I suppose the poor little mites never knew what hit them.

SO PRETTY

Roses aren’t just red,

They’re like you and me!

They’re all different colours,

Each one so pretty!

 

A POEM ABOUT ME!

I’m English, Italian

From Switzerland too,

I’m now in my sixties,

And how about you?

 

I’m a sucker for breakfast,

It’s my favourite meal,

granola and yogurt,

But gluten free please.

 

My intestines are stroppy

Due to my IBD

Microscopic colitis

Makes for crap company.

 

I’m very artistic,

I’ve a ton of ideas,

Losing my creativity

Is one of my greatest fears.

 

I discovered poetry

Just one year ago,

At a time of my life

When I felt really low.

 

I write funny poems,

Well, not all the time.

Some are really romantic,

And a lot of them rhyme.

 

My poetry is easy,

It will make you smile,

There’s a poetry book coming

It’ll be out in no time!

 

When I’m not busy writing

I like to crochet,

I’ve made several blankets

And there’s one on the way.

 I also like sewing,

Making colourful bags,

My huge stash of fabric

Is a little bit mad!

 I’ve written a romcom,

A tale of love in the sun,

It’s called Just Like a Movie,

And I promise it’s fun!

 

 BUY ME A COFFEE?

RED, WHITE AND BANANAS

Did you see them,

Flying over the cuckoos nest?

Past the Greenland bend, all of them went,

Then straight on til morning.

Totally off their tequilas,

You know,

Since they swooped over that gulf formerly

Named after Spring Break.

They, like, go here now.

Like, everywhere, silly!

Don’t count your cuckoos yet, good people,

They’ve not quite hatched all their

Half-baked plans for the great Cloud Cuckoo Land.

Right now, they’re just making banana pancakes.

Maple syrup?

Don’t mind if I do!

It’s another tequila sunrise… Spare some change for a bonkers poet?

SANCTUARY

Photograph: Jacob Bentzinger at Unsplash

 

Cut yourself a little slack, sweet pea.

You’ve been through so much,

And the road ahead shows no sign

Of ever being fitted with a red velvet carpet.

Release unfounded guilt,

Lie down and rest,

Coax that frantic, fretful mind crackling

With shoulds and musts

Into the sanctuary of a quiet nest,

And just be.

Free every tear you’ve kept locked

Behind those brave, determined eyes.

Take a breath and let them flow,

Sweet pea,

Each tear a tiny vessel of woe

Slowly sailing into the giant Ocean of Suffering,

Mingling in infinite solace.

Spirit lives there, sweet pea,

Gentle yet strong,

Waiting to carry you to shore,

Softly, kindly,

Once your strength returns.

 

CYMBAL CRASHING TERRITORY

I am delighted to inform you that I no longer identify as a Gentle Simmerer.

Yes, I have finally bubbled over!

You wouldn’t know it;

On the outside I’m still calm, even-tempered little-old-me.

Nevertheless, too many bubbles of exasperation have flipped overboard

And from now on I’m ready to leave the gunk where it flops,

To simply snarl and walk out, no craps given.

No, I am not what highfalutin morons might call a hot mess.

I am beyond the drum-roll

And have entered full-on cymbal crashing territory,

A place I feel warrants a rite of passage,

Something to commemorate years of wading

Through a flabbergast of

Dismissers,

Gaslighters,

Nutcases,

And Crooks.

Funny how it took one last jaded eyeroll from a Man in a White Coat seated on

The Important Side of the Desk

For my lid to slip off,

For me to sit forward, eyes narrowed and slam down my fist.

CRASH!

Of course, a barrage of denials burst from his lips,

Yet his Oops button lit right up.

I may get a tattoo!

THE CRASH OF MY CYMBALS

I am delighted to inform you that I no longer identify as a Gentle Simmerer.

Yes, I have finally bubbled over!

You wouldn’t know it;

On the outside I’m still calm, even-tempered little-old-me.

Nevertheless, too many bubbles of exasperation have flipped overboard

And from now on I’m ready to leave the gunk where it flops,

To simply snarl and walk out, no craps given.

No, I am not what highfalutin morons might call a hot mess.

I am beyond the drum-roll

And have entered full-on cymbal crashing territory,

A place I feel warrants a rite of passage,

Something to commemorate years of wading

Through a flabbergast of

Dismissers,

Gaslighters,

Nutcases,

And Crooks.

Funny how it took one last jaded eyeroll from a Man in a White Coat seated on

The Important Side of the Desk

For my lid to slip off,

For me to sit forward, eyes narrowed and slam down my fist.

CRASH!

Of course, a barrage of denials burst from his lips,

Yet his Oops button lit right up.

I may get a tattoo!

SNOW WHITE

(Admire the lovely but not so Disney manure help the farmer gifted to us at the other side of the field! Thank goodness it’s not hot at the moment…)

On an icy morning without a view,

Just the dark silhouettes of trees on a yellow-grey background,

Yet bright enough to offer a promise of blue,

I ventured outside in my pyjamas

As I always do,

With a jug filled with bird-breakfast.

 

I lifted the top off the little wooden chimney

On top of their bird-chalet

To deliver their seed, Santa-like,

When, suddenly, dozens of birds began to dance around me.

 

Round and round they whirled,

Fluttering tiny fluffy feather at me,

While singing what I imagined

To be a song of gratitude.

 

I enjoy thinking

I resembled a weirdo Snow White,

Albeit without the signature bright-red lipstick of course,

Totally bedheaded

In grunge-chic blue and white leopard-print pjs,

And my mud-speckled Greek-blue Crocs.

 

I eschewed the trilling, however,

Which in retrospect is a bit of a shame

As I’d gargled just a little earlier,

And my voice would have been

Disney Princess perfect.

Buy me some more bird seed!

THE VALLEY OF LOST LAUGHTER

(Before…)

Above the valley of lost laughter

A grey shroud hovers.

Heavy, sinister, still.

A pixelated granite slab,

Impermeable to light,

Obstinate, oppressive,

Day after day,

As dark and constant as our daily newsfeed.

 

Sad skeletons of trees gnaw on my dwindling reserves of optimism,

As I sit by the window, clutching another mug of tea.

 

Finally, a filigree of blue fractures the slab.

Soon there is a stripe, then a clearing.

Instantly, a heartening of colour-wrapped people emerges

From everywhere,

Scent-delirious dogs scurry in zigzags,

A young mother power-walks her child in an intrepid-looking pram,

And a family of six embarks on a courageous, wobbly bike ride.

 

I pull on my boots.

 

We are all light seekers,

And blue skies always return.

All we can do is

Keep the faith.

 

Even while walking in the Valley of Lost Laughter.

(After!)

Buy me some bananas to make more banana bread

GONE TO THE DOGS

It is said that, after a while,

People begin to look like their dogs.

Sadly, I no longer have a dog,

Although I suppose  

The butter soft folds of my lovely Cavalier King Charles

Would have blended perfectly

With my new voluptuous curves.

 

I do, however, currently have tulips.

Well, these mad Dutch ladies

Have gone a little godverdomme

Neuken-in-de-keuken,

And, frankly,

Haywire-pop-goes-the-weasel

Since I last saw them,

Which was only a couple of hours ago.

 

Utterly dishevelled,

Falling over each other,

Petals on parade,

Leaves tangled,

And cores disintegrating,

They could do with a little tidying up.

 

Well, if only you could see me now. And that’s simply from making stewed apple.

 

I’m thinking maybe carnations, next time?

 PS: My sad fibrofog/obloody-oblooda-IBD gremlins have vanished back to Greminlandland. And they can bloody well stay there.