Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 16

THE DROLDRUMS

 

I feel the doldrums behind me,

The doldrums are not the place to be.

There’s nothing droll about these drums,

Just a slow, repetitive thump.

 

They’d been banished for a while,

About a year, I’m medicalized.

I’ve been upbeat, my IBD

Also seemed to be behind me.

 

But this past week that little git

Is scaring me a little bit.

I’ve been so tired, I’ve been in bed,

My body aches, so does my head.

 

I’m seeing doctors, doctors, yay!

Oh, for god’s sake what’s there to say?

Nobody knows, nobody agrees,

Most of them don’t listen to me.

 

So, hey I’m back in the doldrums,

If they were droll they might be fun.

I’ll add an R to that sad word,

Put music on, flip it the bird.

 

I’ll take a trip to the Droldrums,

It’s sunny there from what I’ve heard.

There are no jerks, no stupid gits,

Everyone smiles, everyone’s fit.

 

 So, if you’d like to come along,

Just let me know, you can’t go wrong.

In the Droldrums, by the sea,

Telling jokes, just you and me.

 

BUY ME A PRESENT!

WEATHER FORECAST JANUARY 27, 2025

(it was a teeny bit lighter when I took the photo. But see the wispy clouds? When the sky was granite grey they looked really odd.)

Is this how it all ends? In the turbulent breath of rain-drenched, demented ogres huff-stomping down the mountain, whirling random white whispy clouds and David Guetta laser-lights against the granite sky? They’re here, outside my house, clanging my shutters with their enormous hands, shoulder-banging my front door. Now they’re whooshing down the chimney like evil, very overdue Santas, and they’re absolutely furious about being trapped behind the glass fireguard.

No little pigs here, I promise…

 

And dudes! All I wanted for Christmas was a little lightness of being, and I’m not even talking metaphorically, if you know what I’m saying. Although a little more of the metaphoric stuff might be nice, too. Does it come in purple?

 

Oh, they’ve gone.

 

I’ll try my luck with the Easter Bunny.

 

Meanwhile, spare a thought for the horrified sparrows huddling inside their feeder, watching their birdseed vamoosooooosssshhh…

 

Anyone fancy another nap?

 

Come on then…

 

HOW TO TAME YOUR TULIPS

 

I used to be a little 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.

 

 

 

SUNBEAMS THROUGH THE MIST

Artwork by Olivia Bossert

Light comes in through tiny cracks

It wriggles through to coax life back.

When joy’s a concept, a word, abstract,

When you feel guilty for feeling sad,

When you’re a burden, a mess, a pain,

And deep inside you’re so ashamed.

When you want to disappear,

But even that fills you with fear.

Reach for strength in random signs,

A perfect pebble, a breeze, moonshine.

The fog of sadness will slowly lift,

Replaced by a soft silver mist.

You’ll glimpse a sunbeam; first one, then more,

One day at a time rekindling joy.

THE PRINCESS AND THE PIQUE

Where were you

During my consultation?

I watched my words evaporate

Before they reached

Your brain

In an expensive indifference.

 

Were your needles placed

Randomly today?

 

I left feeling rather piqued.

 

Buy me a Sangria

 

The Stench of Power

Image by AI

What do they smell of,

Those Slippery Men,

Fluent in Sycophancy,

As they scurry alongside their

BIG MAN,

Beating their puny, hairless chests,

Tossing wads of bank notes like rose petals?

 

Do base notes of

Insanity and Disconnect

Peacock among a dangerous, poisonous accord of

Arrogance, Misogyny, Impunity, Entitlement and Greed?

 

Are the top notes of their reek found among the charms of

Plunder and Piracy, Putrefaction and Pestilence?

 

And at the core of this composition - and here we speak of core, since God forbid such a stench be in any way associated with heart – which nauseating, nostril-tormenting notes do we shrink away from? Is that icky whiff a puddle of spoilt milk? A platter of overripe cheese? A pool of decomposing beef? A splat of rotten eggs?

 

Sycophant, by Badombré. Because you’re an asshole.

 

Crikey.

 

Do you think they brush their teeth?  

PS: Badombré? Bad Hombre…

NOBODY WANTS GLOOP

Don’t squander your water,

Don’t just run the tap!

If you’re washing the dishes

Please don’t be a twat.

 

Add a bowl to you sink

And just fill it halfway.

Then do all your washing

In that bowl every day.

 

Are your plants looking thirsty?

Does your loo need a flush?

That nice bowl of water

Can do all sorts of stuff!

 

If this sounds too preachy,

Well, what will we do

When our taps dribble brown gloop?

Goodness me, we’ll be screwed!

 

 

Buy me some ecological washing up liquid

 

WEATHER FORECAST

Bright blue with ice, this morning,

So hunker down with porridge or toast

Or both

For a moment longer.

Read poetry,

Not news,

As the news is as chilling as the outside temperature

But far less beguiling.

Unless you’re into orange…

Juice?

No orange juice, please. Apple?

WHAT TO FRY NOW!

Artwork by www.oliviabossert.com

Remember when we were teenagers

And we used to say,

Of someone we were secretly envied

Or were intimidated by,

“She’s so fake!”?

 

Did you do that?

We did.

 

Why are we still

Eyeing each other up and down,

Zooming in on boobs and suspiciously-smooths,

And well,

Nicole Kidman?

 

Because now lots of us are at least partially fake.

 

And we're allowed (which is what my siblings and I used to say when we were young and snarky).

 

We need to concentrate on frying the bigger, stinkier fish.

 

Also, we mustn't forget to stock up on air freshener,

Because the Super Stinkers are about to hit the pan en masse.

Open the windows. Or close them.

I don't know.

 

Anyway,

Let's try not to be Stinkers.

Not even mini ones.

Or, maybe, keep our Stinkies in the First Aid Cabinet,

And use at our discretion.

Intelligently, you know.

  

Let's be nice. As much as we possibly can.

Cesca xx

PS: And let's be careful, too. You know, walls and (citrus-coloured) ears and all that...

Just a coffee, maybe?

SNOOTS, TOOTS AND FLU

SNOOT

 

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

If the florist is closed

I suggest Jimmy Choo.

 

HOTTIE AT THE DOOR

 

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

I ate baked beans for dinner;

Wasn’t expecting you!

 

RUDE

 

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

You sneezed on my onions

Now I’ve got the flu.

PS: In case you’re wondering, I don’t think Jimmy Choo’s fit me, I don’t like baked beans, and I don’t have the flu, so I suppose nobody sneezed on my onions.