Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 18

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.

 

 

 

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.