Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 2

THE COLOUR OF QUIET

I shall crochet a shawl the colour of quiet;

cream like a fluffy cappuccino,

or soft clouds hovering among blue.

 

I’ll lose myself

in the hush between stitches,

the wool whispering between my fingers,

warm, peaceful, reassuring.

 

I’ll crochet memories into the border,

ideas into the fringes,

a softness for days when I forget

how to be kind to myself.

 

And when it’s done,

I’ll wrap it round my shoulders,

remembering

that patience can become beauty,

and healing

can come from a big bag of wool.

 

 

GOD’S GIFT: Proof that even God enjoys a duvet day

 

These days, I believe God awakes,

stretches his arms, rolling

his shoulder blades with a long, satisfying yawn.

He shakes his misty cloud-duvet into puffy perfection,

folds it neatly in two,

admiring infinite hues of pink

blending enchantingly

between his fingers.

 

He breathes in deep, clasps his hands with delight

as the sun peeks shyly over the Alps,

then rises in a rousing crescendo –

like a Freddie Mercury vocal –

a thrill of molten gold.

 

I believe God

pats his lavender powder-puff-pillow

back into shape,

then swings his legs over

the silver shimmer of fog

drifting beneath the Alps,

and sits for a while,

feet dangling,

a contented smile

lifting his chubby cheekbones.

 

I believe he remains there,

meditating above the mesmerizing

sapphire blue of the lake,

the fairytale towns, the villages, the lakeside castles,

the crimson-gold vineyards shedding their final leaves,

the cows grazing dreamily in the lilac morning mist

that lingers among the rich autumnal folds

of the Jura mountains.

 

Later, I believe,

God takes a gentle wander –

treading lightly

upon cotton-ball cloud stepping-stones,

reaching down now and then to run his fingertips

over the wondrous textures of the world below.

 

Because, if I were God, I would.

 

THE DAY TINKERBELL DIED: the quiet heartbreak of being too kind in a careless world

 

There are times when I’m blown away by people’s kindness – by how some will go out of their way to be supportive, to help, or to show appreciation.

 

I’ve been touched by the grace of strangers – both complete and relative: shopkeepers, friends of friends, brief encounters in medical waiting rooms – people who have shown interest, offered support, wondered how they might help. I’ve had boutique owners offer to carry my books in their shops without adding a markup, which would have made them ludicrously expensive. Yes, I support them, I’ve spent far more in their shops than I could ever make on any book sold there.

 

I’ve had people who don’t even speak English well enough to fully understand the word-magic in my books not only buy my work but also take the time to leave me a kind review on Amazon!

 

This isn’t just about book sales. It’s about recognition – the kind that tells you that your work, your effort, yourself matters.

 

And then there are those who just don’t get it. Or are too wrapped up in themselves to even bother to think about my feelings. Even when I’ve gone out of my way to be my kindest, most supportive-self, year after year, time after time.

 

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not thinking in a transactional way. I even lay awake for a while last night, trying to analyse my feelings while the welt from the sharp dinner-table slap still smarted. I fumed at not having had a quick comeback to the affront, but, as usual, hurt and – yes, shock – had instantly sunk all retorts into the pit of my stomach. One more book sale isn’t going to change my life, but it always brightens my day. Always. When someone I appreciate is enthusiastic about supporting me, and delighted to buy a copy of my poetry book, I’m engulfed in warm fuzzies. When they say, “Oh, you sent those poems to me on WhatsApp so I don’t need to buy a copy. But you could give me one,” like Tinkerbell, I die a little inside.

 

Am I weird, oversensitive, possibly even thick, in not understanding this type of reasoning? You see, if the shoe had been on the other foot, not only would I have been excited to buy a copy the instant my friend’s book came out, but I’ d have bought five – maybe even ten! –  to give to my friends. To spread the joy and the love. Because isn’t that what friends do, if we can afford to? Even if you think the book is a pile of horseshit?

 

This isn’t the first time it’s happened to me, and I know it won’t be the last. The sad thing is that cuts like this alter relationships over time. Tiny niggles migrate towards the heart, leaving traces that can never be fully erased, sometimes festering to become deep gashes. I’m not talking about the offhand nicks I’ve endured from mere acquaintances; I mean those made by people I consider close friends.

 

I’m learning that grace doesn’t always come from where we invest our love. Sometimes it sidles up quietly, taking us by surprise when a stranger sees us – briefly maybe – but clearly. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s how it should be. I’m bruised, and the niggles will remain, but I’m intact.

I’ll keep on writing, and loving, and giving, even when it isn’t reciprocated. I’d rather be the person who buys ten copies than the grinch who asks for one for free.

 

The world, I think, needs more of the former.

 

 

BLINDFOLDED

 

 Create without judgment,

I repeat placatingly,

while my fingers sprout insipidities

in shades of vanilla.

 

Let me get my blindfold –

perhaps I’ll plummet into pink

by accident

bumble into brilliance,

and land in a hot mess

worth its weight in gold.

 

YOU MUST TRY YOGA

You must

try yoga! they enthuse.

A few sun salutations

and hasta la vista

chronic anything!

 

Yogi Namastanley is the best,

they gush.

He trained in an ashram

in Lloret-de-Mar

during the pandemic.

 

Also, they whisper,

their tone thick

with winks and waggly eyebrows,

Namastanley is super

HOT.

 

As a spell of incense curl

in the candlelight

and otherworldly wails

escape the speakers,

you close your eyes,

you breathe in, exhale,

and enter Doolallyland.

 

You maximise your

Natural-Born-Hyperflexion,

folding yourself into

asshat asanas,

deepening them,

because he said so.

 

You mock your meniscus.

Poopoo your herniated disks,

Ignore the worrying cracking noise

that just escaped the mysterious innerworkings of your hip-flexors;

you are – Namastanley exalts – adding life-juice

by crushing your pigeon.

 

Namastanley moves stealthily

In the Nag-Champa fug.

 

You are

The Chosen One,

Abundantly Anointed,

You tell yourself,

As his Yogic Excellence squats on you,

And settles there,

Possibly deep in a meditative trance

Brought on by an endless

Krishna Das track.

 

Following circa

Three million and thirty-three

Sitarams,

you find yourself wishing

Namastanley

might consider levitating his tonnage

faraway from your pelvic girdle.

 

You ponder the possibility of

granting yourself

A subtle wiggle-groan

As surely those peculiar

snap-crackle-pops

can’t really be the sound of your chakras

realigning?

 

Right?

 

At long last,

Namastanley resumes

an upright position,

and invites you

to engage Mulabanda

as you stretch up to

Downward Dog,

and then melt into child’s pose.

 

And you silently grunt and groan,

untangling your tattered tendons,

confused by the scores of blissed-out faces

heaving orgasmic sighs,

frogging down on synthetics as though for the night.

 

You do as you’re told

as best you can,

because Namastanley

is legendary in yogic circles,

and you saw a book

about being the placebo,

and saw an Instagram reel

about pain being in your head.

 

Then Namastanley launches

into an esoteric soliloquy

on plumbing the exquisite depths

of discomfort,

asking it what it reveals,

insisting that

your findings will surprise you.

 

And yes, you mutter,

surprised and infuriated by

your idiocy

as you stumble into the  night

and fall into your car,

and into your bed,

before later – much, much later –

waking your husband

and asking him

to please drive you to the ER.

 

 

MAYBE I LOOK WELL BECAUSE I AM MAGIC

(and a little bit overweight due to meds 🤭)

This was written for a paid submission for a salon on Substack.

 

Maybe my troubles began during menopause. Possibly before. I can’t remember being fully pain-free since my late thirties. But life, as I’ve learned, is a series of sliding doors –choices made, actions taken – every choice inevitably sprinkled with accidents, with luck and bad luck.

 

Still, I believe in magic!

 

Racing down the home stretch towards 64 (my birthday is November 9th), I look back at all the women I’ve been: the party girl, the traveller, the lover, the mother, the showjumper, the dressage rider, the Pilates queen, the novelist, the bag maker, the silk painter, the glass painter, the knitter, the crochet addict, the poet. How lucky am I to have experienced so many different Francescas, even if the current me has been ill for many years, leaving me housebound for a good part of the last three.

 

I always loved being outdoors. I am passionate about horses and have been lucky enough to have horses of my own for the past thirty-five years. Not only did I ride, but I organized dressage clinics at the yard where I kept my horses, helped organize national dressage competitions, and attended dozens of international horse shows. I lived and breathed horses.

 

But gradually, my body began to whisper, slow down. My hips and knees became crispy, aching.

 

I ignored them. I found ways around the pain, worked around the injuries. I limped, padded, soldiered on. My horse saw the vet at the slightest niggle. Me?! I hurt, but no biggie.

 

One day, my body pulled the handbrake. I was walking beside my younger horse, when, suddenly, I couldn’t take another step.

 

I saw many jaded doctors who prescribed long-term mega-doses of anti-inflammatories that barely touched my pain.

 

Eventually, my intestines staged a rebellion. I was diagnosed with an incurable inflammatory bowel disease, followed by, two years later, fibromyalgia.

 

My world felt like it had been put in the washing machine on the wrong setting and shrunk to a size that no longer fit. I lost my equestrian world, my social life, my freedom.

 

My intestines are so temperamental I can barely leave the house. My body aches. I feel tired all the time. And yet, almost exasperatingly, I look fine. How can I be so sick yet look well?

 

Maybe I look well because I am magic!

 

I’m resourceful, creative, able to access all the previous versions of myself. My curiosity pushes me to seek joy in other places and share it.

 

 Writing has crept back into my life. Decades ago, while recovering from two consecutive accidents, I wrote a romantic comedy, initially published as Mucho Caliente. I got my rights back, worked on edits, then self-published it as Just Like A Movie. The editing process brought me joy, but when I began working on another novel, fear of taking on such a huge project thwarted my progress.

 

Then, randomly, poetry happened.

 

In February 2024, I joined a seasonal tiny poem challenge on Substack. My first prompt was “wolf.”  

 

That little poem about my fear of writing opened the floodgates. Once I began writing poems, I couldn’t stop. When the prompts ended, I made up my own, writing multiple poems a day, sharing them online. I became obsessed with reading poetry, discovering famous and not-so-famous poets. The postman brought me poetry books at least once a week!

 

The more poems I wrote, the more I wanted to write. Poetry became my sustenance, my ticket to anywhere when my world was confined to the walls of my home. My confidence grew, my mental health improved. I rediscovered the joy of playing with words, using poetry to showcase my sense of humour, and enjoyed sharing my daily (mostly) joyful offerings with the world.

 

In April 2025, I published Illicit Croissants at Dawn, a selection of close to a hundred poems written between April 2024 and January 2025. My daughter, Olivia Bossert, a fashion photographer and artist living in England, designed the cover and did some illustrations. Collaborating with Olivia felt like the ultimate gift!

 

Although I still miss the daily rituals with my horse, not to mention my social life, I’ve managed to move on. I continue to write poetry and I’m compiling a second book. Despite having always been terrified of public speaking, I began filming myself reading my poetry, posting my videos online, and even did a short public reading during the summer – having taken cortisone to ensure a few days of respite from my intestinal issues. I enjoyed the experience so much I could have read the entire book!

 

While becoming ill has taken so much from me, including – for now – my freedom, it reconnected me with my creativity and introduced me to wonderful people all over the world, some I now consider friends. I’ve learned patience, resilience, worked on my fears and insecurities, and discovered how to do all sorts of online technical things (although I rely on my son or daughter when I’m really stumped!).

 

In the last few weeks, new medical treatments offer me glimpses of hope; even if my IBD is incurable, when my team of doctors find the right combination of drugs it will become manageable. And while my daily routine remains monotonous and my outings mostly restricted to trips to the doctor or the pharmacy, my imagination is in full bloom!

 

Nobody expects life to play nasty tricks on them. As a sociable, active person, when illness tripped me up I never imagined it would be quite so relentless. But I count my blessings; Microscopic collagenous Colitis is horrible, but it isn’t life-threatening. I have a wonderful family, a beautiful home in Switzerland and another one in Spain. I have found a team of excellent doctors. I love writing, I love making things, and I love sharing my creativity with people all over the world.

 

As I step into my third act, I feel incredibly lucky – even a little bit magical. And maybe I am!

KEANU IMAGINE

I woke up at 4.30 (again) so I wrote a poem and made a collage!

I read a thing about

how we’re all in the matrix,

so I bought some dahlias

for my own, personal 

mini-matrix.

 

I placed a laughing Buddha beneath the vase,

and had a few words.

 

See,

while I understand that times are tough –

and, therefore, cuts and restrictions,

and absolutely no more

pennies for the poor,

nevertheless –

and oh so frightfully selfishly –

I would enjoy a little passeggiata beyond my front door.

 

Because I do not wear an electronic tag,

and the only thing I ever stole from

was a Mars bar in the school

cafeteria in 10th grade

because the line was insane (chips day!),

and Caroline was waiting.

 

So…

can I get an upgrade?

 

Also,

I’ve never seen

The Matrix.

 

Keanu imagine?

🎸🌿🎸

Ooh, and there’s a new(ish) Ricky song out today (it’s an old song, redone). The video looks a bit odd, but what do I know? I love the song though, and sing it in the shower all the time!

VELVET BLESSINGS: We remember. We forgive. And we begin again.

Do you remember when we were pretty

But mirrors were cruel?

When our topography snubbed our feet,

just as the anointed snubbed us in school cafeterias.

When a blemish foretold public mortification

amid fervent supplications to the gods of flawless skin.

 

Do you remember when we were pretty,

But clumsy and clueless?

When friendships

formed, blossomed,

curdled, dissolved,

only to blossom again,

scarred

by the claws of hurt and mistrust –

tiny heart-tattoos of baggage.

 

Do you remember when we were pretty

and we fell in love

and out of love

and crushed and soared and crashed and splintered?

How we rose again,

inebriated with love and lust,

reckless, ruthless, ridiculous, oblivious.

 

Do you remember when we were pretty,

How we dashed towards immortality?

When possibilities were sliding doors

we pranced through on a whim,

our choices irrational

but heady and heart-driven?

How life returned the lucky among us to sender,

When mouthfuls of lemons

Sent us skedaddling.

 

Do you remember when we were pretty –

Oh, so very, very pretty! –

Now that our feet beckon our topography,

and time bolts towards eternity?

I hope, now, that we soften,

strive to let the inconsequential go.

I hope

joy sunshines your days.

I hope

love lingers, caressed by grace.

I hope

friendships endure the gripes and misunderstandings.

And, perhaps most of all,

I hope

health swathes you in velvet blessings.

 

NOTHING, REALLY

Hello everyone,

Ufff, I’m not feeling like going out dancing, that’s for sure ! I’ve had tests done this week because I’ve been horribly ill, but at first glance nothing really (!) to report. However, I do have to wait for the results of the biopsies which should be in early next week. I see my doctor next Thursday so I may have to wait until then. Which isn’t too bad, as I’m not concerned. I just want my life back. Or even just half my life back! I’d even take one good day a week.

Anyway. C’est la vie. I have a beautiful cosy house, and I’ve lit the fire and it’s roaring away because the wood is nice and dry. There’s banana bread baking in the oven, and Miss Badu (our cat) is curled up like a little white shell. I’ve been doing some crochet, I’ve had a bath and a snooze, and this morning my son and I watched the fox chilling in the horse paddocks next door, while the three resident horses grazed contentedly. It was magical, reminding me of that lovely illustrated books with the boy and the white horse and the fox. Do you know the one I mean?

This fox - well, we assume it’s the same one - used to come and sit with us while we ate dinner on the terrace two summers ago! He’d come incredibly close and lie down and watch us. I have some amazing video footage of him that I’ll try and find to show you. I never got close enough (or brave/mad enough to try and stroke him) but he literally lay 2 metres away, very relaxed, and ever so beautiful.

I wanted to video myself reading a poem, but I look semi-dead, so I tried another variation which I think turned out quite nicely. It fits this poem, too. It’s not a new poem, but it’s one of my favourites. It’s called, Nothing, Really. I hope you enjoy it.

And here is a little video of the fox!

Isn’t he gorgeous?! Amazing!

Have a lovely evening,

With love and gratitude,

Francesca xx

EPHEMERAL BLESSINGS: mindfulness, the feline way

She leaves fur on my keyboard,

Tiny tufts of ephemeral love,

Feline gifts that flutter

In the breaths of my impatience.

 

Slow your mind, change your perspective,

Feel the love.