Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 31

OLYMPICS

I entered the Olympics with my twin,

The bellyflop’s our discipline.

We took gold, we always do,

Our bellyflopping raised the roof!

 

We prepare our bellies well,

With a cream our sponsor sends.

Belly-flopping’s a tough sport,

Our floppy bellies get quite sore.

 

Have we thought of what comes next?

Europeans, Nationals, rest?

Well, belly-dancing’s in the cards,

Our floppy skills should take us far.

 

We could do Strictly, otherwise,

I’m told we’re easy on the eye…

We’re bound to lift that glitterball,

And then move on to musicals!

 

WEATHER FORECAST

Image, Unsplash, by Catherine Kay Green

 

North wind tantrum underway,

Involving dramatic inter-tree gesticulations.

 

The Plane tree clearly has the upper hand,

Resembling a mad politician on a podium.

He’ll be sorry when he’s bald and beaten.

 

The cherry tree, ancient, wise,

Puts the wind to good use,

Energetically exfoliating

On this welcome spa day.

 

As for the young maple,

He broke his ties,

Presumably attempting a frisky escapade

But was duly intercepted.

 

Never a dull moment.

THE WEIGHT OF WORRY

You wanted to know

because you worry,

yet I knew my truth

would worry you more.

 

So now I worry about you being too worried.

 

I’m worn out by the weight of worrying everyone.

 

DANDELION

 

My head is as light as a dandelion gone to seed,

Colourful ideas quivering,

Eager for release,

Willing to float effortlessly towards my fingertips,

To meet and greet with sparkling gasps of delight,

Thrilled to be part of

My big picture.

 

Maybe I should make a wish

After my nap…

 

 

PICNIC

(I have searched for a picnic photo, but sadly I don't seem to have any. But this is my father, with my English Nana, with my sister Victoria on Nana's knee, me to the right of my father, then Lisa on my knee, and Nick decked out as a Formula One driver in his electric car! My mother is, as usual taking the photo! I'll have to ask her if she has some photos from the picnics)

Winding roads and autumn leaves,

Open meadows, gentle breeze,

Happy families, weekend fun,

Driving up seeking the sun.

 

Jura mountain, stony tracks,

Excited children in the back,

Picnic hampers, blankets, rugs,

Thermos, coffee, teabags, mugs.

 

Extra sweaters just in case,

Nicky’s football, small first-aid.

Hula hoops, a game of boules,

Plastic sandals, welly boots.

 

Gather stones for the bonfire.

Choose a spot and lay them down.

Hunt for kindle, firewood,

Splash some petrol, oh my God!

 

Sausages, all different kinds,

Chicken skewers with vegetables,

Pasta salads, rice with corn,

Fresh baguettes eagerly torn.

 

Our baked potatoes took so long!

But cooked in embers? Extra good!

Apple pie? It’s freshly baked!

Is there any chocolate cake?

 

Angelo always brought his guitar,

He so loved playing superstar!

Italian tunes everyone knew,

We’d sit and sing all afternoon.

 

These Seventies memories make me yearn

For simpler things enjoyed back then.

Healthy fun with lovely friends

On mountain picnics for weeks on end.

 

I wanted to add a photo of Angelo, seen here to my right, because he recently passed away. He was quite the personality, and loved nothing more than to belt out Italian songs whenever possible!

 

 

THE THIEF

Appearing arbitrarily,

Sometimes unannounced,

Sometimes preceded by a menacing drum roll,

This food terrorist,

Strikes explosively,

Commanding centre stage.

 

Know that he is loudly disruptive,

Painful,

Exhausting,

Traumatizing,

That he vanishes like a thief,

Yet is guaranteed to return.

 

VORTEX

My mind is

A weary,

Adrenaline-sodden

Jack-in-the-box,

Lolling in a vortex

Of questions

No one can answer.

 

Acceptance is so damn difficult.

 

TRICKSTER

Calm, biding time,

Gently gurgling

Suggestions,

Offering Euphoric mind games,

Bending perception

Feigning reprieve,

 

Only to strike

Like a sniper in the night.

 

I should know better.

 

 

AGAINST THE ODDS

 

Stella never played.

 

Why would she when each attempt at calculating the odds

Ended in a bout of mindboggling vertigo?

 

And yet today, on the anniversary of her husband’s final, cowardly checkout,

She felt a sudden irresistible urge,

Possibly even a calling,

To indulge in the EuroMillion insanity.

 

Stella slipped into the kiosk to play a single line,

The numbers appearing to her in what she could only describe as a vision.

 

Years later, she still pondered over what had possessed her, and why, within hours, the stars aligned as the balls in the Perspex mixer jiggled on live television, popping out in an orderly fashion while she watched, riveted, certain of the outcome.

 

She thought of him and smiled. Even in death he somehow remained the ultimate showman.

 

 

TUM

 

There is an issue with my tum,

It’s sticking out and not much fun.

If I pigged out I wouldn’t care,

I really don’t, so it’s not fair.

 

It’s full of air, a giant bloat,

As though I’m pregnant from a ghost.

It’s from colitis, an IBD,

And it’s uncomfortable constantly.

 

My pants are tight though I don’t eat,

Apart from breakfast; seriously.

My gastro doctor doesn’t care,

She’s glamorous and debonair.

 

I need another, that’s for sure,

Someone who answers my phone calls.

People say, “you look so well!”

If I smile no one can tell.

 

I feel spaced out, drink protein shakes,

Because I can’t digest a steak.

Real food has lost all its appeal,

I’m quite fed up with this ordeal.