Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 33

THE WALLOP

Once again,

The wallop has been delivered,

Curtly, with no warning,

Churning my insides,

Icing my extremities,

Grinding my bones into scintillating, throbbing dust.

 

The ogre is relentless,

Exhausting.

THE BOHEMIANS

I took the car the other day

Filled up the tank and drove away.

I hadn’t planned a lengthy trip,

I’d gone out with a shopping list!

 

But then a playlist popped up on my screen,

A new one specially made for me,

It featured all my favourite songs,

I turned it up and sang along.

 

Suddenly I felt this urge

To keep on driving and see the world.

I called a friend down in the dumps,

It cheered her up, she said she’d come!

 

I picked her up near Rotterdam,

Then headed south, down to Milan.

We parked the car, got on a tram,

Our mood turning bohemian.

 

We did some shopping, bought clothes, some food,

Then found a park to have a snooze.

Woke up at sunset, met a man,

Who said he a camper van.

 

A camper van, we thought, how nice!

We asked him to please name his price.

A deal was struck, we moved right in,

Then drove away with happy grins.

 

We travelled down to Sicily,

Went skinny dipping in the sea.

We gathered shells, made jewellery,

Embraced a new life as hippies.

 

We crocheted shawls and bedspreads too,

We made a killing, I tell you!

We knitted cotton, silk, mohair,

The tourists loved our handmade wares.

 

Last month we felt the need for change

So packed the van and drove to Spain.

We pootle around, we dance, we sing,

Enjoying life and making things.

 

(This one comes with a Playlist )

 

LOVE-SPEARED

 

She watched him, during those long, late nights at the beach, wishing she might slip a finger through the irreverent, sun-dipped curls bouncing over his forehead as he coaxed his guitar between pain and beatitude, his smoke-scratched voice echoing flamenco heartache around the half-moon bay.

 

She watched the bonfire, too, reimagining the red-hot embers it cast towards the sky as love-prayers aimed at the celestial love squad. Surely one of them could see that her cause was worthy, that her heart had been his since he set his guitar-case down beside her on the school bench, all those years ago?

 

He caught her eye and smiled, and she gasped a little, love-speared, only to realise a split-second later that he was lost in a faraway musical dreamscape, and that to him she was as invisible as the gods of love themselves.

 

Get over him; musicians make terrible lovers, she thought, lying back in the sand.

 

A star fell and she caught it on an eyelash, shedding a single tear.

 

As far as he was concerned, it would be the last.

 

 

 

INTERMEZZO

I would like an intermezzo,

A break.

Not for ice- cream,

But simply for a crisp green salad.

Ideally Arugula, sprinkled with freshly grated Parmesan.

Or mixed leaf, with a tart dressing.

 

Just a salad? Please?

Washed down with a generous infusion of pure energy…

 

Would someone please tell Annie and co that sweet dreams are actually made of lettuce 🥬

 

Who knew?!

 

 

DOMINIC: ODE TO A VERY SPECIAL HORSE

 

For years I gleamed your sunset-orange coat, massaged your magnificent body, spun-silked your tail and mane. I turned my finger pads into neurotic health evaluators skilled at touch-detecting microscopic fascia anomalies. My hands became texture-analysts, experts in obucure blemishes, bumps and lumps. I questioned random quivers, uncovered invisible scratches requiring immediate dousing with disinfectant, to be inspected multiple times per day for weeks on end. My eyes became private investigators, mood-interpreters, lame-detectors, paranoid oracles of imminent disaster. I showered, bandaged, massaged, stretched, physioed, osteopathed, dentisted, acupunctured, aquatrainered, gadgetized, trailered, farriered, barefooted, horse-whispered, spiritually-communicated. I haute-coutured, blanketed, padded, saddle-changed, saddle-fitted, bridle-fitted, bit-fitted. I learned, unlearned, relearned, questioned, read, reread, panicked, tried, failed, sucked, didn’t suck. I surpassed myself, marvelling at your patience and generosity.

 

Together, we time-walked miles in soft sand or on hard surfaces, no matter the weather, following veterinary gospel to the last nano-detail.

 

Besotted, I murmured love-spells, kissed your velvet-inquisitive nose, encouraged your favourite licking game. I play-reprimanded your demands for treats, proud of our liaison coquine.

 

Dominic, my gorgeous-wonderful-beautiful boy, my daily amazement, my thrill, my sports companion, my exercise coach, my teacher, my mentor, my mirror, my confidant, my anti-depressant, my constant source of anxiety, my money-pit, my sunshine, my big-moving, chunky, powerful orange LOVE.

 

Now, we visit like elderly friends; I come bearing carrots, offering gentle caresses and apologies in return for licks and puzzled glances.

 

I am sorry. My body suddenly deceived me.

 

Yet muscle memory remains. Now, sometimes, I can smile through the tears.

 

Oh, my beautiful SuperDom! Weren’t we just amazing together?!

 

 

 

SHENANIGANS LOST

I hoped to exhume my shenanigans

To exude nothing but sparkling wheeee!

I hoped to upbeat myself

In time,

To be at the least,

Generically fine,

Maybe add a dash of late afternoon dazzle

By abiding to my rules

Nap, food, fresh air.

I tried to skedaddle my bone-aching fatigue,

Gloss over my bleh.

Epic fail.

The familiar nervous hum squirms my discomfort.

Funless, defeated,

I curl up in my shell.

AURA

He visits while I sleep,

Ice-blue, ethereal,

Warming me with cashmere shivers,

His aura soft, like moonlight mist.

 

I tremble, smile.

He is gone.

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.