Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 33

SOMEONE’S SON

You lounged,

Scruffy, whiffy,

On Regent Street,

On concrete,

Crestfallen, yet the hope of youth

Still Illuminating your handsome face.

I recall navy eyes,

Dark circles.

Exhaustion.

 

I slowed,

Wanting to stop.

Take you for tea.

Ask questions.

I wanted to understand.

 

I wanted to help.

 

You could have been my son.

 

Yet I let my friend

Dissuade me.

Just another druggy, she said.

Nothing you can do.

 

I did nothing.

Instead, I shopped,

Selfishly,

Anthropologie.

 

 

Years later, you remain on my conscience.

I hope someone behind me

Stopped.

Asked questions.

Took you for tea.

Understood

I hope they helped you.

 

You could have been my son.

 

You are someone’s son.

 

Please forgive me.

 

 

 

 

BIKE RIDE

Come for a bike ride,

Just a little one!

Past fields of

sunflowers wizened by the sun.

Let the lycra racers whoosh by one by one,

I want to savour the view of the Mont Blanc!

We pedal slowly, hold up everyone,

I’m slightly wobbly, and the saddle hurts my bum.

You’ve got the skills but you’ve got to wait for me!

I think that’s enough now I want a cup of tea!

COULD MY GREY MATTER BE PINK?

 

My husband plans way in advance,

While I sit here dreaming of romance.

He’s always been the reasonable one,

The one who has his head screwed on.

 

He’s been preoccupied with death,

We saw a lawyer, spoke at length.

I guess they did, I just sat there

Spinning sad tales out of thin air.

 

My brain won’t do what his brain does,

I ponder far more mushy stuff.

In fact, now that I’ve had a think,

I’m sure my grey matter’s actually pink!

 

I love crochet, make bags and shawls,

I’ve knitted sweaters, cardies, dolls.

I’ve painted crystal chandeliers,

Turned them to multicoloured dreams!

 

I’ve written romcom, mocked Donald Trump,

Poems about doobies, bunnies, frogs.

Stories about philandering smelly men!

And of strong women who get revenge.

 

My brain has screws for stuff like that,

Not business, wills or boring maths!

My filter’s rather wonky too,

It lets all kind of info through.

 

The will thing got to me today,

The thought of dying’s rather strange.

But I guess it’s good to be prepared,

At least that’s what my husband says.

 

I’ll leave my poems to all mankind,

So, think of me, and please be kind!

I hope you’ll read my romcom, too,

Rededicated to all of you.

 

My clogs aren’t popped, I promise you!

They’re Birkenstocks, and nearly new.

And now my pink matter’s lost its edge,

So, I should probably go to bed!

 

 

WONDERSTRUCK

Bold and eager before,

Now, she shivered, shy,

Reticent to tamper with grace,

Afraid to capsize the enduring wonder of what could have been

Into a void of disappointment.

She began to turn away.

He caught her hand.

Held tight.

 

Whispered, “You are my lifeline,”

Lifted her chin with one finger.

 

And his ice-blue eyes spoke of kindness,

Of honesty,

Of soft caresses,

Of gentle days ahead

After decades spent wondering.

 

His mouth found hers.

Wonderstruck, they capsized.  

 

THE ELUSIVE KABOOM

 

Why did her anger inevitably

tangle in discombobulated thoughts,

Before short-circuiting in tears of frustration?

 

Flawed in the furious department,

She longed to shorten her fuse,

To unleash that elusive Kaboom.

 

Not now,

But in those moments of acute, red hot, highly triggered discombobulation.

 

She yearned to be prepared,

To know she was capable of blowing a powerful, eloquent shit-fit without imploding.

 

Was there such a thing as reverse anger management therapy?

Or maybe homeopathic Bitch-Drops at the very least?

 

She got in her car, drove down the road and screamed.

 

 

 

THE TREE: A DAY IN THE BUSY LIFE OF AN AMAZING TREE

Most people think it’s just a tree

A shady tree, most certainly.

Dead useful in the summer months

To shade us from the beating sun.

 

But underneath its canopy

I often sit to drink my tea,

Amused by the loquacity

Of tenants of this great Plane tree.

 

The early twitter starts at dawn,

With teenage sparrows carrying on,

They wake up early, discussing worms,

Nice juicy ones with lots of squirm.

 

Grumpy elders wake up next,

A little hoarse from their night’s rest.

They test their wings, give them a flutter,

Ticked off by young discourteous nutters.

 

The twitter summit then begins,

With neighbouring birds all joining in.

Across the land they squawk and tweet,

With cockadoodles adding pique.

 

When sunrise comes the agenda’s cleared,

And breakfast time is growing near.

They’ll check my birdhouse for birdseed,

Coming up trumps most of the year.

 

During the day they leave our tree,

Zooming around most merrily,

And then at dusk they’ll all return,

Tell stories about insects, worms.

 

They squabble over the best branch,

It’s quite a funny song and dance,

With rustlings and squawks and cheeps,

Some branches clearly best for sleep!

 

And suddenly the tree goes quiet,

Save for a rustle once in a while.

An owl takes over for the night,

His gentle hoots such a delight.

 

 

MY INTERVIEW ON SUBSTACK!

I’m having a strong case of imposter syndrome today, after being interviewed on SUBSTACK! As I said in the interview, I initially felt like I didn’t belong on Substack, among so many talented and (often) intellectual writers. But I’m so glad I stayed and persevered, because it’s become my favourite platform on the Internet.

I enjoyed answering Ingrid Haring-Mendes’ questions, they really made me think about why I came back to writing, and what motivates me to spend so much time doing what I do.

I hope you will go and take a look!

Cesca xx

https://ingridharingmendes.substack.com/p/the-writers-life-12-questions-with

OCEAN GALLOP

Oh, to gallop along the ocean,

On a horse gathering speed,

With your seat out of the saddle,

And his mane tickling your nose.

 

Feel him gather himself beneath you,

As he powers across wet sand,

Let him stretch his neck and body,

Feel your soul sing as he runs!

 

Zigzag in and out the shoreline,

Prance through waves, it’s so much fun!

Breathe in sea-spray, horse-scent, leather,

Close your eyes and feel it all!

 

This was the last of Beth Kempton’s TINYSUMMERPOEMS, the prompt today was OCEAN. They’ve been so much fun to play with!

HOLIDAY FROM HELL: How awful can it get?

Flat tire,

Late flight,

Screaming kids,

Up all night.

 

Lost suitcase,

Noisy room,

Broken air-con,

Monsoon.

 

Jellyfish,

Dirty pool,

Macarena,

Clogged loo.

 

Slow wifi,

Dodgy food,

Lazy waiters,

Bad mood.

 

Tummy trouble,

Period pains,

Loss of consortium,

Home again.

 

WEATHER FORECAST

Disgruntled space-electrician protests approaching south west.

Bulbous-membered, hematoma-hungry.

Short fused, potentially violent tree saboteurs.

Multidimensional Techno-Light show,

Drum and bass!

Claim your free poodle-perm while histrionics last!