Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 34

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.

 

 

THE FEAR OF WASTED WORDS: Oh, hello again, Madame Imposter!

Huddled over her keyboard beneath the skylight,

She wondered whether her story might blow up in her face,

Spattering her skin with the ink of thousands of wasted words.

She’d be exposed,

Locked up once again behind that heavy door labelled

IMPOSTER

In block letters.

 

And in the world outside the real wordsmiths would shine on,

Sharing likes and heart emojis,

Collecting accolades,

And she’d hear them, typing away with giddy glee,

While she sat,

Staring at four walls,

Slinging mud at her own mind

For having been pretentious enough to dream again.

 

She took a breath.

Checked her storyboard.

Sat up straight.

She emptied the bucket of mud out of the window,

Refilled it with glitter,

And sprinkled a handful over her head.

 

Onwards, she told herself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DJ BONK’S RAP

DJ Bonk is a minor character in Just Like A Movie. Nevertheless, I figured he needed a rap poem to introduce himself and explain a couple of things! Also, I wanted to have a little fun, get a little funky, you know what I’m sayin’?

I might come back and perform it later!

 

By the way, when you read it, you have to get a little funky, too. Give it a little snappy rhythm, ok?

DJ BONK’ S RAP

 

I’m DJ Bonk and I’m mighty cool

They say I was the very hottest boy in school.

My grades were crap, but not my tunes,

I started getting funky in my mother’s womb!

 

When I was a small boy I poopooed cars,

No Hot Wheels or Matchbox junk in my back yard.

Mama’s funky records - yo! - they were my jam,

She swears I boogied in my pram!

 

My teenage years they were formative (Yo!)

Back in Viareggio where I lived.

Down on the beach I improvised,

With my breaks and beats I tantalized.

 

Bikini girls they adored my groove,

They hung ‘round me and totally snubbed their dudes! (Yo!)

They made requests for cheesy slows,

For Christopher Cross and Barry Manilow (No!)

 

I’d cue those tunes, I’d make a mix, (Yo!)

I’d let them roll, dance with the hottest chicks.

I’d take them home, we’d be fooling around, (Yo!)

Those beach parties were my playground! (Yeah!)

 

They call me Bonk, the very best, (Yo!)

Those pretty ladies were always dead impressed!

I played in clubs right around the world,

And bonked me several hundreds of gorgeous girls!

 

But then one day I met Kirsten,

That mega hottie once was Miss Sweden.

The reigning Queen of Ibiza,

The White Isle’s “It girl” and diva (Whoa!)

 

Head over heels I fell for her (Yeah!)

At Pacha during Flower Power.

That magic night, well it was something else,

I think she must have used some wicked Kirsten spell! (Yo!)

 

Unfortunately, I soon got sick

With a really bad infection on my twinkie wink.

My rude old piercing got badly inflamed, (No!)

So, I fled Ibiza feeling most ashamed.

 

A Hamburg doctor finally fixed my dong,

Sing Hallelujah cuz - holy smoke - the pong!

But Kirsten threw the most almighty fit,

Calling me a two-timing randy git! (No!)

 

So now I hope to make amends,

With Gemma and Emilio’s funky help! (Yo!)

I’m DJ Bonk from sunny Italy,

And I’m gonna ask that girl to frickin’ marry me! (Yo!)

 

 

 

WEATHER FORECAST: it’s getting rowdy out there!

September rumbles in hurriedly mid-afternoon,Black clouds power-whooshingDown the Jura,Rousing a rampage of scatty winds.Prepare for the massDe-flowering of innocent roses,And the sudden, Inexplicable appearance of a multitudeOf gnarled leaves tanned to a crisp.Watch panicked yellow butterflies twirl like uncoordinatedRibbon gymnasts.Say goodbye to unpegged socks and thongs!The Swiss summer just received marching orders.Will it retaliate?Will Francesca soon to flee to Spain?Watch this space!