Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 39

WARM FUZZIES

Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t really a bear

Fuzzy Wuzzy had plenty of hair!

Fuzzy Wuzzy was so warm and fuzzy

That he skipped around

Spreading warm fuzzies

To all the other Wuzzies.

 

Be like Fuzzy Wuzzy!

Spread warm fuzzies!

SPARKLES

They walk in

And our home sparkles with love once again.

Our wonderful children!

My perfect sparkles!

NIGHT VISITORS

 Sometimes I feel like blowing a fuse,

People appear, I can’t refuse.

They pop in at inopportune times,

With crazy ploys that blow my mind.

Who are these people you might ask?

Just kick them out, you silly lass!

Don’t put up with such lunatics,

With insane thoughts and evil tricks.

 

The problem is, dear concerned friend,

I enjoy being driven around the bend!

These people have such intense lives,

They’re simply not like you and I.

Their problems don’t involve their weight,

Or whether they watched telly late!

Their issues are so glamorous,

They’ve had affairs and want Oscars.

 

It’s not just smooth sailing I’ll have you know,

These glamorous people deal with stuff!

Their closets rattle with old bones,

Their Louis Vuitton trunks are full of woes.

I’m nice you see, and this is why,

I open my doors to them at night.

And night it is from what I see,

I bet my husband’s fast asleep.

Yet here I am, I heard them knock,

I hope it’s not more you know what!

It’s much too late to write sex scenes,

Unless it’s in a limousine…

 

Now they’ve gone quiet, they must have heard,

And thought I was being most absurd.

But they’ll be back, they’ll bring champagne,

They always do, from their “domaine”!

And now my mind is tangled up,

In far too many juicy plots.

This brain spaghetti feeds my fun,

Tell me I’m not the only one?

 

THE MAGIC BIKE

Carolien and me! More recently!

I have a magic bike,

That can be anything I like.

I’ve owned it since I was a teen,

It’s lasted decades, just like me!

 

It’s been a pony, a piebald ,

(That’s black and white if you didn’t know).

I rode that pony everywhere,

His name was Chocolate Éclair.

 

Later it became a horse,

A show jumper, jet-black of course.

I called him Star, he was the best

We won the cup at each contest.

 

Later, my bike helped me act cool,

And flirt with boys outside my school.

I’d hang around with Carolien,

Wait for my crush to cycle by!

 

We rode our bikes all over town,

To parties, discos, each other’s homes.

Summer holidays, swimming pools,

We often broke the traffic rules.

 

And then one day we all got cars,

And stashed our bikes in an armoire.

For decades magic was replaced

By rushing around doing things posthaste.

 

And then one day some years ago,

There were less cars upon the road.

A nasty virus, a worldwide cac,

Encouraged cyclists to come back!

 

So, I dug out my magic bike,

Removed the cobwebs, changed the tires.

I checked the brakes, serviced the gears,

Praying this wouldn’t end in tears!

 

I hadn’t cycled for so long,

So many things could go so wrong!

Gingerly I climbed aboard,

This bike I’d lovingly restored.

 

I found the pedals, engaged my core,

Wondered if biking might make me sore.

Then off I went! It was such fun!

Although it slightly hurt my bum…

 

I found the piebald, the jet-black horse,

The schoolyard crushes, and so much more!

I don’t bike quite so far these days,

The traffic makes me quite afraid.

 

Nevertheless, I always find,

That biking’s magic for my mind

I feel fourteen when I crouch low,

And just let my magic bike go!

 

WHEEEEEEEEEEEE!

 

A little poem called FRISSON. And some context…

In all its light cuteness, this poem is really about attempting to come to terms with my cortisone-encumbered body, which I admit is a bit of a struggle.

 

I have an intestinal autoimmune disease that seemed to be under control for quite some time, so I stashed it away in a corner of my mind, thinking it was behind me, while also knowing that it could resurface at any time.

 

Well, it resurfaced in the last few months of 2023 and gradually got worse in the first two months of 2024, so much so that I had to see my doctors again. When initially diagnosed, I’d steered away from the cortisone prescription my gastroenterologist prescribed, and set about fixing it through diet and acupuncture. I lost a lot of weight, too much for my height at my age, and learnt later that many people thought I was seriously ill. Which I suppose I really was back then, having suffered non-stop for four months. And although my illness isn’t life threatening, it still needs to be kept under control.

 

I did research, found a forum, did some food sensitivity testing which came back finding me reactive to almost everything under the sun! You name it, I couldn’t eat it!

 

So, I lived on lamb, sweet potato, avocado, broccoli and stewed apple for four mouths. I no longer eat gluten or dairy (to this day). I stopped drinking alcohol (I drink a little wine now). My condition improved, my weight continued to fall. I got to a stage where I developed an unhealthy fascination with losing weight, and remember hitting 60kgs and wondering whether I might be able to drop below. I became so thin that I had to buy an entire new wardrobe, and loved being able to fit into tiny sizes. In the spring of 2023, I fit into a size 34 at Massimo Dutti, which is basically the smallest size the brand tends to carry.

 

Was I heading for an eating disorder? I don’t know. Maybe if my husband hadn’t convinced me to try to eat more variety I might have.

 

Despite more variety in my diet, initially my disease didn’t flare. I put on a little weight, and felt really good when my daughter got married in September 2023.

Unfortunately, in the following months, my mental health slowly deteriorated. I’d been on anti-depressants for a few years, initially because of sleep issues linked to peri-menopause, menopause and post-menopause. But the medication didn’t do much for my sleep unless I topped it with something else that made me groggy the next day. So I’d gradually tapered the medication during summer 2023, and eventually stopped.

In the meantime, my autoimmune disease began to resurface and cause trouble, possibly due to a naturopath/alternative doctor I’d seen for chronic pain deciding I had Lyme disease, and prescribing all sorts of things to eliminate it from my system. Now I don’t believe I ever had Lyme disease, and hate that he convinced me to take things that drastically upset my microbiome again, causing me a lot of mental stress.

 

Alarm bells should have gone off far louder than they did when he spoke of chemtrails… Whatever!

 

I didn’t notice my slow slide into depression until it hit me like a train when I got Covid for the first time ever over Christmas. Covid wiped me out for three weeks, and my mental health fell apart. I felt horrible. I had no joy, no enthusiasm for anything. I was happy to see my children who visited during Christmas, but I simply couldn’t function. I hated myself, and felt guilty for feeling this way because I’m so lucky and privileged. My thoughts worried me.

 

I contacted my psychiatrist who gave me an appointment early in the New Year, and put me on a new medication that also helps with chronic pain. The effect on my mental health has been phenomenal. I sleep better than I have in decades, and my brain is clear and sharp and I feel wonderfully creative.

 

However, despite acupuncture, my autoimmune continued to flare. I didn’t return to my strict mega-limited diet, but became more careful with what I ate. It made no difference. I saw my GP for my annual check-up, and he suggested I try cortisone to see if it helped, because life’s too short to worry about getting sick due to food. So I caved. I felt better (although so far not completely) but my weight immediately shot up, despite not eating much.

 

I’m now ten kilos or so heavier (I’ve actually stopped weighing myself because what’s the point?) than I was at my lightest…which makes me feel horrible... but of course it really shouldn’t. I have another month or so on cortisone before I can stop, and I hope my weight will drop afterwards. I also hope I don’t have another flare…

 

It’s not so much the weight but the bloated-puffiness that is irritating, and of course not being able to fit into so many of my clothes. I now have a wardrobe for 60 kilos, 65 kilos, and 70 kilos! Which I know I’m lucky to be able to have…

 

I'm thankful for the anti-depressant medication, because without it I know I’d be a mess. My creativity is also an incredible gift, keeping my brain busy and happy, and stopping me from obsessing over these  few kilos and this little bit of extra padding that, on the grand scale of things, are really no big deal.

 

Thanks for reading!

 Here, at last is the little poem!

FRISSON

A little swim

A glide through blue

A little frisson in my suit.

 

The pool is yikes!

But I am brave!

My newfound padding insulates!

 

 

MY BRAIN ON RAIN

I love to watch

Raindrops on the pool.

Calming spirographic plops.

My meteorological hypnosis.

Sunbeam.

Snap!

And now I am awake.

CLUES:WHERE’S MY SUPERYACHT?

 

When you wobble don’t you find

That something comes to ease your mind?

You’ll stumble on one of these things,

And feel a happy little zing.

 

You might need a sleek superyacht

The kind that billionaires adopt!

Not because they’re on your list

(Unless your credit card insists!).

 

And then your superyacht pops up,

It’s called the Lady Buttercup!

A floating mansion just for you

Next thing you know you’re in Corfu!

  

You’ll saunter off your superyacht,

Down its red gangway, there’s a thought!

You’ll meet the glitterati there,

You’ll sip champagne, have an affair!

  

And then you’ll sail away, head west,

In Saint Tropez you’ll find yourself,

The paparazzi in full pursuit,

Thank God the maid had ironed your suit!

  

You get the picture I suppose,

Just let your imagination go.

Just sail away, look out for clues,

What better way to stay amused?

 

CONFUSION OF THE HIGHEST ORDER

Queen Blabbermouth, she rarely posts,

Yet devotees earn more than most.

Her course sells out in seconds flat,

And earns you millions right off the bat!

 

Prince Chatterbox does not agree,

“Queen Blabbermouth smokes too much weed.

I’m your guy, subscribe to me,

I have an algorithm PHD.”

 

Duke Bossyboots is far more crass

He pulls diplomas from his ass.

His track record? Well, it’s the shit!

Just buy his course, don’t be a dick!

  

Lady Bigmouth is quite discreet,

Her sycophants forward her tweets.

Her niche combines philanthropy,

With obscure spiritual chemistry.

 

Confused by so much expertise,

I’m not quite sure which one’s the cheese.

Have you done Bigmouth? Chatterbox?

And has your algo changed a lot?

BONKBUSTER

I’m writing you a bonkbuster,

A good old-fashioned tum-twirler.

You’ll read it and your pulse will race,

Your libido reactivate!

 

You’ll take it everywhere with you,

Down to the beach, into the loo!

You’ll read it way beyond midnight,

Then wake your man to his delight!

 

You’ll swoon over the glitterati,

Their ghastly problems, lavish parties!

The stunts they pull will blow your mind

(Ambitious people are rarely kind).

 

Actors, popstars, horses too,

My bonkbuster is sans taboo!

Geneva, Ibiza and Saint Tropez,

With gasps and giggles all the way!

 

 

THE DELIGHTFUL SURPRISE OF POETRY

 

I’ve been writing lots of poetry lately, and it’s been a delightful revelation. Until early this year, the last time I properly listened to a poem was probably when my mother read T.S. Eliot’s Old Possums Book of Practical Cats when I was about eight. I’ve just ordered Old Possums and can’t wait to rediscover the collection. Now that I’ve developed something of an obsession for poetry, it’s hard for me to fathom that it never registered on my radar until so recently. I always associated “grown up” poetry with obscure philosophical intellectuals, when I now know that it can be joyous, goofy and creatively liberating!

I recently bought Grant Snider’s Poetry Comics, a poet and illustrator I discovered on Substack, which is gorgeous (great for kids, too!), as well as a collection called Happy Poems, chosen by Roger McGough, which contains some wonderfully wacky ones. I love both books!

Poetry came to me via Beth Kempton’s word prompts towards the end of 2023. I hadn’t been well for a while, and depression was dragging me down. I felt increasingly adrift and was having a hard time focusing on writing anything of any length. When I started doing Beth’s “tiny winter poem” challenge, I found myself waiting impatiently each day for her to give the “word” du jour.

 

There were days where the word would resonate, when I’d bound straight in, completing the poem in five minutes, or ten, or whatever the set time frame was, and others where I’d think, “oh bloody hell, seriously?” and put it off for later. These were the days I’d then find myself “cheating”, spending far longer than I was “supposed to” on my poem. But since I obviously wasn’t going to get into any sort of trouble, and because playing around with the word, and creating something satisfactory with it made me feel better, I rolled with it.

 

I’m not going to lie and tell you that poetry lifted me out of my depression. I needed medical help for that. But writing poems gave my mind something to play with, something bite sized that didn’t feel overwhelming when everything else did.

Once the tiny winter poem challenge was over, I kept going on my own. Then, when Beth did the tiny spring poem challenge, I did that, and once it was over I again kept writing them, day after day.  In the space of a few months I’ve written 110 poems! Some are tiny, some are quite long, some are dark. Most are happy, some are pretty crap, and some I’m really, really proud of!

 

Most importantly, every single one of my poems has served me on an emotional level. And while poetry is way off what I would assume “my target audience” would be if I were only concentrating on attracting readers to my romcom, or stirring up interest in the novel I’m currently writing, I believe that each one of my poems is a tiny, sparkly glimpse into my soul, and that the flavour of my words will be the same, whether I write poetry, a romcom, a drama, a romance, whatever. My poems feel like little messages in bottles, sent out to be found and enjoyed (or not…), before continuing on their gentle journey for someone else to chance upon.

Someone on Substack left me a comment yesterday saying that my Space Cadet poem read like a romance story, and when I went back to read it again I realised he was right. It felt like it could be an outline for something longer. I love that the line can be blurred, that one thing can lead to another! It’s exhilarating!

Aren’t words just wonderful?