Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 47

IF

(Tiny spring poem from a prompt : IF)

If she had not fallen

I would not have been there to lift her up

With my oblivious innocence.

 

If we had not fallen together

We may not have risen

When they fell.

 

May we rise

To celebrate those who fell

While trying to rise.

 

But may we rise in kindness.

Always.

WATCHING

(TINY SPRING POEM FROM A PROMPT BY BETH KEMPTON: TODAY THE WORD IS “WATCHING”)

 

I sat watching.

But I couldn’t see.

I couldn’t move forwards until I learned.

That I would never see anything until I found a way to whoosh away the darkness.

 

And with that I saw.

I no longer watched.

I reversed the seeing.

Saw within to see without.

 

I sought someone to help me see.

So that I no longer simply watched.

 

And now I love what I see.

 

THE ITALIAN OOMPA-LOOMPA

Or The Week My Father’s Future Looked Orange!

“Mamma mia, Sylvia dear!

Come quickly, I’m over here!

I don’t know what’s going on,

One thing’s for sure, there’s something wrong.”

 

“My hands are now a funny colour,

Maybe I should call my mother.

Look at this, it’s really strange,

My palms have turned a bright orange!”

 

“I washed them many times and yet,

The brownish orange seems to stick.

A pumice stone would make them sore,

I don’t know what to do anymore!”

 

“Good morning doctor, it’s so strange

Look, my palms are bright orange!”

The doctor gasped, “Oh goodness me,

You must have some foreign disease!”

 

Doc went on, “Sit down, Monsieur,

I’ll have to take your temperature.

I’ve never heard of orange palms,

I’ll call my colleagues, ask around.”

 

“I’ll take a swab, alert the lab,

Let’s hope this disease isn’t bad.

Meanwhile I suggest you go to bed,

And hope the colour doesn’t spread.”

 

Stay quiet, drink fluids and get some rest,

I don’t know what else to suggest.

I’ll be in touch, I’ll let you know,

But as it’s summer, labs can be slow.”

 

“Mamma Mia, it looks like shit,

I do not like this crap one bit.

I’ll put some cream, I’m sure it’s good,

It’s used by stars in Hollywood.”

 

“I’ll go to bed and sleep soundly,

To rid myself of this disease.

Sylvia, please, I don’t feel well,

This disease ees terreebell!”

 

“My husband snored the whole night through,

Yet morning brought no better news.”

“Dear me, my palms are getting worse,

Madonna Santa, I have a curse!”

  

“More cream I must quickly put on,

That Hollywood one, I know it’s strong.

I’ll rub lots in, I will be fine,

And forget about it with some wine.”

 

The problem only got much worse,

Now orange everywhere dispersed!

When he next looked a few hours later,

What did he seee? An Oompa-Loompa!

 

Our daughter walked past the bathroom,

She had gone out to ballet school.

“Oh finally, there’s my fake tan,

Papa, you stole it, you naughty man!”

 

“That cream is good, but be aware,

If you apply it, you must take care.

Wash your hands immediately,

If not you’ll look like such a freak!”

 

“But don’t apply it everyday,

Cuz if you do, you’ll look quite strange.”

“Madonna Santa, but of course!”

We laughed until we all were hoarse!

 

 

THE TRANCE

Now I emerge.

From another place.

Another time.

 

I’m trying for a part

In a film

I’m sixteen

I’m in love

Or is it a crush?

What’s the difference?

A love-crush!

Am I his love-crush?

He’s not here.

The other role is not for him.

Yet I have the power

To bring him to me in an ugly room full of poker-faced strangers.

I close my eyes and find him, this beautiful boy.

I inhale.

Ignite my body.

Open my eyes and keep him there.

I speak only to him.

 

I am an actress.

 

MICROSCOPIC LYMPHOCITIC COLLAGENOUS COLITIS

My illness has an endless name,

Most people can’t seem to retain.

I’ll call it MLCC for short,

To keep it simple, much less effort.

 

MLCC sounds quite edgy,

A band you’d see on MTV.

Reality disappoints somewhat,

Just plain old inflammation in the gut.

 

I didn’t know this might persist,

Until the gastroenterologist

Gave me a stash of cortisone,

To keep this crap under control.

 

I changed my diet, ate three things,

Lost ten kilos, such a pain!

Anything to not take pills,

For a while I wasn’t ill.

 

But MLCC’s a sneaky shit,

Makes you feel like such a twit,

Thinking you can beat this thing,

Eat much more of everything.

 

Going out became a challenge

Never knowing what might happen,

So the other day I caved,

Swallowed the pills my doctor gave.

 

And since I swallowed Entocort,

MLCC is now distraught.

Those little pills erased its grin.

Made it taste its own medicine.

 

Nevertheless I’m rather annoyed

By side-effects hard to avoid.

I may blow up like a balloon,

My face puffed up like the full moon!

MY GLAMOROUS GRANDMA

This is a poem inspired by the novel I’m currently writing.

My grandma lived in Saint-Tropez

She took me in as just a babe.

My mum and dad I don’t recall,

They died when I was much too small.

 

Grandma, such a glamourpuss,

Had famous friends, Brigitte Bardot!

Brigitte and Grandma loved to party,

Those cheeky girls could be quite naughty!

 

Sasha Distel, that gorgeous man,

Would lie around getting a tan.

I’d push him in the pool sometimes,

Jump in with him, he didn’t mind.

 

The Janes would come for sleepovers,

I’m talking Fonda, Birkin here of course.

We’d dine al fresco, they’d get quite sloshed,

Smoke funky cigarettes, talk hogwash!

 

Alain Delon, he loved my Gran,

And often showed up unannounced.

“Ma chère”, he’d say, “I need your advice,

I’m in a pickle with my lovelife!”

 

My friends would come play after school

They thought Grandma was really cool.

She drove a big convertible,

A turquoise gas guzzler with silver rims.

 

She played her tape deck really loud,

Her taste in music made me proud.

We’d park on beaches, fancy free,

Dance around in our bare feet!

 

My Grandma is no longer here,

She passed away at ninety-three.

Her funeral was a wild affair,

With celebrities from everywhere.

 

Grandma lived her life with zest,

She left me with just one request:

“Stella, you must promise me,

To never give up on your dreams.”

MATH MORONITIS

My neurons are not wired for math

They never were, it’s really sad.

My teachers did their best, I know,

Nevertheless, my brain was slow.

 

I sat right in the back of class,

The radiator warming my ass.

Caroline sat next to me,

Slightly better, though hardly!

 

Arithmetic was bad enough,

I found multiplication tough.

My tables went into one ear,

Then out the other, maths diarrhea!

 

 As for fractions which stupid twit

Took numbers, broke them into bits?

A bigger moron then showed up,

Mixed numbers and letters, algebra!

 

I heard about something called trig,

I’ve no idea what that is.

I failed all of my math exams,

I couldn’t care, don’t give a damn.

 

If my ten fingers aren’t enough,

I grab my phone when it gets tough.

Or ask Siri to help me out,

She’s nice and patient, never shouts.

 

How about you?

Own up! Please do!

Do you have mathmoronitis too?

 

THE OPERA

The sky is all wound-up today,

Proffering blue skies here

And black clouds there.

 

Sunrays whirl piercing the black,

A stage set for an opera.

Amethyst raindrops, lavender light,

A cast of sparrows, robins and magpies.

 

A woodpecker feasts on juicy worms,

Concealed in daffodils and sparkling grass.

Mad gusts of wind tickle and tease,

Like a big bad wolf with better breath.

FROGS!

We had a house until last year,

In a small town not far from here.

We’d seen it first in early spring,

And fell in love, it was charming.

 

We moved in, it was July,

Did lots of work, I made it mine.

The special thing about this home,

Was a big pond in which swam Koi.

 

In summertime, oh goodness me,

You’ve never seen so much beauty!

A great tableau, just like Monet,

Waterlilies in pastel shades.

 

Dragonflies bright cobalt blue

Fairy helicopters, I swear it’s true,

Goldfish shimmied under the surface,

Flirting with Koi, their fancier brothers.

 

A weeping pine, a laid-back sort,

Its drooping branches tickled the water.

Along the verge riots of roses,

Giggled with delphiniums, daisies, cosmos.

 

Now that you’re charmed by what you see,

Thinking, “gee, she’s so lucky!”

Let me tell you about the frogs

Those sleepless nights, the elusive plops!

 

One night in spring, our first one there,

Loud sounds of croaking filled the air.

My husband glanced at me wide-eyed,

“Cesca”, he said, “what’s that outside?”

 

And all at once it dawned on us,

The frogs’ spring lovefest had begun!

We rushed outside in our pjs,

Thinking we’d shoo those frogs away.

 

Those sneaky frogs had waterbeds,

They used our lily pads for sex!

We had to act, this was a bitch!

Now tadpoles swam among the fish!

 

We bought flashlights and headlamps too,

Four fishing nets and Welly boots.

We’d venture out when darkness fell,

Vowing to silence those decibels.

 

Those croaky suckers were so quick,

We had to learn the catching tricks.

Then every night for weeks and weeks,

We hunted down those noisy creeps.

 

Please believe me when I say,

No harm became our amphibian prey.

Into a container they nimbly plopped

We drove them somewhere else to hop.

 

A wildlife reserve just up the road,

They made new friends, hung out with toads.

Spring after spring, night after night,

We’d go frog hunting with flashlights.

 

 

ALCHEMY

A clever man in Hollywood,

Wields magic powers with words I wrote.

He structures sparkles, emotions, dreams,

Recrafts them for the silver screen.

Skilled in technical alchemy

He shapes my romantic comedy.

A tale of zest for life and love

Of friendships, treason and laughter.

 

How exciting would it be,

To one day see this on the screen?

Our joint uplifting legacy

For everyone to go and see!