Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 51

RAINBOW

 

A prism of colours

For pots of gold.

Our house got picked,

As centerfold!

 

This house is magic,

I knew at once,

When I walked it,

It felt like home.

 

The vibes are quiet,

Grounded, kind,

With ghosts of horses,

Custodians.

 

The rainbow marked a special day,

Extraordinary news arrived my way.

I’m blessed already with all I have,

But now, who knows, there could be more!

 

SHOPPING DAY

No poetry today for me,

I went to town, a shopping spree.

With Annabel we hit the shops,

Browsed in Zara, tried quite a lot!

I bought a shirt, it’s cream, quite pretty,

And track pants too, useful, easy.

 

We went for lunch in Bon Genie,

It’s nice in there, albeit posey.

It’s where the posh ladies meet their friends,

Think Gossip Girl for older women!

They dress sport-chic, beige, greige, blue.

Their hair is coiffed, they’re tweaked and smooth.

 

We walked around, saw gorgeous things,

Who buys them I have no idea!

But it’s fun to look, to touch, and dream.

 

I love nice things, but most of the time,

I’m sat right here at my computer.

What’s the point of buying stuff,

That sits on hangers in the cupboard?

 

Oh, it seems I wrote a poem,

It’s not my best but what the heck!

THE BALLAD OF CALIENTE’S CHICKS

(A bit like The Canterbury Tales. But in Ibiza. With a superstar. And very goofy!)

Caliente’s Chicks, that’s who we are,

Emilio is our superstar.

We are obsessed, know all his songs,

Emilio Caliente we adore.

 

Emilio’s fan club grew and grew,

To join you promise to be true,

Spread far and wide the Caliente word,

This club’s not open to any old bird.

 

I’m Emily, I’m CEO,

The biggest fan across the globe.

(My real name’s actually Yvette

I’ve not been institutionalized yet!)

 

I had the fan club’s top-notch spies,

Trace Emilio to this isle.

Purple Banana, Ibiza,

A roof top terrace private fiesta!

 

A gaggle of Emilio’s most loyal Chicks,

Flew here especially for this gig.

We rented Vespas, pink and sparkly,

Added balloons, made it a party.

 

Out in the sticks, on a backroad,

We picked up three regular broads,

Gemma, Laura and Celeste,

Those girls were also headed there.

 

Bosoms on show, lips all festooned,

We caused a right hullaballoo.

Pulling up outside the ‘Nana!

Gemma got tense, I had to calm her.

 

Suddenly Celeste revealed a scoop,

Some news so wild I nearly pooped!

I took a breath, gasped “Well, I never!”

Emilio and Gemma, they’re together!

The bouncer opened the sparkly door,

We all rushed in, trilling “Emiiiilioooo!”

And headed to the rooftop bar,

Drank Banana Cocktails beneath the stars.

 

DJ Moses was such a twat,

His music taste was total crap!

He ignored me for a while,

Requesting Emilio’s salsa vibe.

 

Then suddenly like in a dream,

A picket fence of laser beams.

Jungle-type prints like henna tattoos,

Bounced off the walls, a bass line boomed.

 

And there he was, up on the stage,

The most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen.

“Fuego de Amor”, that famous tune,

Drove the crowd wild, set fire to the room.

 

His repertoire our star performed,

And all of us danced up a storm,

We had brought thongs, we always do,

To throw at him right on my cue.

 

Gemma took one, so did Celeste

(And Laura obviously chose the best!)

I gave the cue, we screamed and ran,

And hurled those knickers at our man.

 

I don’t know why, what a to-do!

Some random man out of the blue,

Grabbed Emilio’s Gemma by the arm.

His eyes were wild, she looked alarmed.

 

What happened next made headline news!

Emilio clearly wasn’t amused,

To defend the one he loved,

He jumped off stage and cuffed the thug!

 

“Hijo de puta,” Emilio hissed,

And knocked that mystery man for six!

Well goodness me, all hell broke loose,

At the Banana, up on the roof!

 

Emilio fled with lovely Gemma,

Caliente’s Chicks, we had to help,

We policed the crowd to let them through,

We knew exactly what to do.

 

While Emilio screamed for his car,

Protecting Gemma, God bless his heart,

We Chicks all ran to find the Vespas,

And rushed right back revving our engines!

 

 

Emilio he jumped on behind me,

I was so thrilled I nearly weed!

My mate Gladys, she took Gemma,

And we roared off all together.

 

Down Ibiza’s darkest roads we raced,

And made it safely to Celeste’s.

Emilio kissed us both goodbye,

Before disappearing into the night.

 

For as long as I shall live

I will cherish that late-night kiss,

The memory of him pushed up close,

His arms around me as we rode.

(To read the book from which this whacky tale was inspired click here)

 

LAURA’S REVENGE

My husband’s infidelity,

Brought out the crafty witch in me.

He left me for some younger twit,

With a taut tum and gorgeous tits.

He told me,” Laura, I must be true,

I met a girl, younger than you.

She does things you wouldn’t believe,

With the sexy tricks tucked up her sleeve!”

 

“You and me don’t have enough sex,

I’m moving on, end of subject.

I’ll have my lawyer draw up papers

For the divorce, talk to you later.”

 

He left me there, sipping Chablis,

Forty-years old, suddenly free.

I told myself, “Laura ma chère,

Revenge is sweet, Gianni beware!”

 

I’m an interior decorator,

So changed our flat’s minimalist flavour,

To something vulgar, gaudy, crass.

Oh mon Dieu, I had a blast!

 

I glued a duck-poo green vile carpet,

To the gorgeous antique parquet!

With those swirls of orange in it,

It made you feel a little seasick.

 

With the bathroom I got bold,

The heirloom bath and sink I sold.

Replaced them with orange crap,

Dirt cheap from Conforama!

 

I had all our lovely furniture,

Stored in a massive container.

A plastic couch I went and bought,

In black and gold, the very worst!

 

And wait, the bed, so fantastique!

You’ve never seen something so kitsch!

With zebra sheets in polyester,

That bed is certain to impress her!

 

The static electricity will zap,

Any writhing in the sack.

The built-in radio played shortwave,

The crackle itself was “le bouquet”!

 

I sold all the crockery,

Replaced it with pink melamine.

The fireplace ledge, just wait for this!

I covered with synthetic lace!

 

Black velvet posters in DayGlo,

Adorned the walls of the palazzo.

Blue porcelain horses, a golden clock,

I left a note, he’d have a shock.

 

And then I packed my Vuitton cases,

Rode a cab to the Six Senses.

I’m so proud of this great job,

I did for Gianni and his salope!

 

Now I’m here in Ibiza,

With my friends Celeste and Gemma.

This summer’s about to get très juicy,

So grab the book Just Like A Movie!

 

ACUPUNCTURE

A POEM ABOUT NEEDLES!

There’s something strange just lying there

With needles planted everywhere.

The ceiling is all I can see,

Cuz if I move I’ll feel a zing.

 

I’m not sure where they all are placed,

They’re on my tummy and on my face,

They’re down my neck and in my feet,

In my ankles and in my knees.

 

What they do I can’t be sure,

Chinese medicine is quite obscure.

I started coming years ago,

Hoping Dr Dong could fix my woes.

 

I couldn’t move my neck at all,

And if I did I’d get a shock,

A surge of electricity

Would make me scream in agony.

 

Dr Dong said ,“Don’t you worry,

“You will be fine, just trust in me.

“You don’t need physio, I swear,

Believe in Chinese savoir-faire.”

 

At that point I was desperate,

My life was boring, I felt stuck.

My days were spent flat on my back,

With audiobooks, panic attacks.

 

Three times a week for many months

I visited with Dr. Dong.

I lay face down for my treatments,

I felt quite like a pincushion.

 

Eventually the pain subsided,

The pickaxe in my back a dagger,

A penknife and a needle next,

The human body’s so complex.

 

Dong used lots of variations,

Needles with electric currents!

Cupping worked quite well with me,

The noise it makes sounds so silly!

 

My pain’s not gone, I don’t know whether,

It ever will, but never say never.

I went today for my tummy,

For my colitis actually.

 

Two years ago, back when it started,

Dr Dong had worked his magic.

My swollen knee he treated too,

I swear this ageing thing so screwed!

 

And now you know about my time,

This morning as a porcupine!

I’ll stop this rhyme, I must now go,

Work on my book! See you tomorrow!

 

A HORSE CALLED QRAC

 I used to have a horse called Qrac,

If you kissed him, he’d kiss you back.

He’d pucker up, roll back his lips

His smooch it was the very best.

 

I saw him on the Internet,

Being ridden in some sort of test,

A Portuguese, Lusitano.

That set my body all aglow.

 

Thick mane, long tail, completely black,

With almond eyes and a short back.

I watched his video hundreds of times,

But never thought he could be mine.

 

Until one day with Marie-V,

A random horse we went to see.

Some Portuguese, we didn’t know,

That much about him, we just drove.

 

A little stable in Provence,

Lines of Cremelos with pink eyes,

And then suddenly at the back, 

A gorgeous horse, completely black!

 

My heart stood still, was black beauty,

The one from my computer screen?

“What is his name? I think I know…”

“His name is Qrac, Qrac de la Font.”

 

Of all the horses all over France!

How could it be, what sort of chance

To find the one I’d seen online

Certain he never could be mine?

 

To Switzerland I brought him back,

And started training this young chap.

It wasn’t easy, he was sharp,

He’d spin and buck and sometimes rear.

 

I taught that horse so many things,

And dressed him up in lots of bling.

Swarovski diamonds for Qracipoo

On numnahs, bandages, browbands too.

 

Qrac’s favourite thing wasn’t dressage,

What he loved best was a massage.

Under warm lights, with a machine

Called Equissage, his dopamine.

 

We went to shows, they weren’t his thing,

(Or maybe it was actually me?)

Our scores were crap, we’d both get scared,

I don’t know why, it was absurd.

 

We placed just once, in Cluny, France,

Came second in medium advanced.

We did a freestyle, made a mess,

To a song by Robbie Williams!

 

I never cared that much for shows,

I only really liked the clothes!

The black jacket, the jodhpurs white,

The shiny boots and clean white gloves.

 

I’d rather practise moves at home,

Ride for fun and take lessons.

Or go on horsey holidays,

With my friend Joelle, to Saint Tropez!

 

We’d stay a week, have crazy times,

With Qracipoo and Umbrella,

We called ourselves the Blingadas,

And drank plenty of champagne!

 

We smuggled wine, white and rosé

Under smelly numnahs, how osé!

The customs men they were hoodwinked,

They didn’t want to sniff that stink!

 

 It’s hard to think about those days,

Without fat teardrops in my eyes.

A little lump forms in my throat…

Horses are so hard to let go.

WHOOSH

Whoosh: a quick poem on a wet day

 

Wonderful whoosh,

A whoosh of wind,

Whirling wickedly, whistling, wild.

 

Walls of water,

Like waterfalls.

Wailing gusts, a ghostly noise.

 

It’s wild outside!

Stay in, stay dry,

And watch the dark grey clouds whoosh by.

 

This wild wet day is welcome here,

We’ve had no rain

These past two years.

We need more wild wet whooshy days,

To fill the reservoirs

All over Spain.

FUNNY TUMMY

 

My auto-immune is such a pain,

It takes the fun out of my days.

It comes and goes, plays nasty tricks,

And makes my tummy really sick.

I’m fine a while and then I’m not,

It’s hard to plan with what I’ve got.

Dinners with friends are a headache,

Unless they make me chips and steak.

 

Dairy, gluten aren’t for me,

Not even pasta gluten free!

It makes me bloat, and feel like crap,

I don’t know why but it’s like that.

 

So many things are cooked with butter,

Or hid within stuff, undercover.

Parmesan I never know,

Sometimes it’s fine, sometimes it’s not.

  

Banana bread with crushed almonds,

Coconut oil and cinnamon,

I’ve made it oh so many times,

The quantities stick in my mind.

 

This disease crept up on me,

From taking anti-inflammatories,

For other things that gave me pain,

That still hasn’t gone away.

 

The doctors said, “Just take those pills,

Just knock them down and go away!

We don’t know what is wrong with you,

Our MRIs’, they tell the truth!”

 

“There’s nothing there that shows a problem,

Your injury should be forgotten.”

But still it hurts, I can’t do stuff,

I used to love so very much.

 

Now even food is quite a challenge,

And it’s quite hard to find a balance.

Most restaurants drive me insane,

(Although they’re pretty good in Spain).

  

As I write, I’m in a flare,

So, I really must take care.

My stay in Spain I must cut short,

(I’d hate to cortisone resort).

 

Anyway, I will be fine,

I’ll sort it out, it just takes time.

There are worse things, I know for sure,

Although my tummy’s rather sore.

 

ALL THE PRETTY THINGS

My sisters and I at my daughter’s wedding last year! We all love fashion!

 

Pretty girls in magazines,

Gorgeous dresses, shoes and jeans,

All those new things in the shops,

Luring me from my laptop.

 

If I only just had that dress,

My head wouldn’t be such a mess,

Those jeans would give my bum a lift,

They’re soft and stretchy, a perfect fit.

 

Have you seen those shoes right there?

Which colour do you most prefer?

I like the blue, also the white,

They’re nice and flat to my delight.

 

Shall I get red, what do you think?

The beige ones go with everything.

Oh what the f***, I’ll get them all!

Most shoes for me are much too small.

 

I need a bag, a crossover,

Nowadays that’s the style I wear,

My shoulder hurts with bigger bags,

Those heavy ones are such a drag.

 

And now I’ve spent far too much cash!

Shit! I’ve not even been to BA&SH!

Should I nip in, is it too late?

Or is it best to not tempt fate?

 

Those boho dresses I really like,

They do them well, they’re just my style.

Oh, never mind, I should refrain,

My passion for fashion is such a drain.

 

I’ll close my eyes so I won’t see,

Zara, Anthropologie,

I’ll just go home, sit in my chair,

I’ve many clothes I never wear.

 

I don’t need more, yet every year,

I can’t resist those lovely treats.

Tell me now, are you are like me?

Do you love a shopping spree?

 

A POEM FOR ROLAND TONG: DRESSAGE TRAINER EXTRAORDINAIRE

Roland with Leo

Roland is my gorgeous friend,

A dressage trainer extraordinaire.

I met him years and years ago,

At Olympia in the champagne bar.

 

A little shy he seemed at first,

But soon relaxed, we had a chat.

With Josephine we drank some bubbly,

And both decided he was lovely.

 

We need a trainer in Geneva,

Will you come, please Roland, teach us?

Our half-passes are pretty crap,

Our piaffe passage is out of whack.

 

Roland gave our request some thought,

And flew over quite late in March.

He told us all we had no bend,

In pirouettes or anything.

 

He said “Sybille, if your mare can trot like that,

You’d best not show that other crap!”

As for me, my Qracipoo,

Had got to learn to be more through.

 

He made me sweat, he made me trot,

He made my bum feel very hot!

Roland’s French was non-existent,

We taught him some, we were persistent.

 

“Caresse” means pat, he learnt to say,

And used it every single day.

Shoulder in: épaule en dedans”,

And really good is “vachement bien”.

 

Roland found me Dominic,

My lovely Hanoverian.

My chestnut love, he’s just the bomb!

I did Saint George with gorgeous Dom!

Dominic and me

 

Celine and Dee, a lovely pair,

With Roland go so beautifully,

I love to watch Miss Dee improve,

That barefoot mare can really move!

I wish I still could ride, you know,

I miss the horses, the company.

Thanks to you I learnt so much,

Thank you, Roland, so very much.

Céline and Dylan, Roland, Alenka, me!

 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ROLAND!!!

Lots of love,

Cesca XXXX

 

 For more fun reading: Just Like A Movie and my other poems and blog posts on here!