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Details | Fat Chance Poem |

Hubert Might Go Upstairs But Not To Rome

Tea in the afternoon with his wife of many years is usually peaceful, Hubert thinks before he makes his announcement. Then he says it.

"I'm going upstairs," Hubert tells Ruth as he hoists himself out of his old recliner, "and if I don't ever come back down it's because you want to fly to Rome before we die so we can meet Pope Francis. Fat chance of that happening! You think the pope takes walks in St. Peter's Square?"

"Well, why shouldn't we go," Ruth says. "We may be old but we're still healthy and seeing Rome might be nice. Pope Francis seems like a pretty nice guy."

"Getting old is bad enough," Hubert says, "but why complicate matters with a trip to Rome? We'd have to pull out visas and passports and we'd have TSA agents--total strangers--patting us down in nooks reserved for a doctor or spouse. Besides, Pope Francis might be busy."

"Well, I'd still like to go," Ruth mumbles, none too happy with her husband's lack of enthusiasm. "If I wanted to go to Minnesota and fish for northern pike, you'd be packed, sitting in the car and gunning the motor. Why not do something interesting while we still have time? We'll be dead long enough."

Hubert suddenly has another idea, one he hopes Ruth will buy into.

"Why not let me die first and then you and the ladies from the garden club can go to Rome on that certificate of deposit we let sit in the bank all these years, the one I should have cashed in and invested in that electric car company, Tesla.

"That CD is big enough to take you and five ladies to Rome and back home again. They'd probably like to see Pope Francis as well. Fat chance of that. Unless you want to stand with thousands of others on a Wednesday morning when he speaks from the balcony. Better take binoculars."

Hubert is on a roll now, explaining to Ruth that she and the ladies will have a great time touring gothic churches and eating the finest pasta in the world once he's in the ground looking up but unable to see the sky.

"Once I'm dead, Ruth, you won't have to worry about me being grumpy on the trip. I'll be in the family graveyard stretched out between your Uncle Elmer and your Uncle Vince. Right now those two fine farmers are staring at the sky and bookending the plot your father allotted to me once the poor man realized I was actually going to be his son-in-law."

When Hubert first met Ruth's father many decades ago--fresh off the plane from Chicago, in a suit and tie no less--her father had bounced Hubert over many a country road to show him the plot in the family graveyard reserved in case Ruth married someone eventually. She hadn't married young because as a professional photographer working for National Geographic she had traveled all over the world and preferred taking photos to marrying any of the men she had met. Then she met Hubert in Chicago and decided to settle down.

Taking Hubert home to meet her extended family of farmers, however, had not been easy for either of them. And not easy for her family either. They had hoped Ruth would marry one day, preferably a farmer with lots of acreage, not some editor from a big city and certainly not someone like Hubert who couldn't tell a Holstein cow from a Guernsey.

No matter how much Ruth talked about the delights of a trip to Rome, Hubert still didn't have much interest in going, with or without the rare possibility of meeting Pope Francis.

Hubert liked Pope Francis because the media kept hoping the pope would change some things in the Catholic Church but the things the media hoped he would change no pope could ever change. It would be like saying the color red is blue which can never be true.

Pope Francis, Hubert knew, was an old Jesuit, theologically sound and skilled in handling the media. What's more he had the capacity to rile both conservative and liberal Catholics at the same time. And it was always interesting to see him pop up on the nightly news. Anchors not too well acquainted with matters Catholic would sometimes offer commentary far off the mark.

"Ruth, you and I are the only family left, except for the kids and they're doing fine working in the big city, several big cities, in fact, as your father would have called them. And although the grim reaper isn't waving his scythe and ringing our doorbell yet, I still think you should let me die first and then you and the garden gals can go to Rome. When you get back you can plant sunflowers around my headstone to give the squirrels something to gnaw on in the many hot summers to come."

"Well," Ruth said, "if you had a terminal disease, I might not mind the wait. Why don't we go out for dinner now and we can talk about all this later. I'm hungry."

"Okay," Hubert said, "but I hear the pike are hitting the lures pretty hard up in Minnesota. And I think there's a new bishop in charge. We could go to the cathedral for Mass. Maybe you and the new bishop could have a chat. Some day he might become pope. One of these days an American has to get that job. Can you imagine listening to the News at 10 when that happens."

Ruth agreed to go to a Thai restaurant that evening, a place she had never gone to in the past. It was a tiny place where immigrants from Thailand liked to eat. She knew the food would be too spicy for her but that Hubert would love it.

Eating Thai food was the start of her new campaign to win Hubert over to making that trip to Rome--following a fishing trip to Minnesota, of course. Ruth planned on asking that new bishop to drop a note to Pope Francis to let him know she and Hubert would be coming to visit. She thought it was only right to give him time to adjust his schedule. She was planning on giving him a big batch of her fudge--and a small batch to Hubert to eat on the plane.

Donal Mahoney

Details | Fat Chance Poem |

My Nose Is Hard

Murk Rammer froze as he felt the nuzzle
of a snub-nosed thirty-eight’s deadly muzzle.
Louis The Retch poked it into his back.
“The jig’s up, Rammer. I ain’t cuttin’ no slack.”

Murk had been tricked by a double-crossing dame,
alias “Frigitte,” he didn’t know her real name.
She’d been his undoing, that cute little louse,
undoing the buttons on her bulging blouse,
then slipping out of her slip and her hose,
and her holster too; yeah, she had one of those.

He’d fallen for Frigitte, completely deluded.
She’d come on strong, delightfully denuded.
She’d kissed him hard and let him get a good grab,
but when he dozed off she skipped out and blabbed.

The shamed shamus woke up and found a clue
and went to a warehouse -- a decision he’d rue.
He’d fallen for the ruse, he’d taken the bait,
and walked right in to a date with fate.
That darn dame had put him on the spot.
He was one peeved peeper who’d loved for naught.

The warehouse was full of contraband goods.
They belonged to The Retch, a sleazeball hood --
lead falcons from “Malta” and vases from “Ming,”
dubious diamonds and other blarney-ish bling,
a lading of lies from a smug little smuggler,
who played for keeps and went for the jugular.

And now The Retch had gotten the drop.
No chance for Murk to call for the cops.
“It’s curtains for you,” the Retched one said,
“The only way out is to go down dead.”

“You win,” Murk said, with a little shrug.
He knew he was beat and waited for the slug.
A bullet in the back was the final payoff.
Fat chance The Retch would decide to lay off.

Murk heard the click of a cocked-back hammer
and waited for death in his taciturn manner.
Bang! went a gun – but not the thirty-eight.
The shot came from someone hiding behind a crate.

The Retch went down with blood on his chest,
then high heels approached; you know the rest.
Bad girl Frigitte leapt into Murk’s arms.
She just couldn’t stand to see him harmed.
And that had been Murk’s ace in the hole,
playing so well the Romeo role.

He wrapped his arms around Frigitte’s waist
and their mouths joined together, such a spicy taste!
Then he took her hand and led her out
into rain washed streets where wet shadows slouched.

Did Murk turn Frigitte in to the cops?
Or let love fill his head with mushy slop?
The ending of this tale I’ll leave up to you,
but as for me, I haven’t a clue.

Details | Fat Chance Poem |

Tallow Tree

One of your relatives sprouted behind my house
Cut it down twice...fat chance
Ended up damaging my half paid for home
I wanted revenge, so I resorted to torture
Dug up and hacked roots; soaked oil and poison
No dice...stripped off all the bark at the base
Well THAT did the trick...dead inside of two months
Fell flat on its *** (I helped a little)
Sucker almost got me on the way down
Guess it was taking one last parting shot...

Then I moved back up to my native state,
out in the woods with no other house in sight
Found you in a perfect spot in the back yard
Basically no trunk...just huge thick branches,
grown out at about forty-five degrees;
perfect for great-grand's to scramble up and sit
("Look paw-paw, look at me!"..."Be careful!" I fume)
In the spring you bloom green-yellow flowers
In summer, assorted butterflies and bees 
It's September now...you're growing shiny berries
which will mature, then the walls will peel away
and there you are... tiny white Tallow seeds
used in Asia to make candles and soap
and oil; nature-made vegetable oil
Your leaves are used as herbal medicine;
topical ointment to treat skin ailments
Your American nickname is "Popcorn Tree"
And I'm not going to lay one finger on you...

Details | Fat Chance Poem |

Where Art Sisyphus

Tis quite a beast of burden to bear atlas (shrug off not allowed)
Atlas shrugged an impossibility
tantamount to skinny dipping in the lock nest lagoon

Tantamount to shrugging Atlas off mine bony, 
   ill suited, widower wizened shoulders, 
would take naked fat chance in Fountain Head of virgin waters, 
   eddy fied with huge boulders 
which preliminary sketches to maintain pristine 
   (pure as Snow White's booty) kept in folders

when collaborative effort called, the fore mid able, 
   trio, sans state of the artists 
   (within their respective trades as writer
   fictional hero, and architect) 
   Ayn Rand, John Galt, and Howard Roark, 

   who undertook resplendent measures 
   affected resilient as omnipotent cable
   tub ring plenti kickstarting linkedin gatecrashers   
   to a snapchatting halt 
   instagramming, crowdsourcing, crowdfunding, 
   held at equivalent asper Bay of Pigs
   viz Pay of Bigs 

   (in this context identified as  
   (vudu trained stalwarts, petsmart outlook, 
   incorporating literary, metaphorical,   
   nautical staff comprising fable
sea Crete cure metamorphoses abilities, as failsafe method – 
   i.e., physically, instantaneously, architecturally rendering
   modus operandi capacity asper quick as blazing saddles
   (ponied up by young Frankenstein) 
   kept in fireproof stable,

   where at dextrous fingers ala hocus-pocus prestidigitation 
   which chiefly buoyantly ardently, and hardily drafted imp pier re: hull 
   rock hull impediment for shore also cast evil spells should 
   any foolish soul, who dared 
   to maneuver past the near blinding pier sing redoubt
   to access blue lagoon like watery oasis 
   shielded via reeking poor Island 
   (where an atomic rooster gargoyle shrouded parapet)
   buffeted the crashing waves against 
   the lock smooth as a glass table

whose wooden sea legs solidly affixed 
   to hip, hip hooray three chairs
inviting two story book heroes plus the author,  
   unfurling parchment scriptural roles invited ad lib flairs
since threat of category five hurricane 
 manifested took writer by surprise,

   thus requiring her to utilize cognitive gears
which necessitated modification of original plot,
   now bumped credos with religion 
   vis a vis engendering prayers.

Details | Fat Chance Poem |

Friends For Dinner

We're having friends for dinner on Saturday
Well we're not actually having them for dinner!
That statement implies that we're cannibalistic
And our list of friends would get thinner!

We drive on a parkway and park on a driveway
This play on words sure can confuse
If teachers taught, why don't preachers praught?
One moose, two meese, how do we choose?

Make amends always seems to be plural
Can't we make one amend I'd like to know!
One tooth, two teeth, why not one booth two beeth?
And why shouldn't you pick your seat at a show?

A slim chance and a fat chance mean the same
But a wise man and a wise guy are opposites
The weather is either hot as hell or cold as hell
I know it's confusing but don't take a fit!

This English language can be oh so confusing
It can drive you to distraction at times
But try to learn Chinese or Mandarin my friend
You'll realize the English language is divine!

©Jack Ellison 2012

Details | Fat Chance Poem |

decrepid,

sweet young lady, 
love does grip,
will she look at me, 
decrepid, 
fat chance charlie,
could be i've slipped:)
cos i'm a spotless Leopard,
methinks, 
brain grips,
whatever...

Don

Details | Fat Chance Poem |

MRS COLUMBUS SPEAKS

MRS.    COLUMBUS     SPEAKS

“Hi,  honey  pie.....  just got back  from  America.”
Wipe your feet.     Returned from where?
“Just seen Statue of Liberty   and  Wall Street.”
You  been away for two years and  
That’s all  you’ve done?   Saw a statue and a wall?
We thought you’d be back sooner, but 
Mum thought you’d fallen off  the edge of the world.
(One of her private wishes come true.)
“Oh, your mother’s  off her hinges..... She’s crazy.”
By the way,  ’Lumbo,  that front door hinge still isn’t fixed:
When you’ve had a cup of tea you can get off your tush  and fix it.
“Don’t tell me they’ve  got tea from Cathay so soon!  Oh no”
That  Queen   What’s-her-name  was here every week asking
For you,  thought you’d skipped town 
With her three  ships or something.
Wanted to know if you’d phoned or emailed  me.
I said gimme  a  break, lady,  they aren’t invented yet.
“Well,  honey pie,  I was in a great city with yellow cabs and subways and.....”
Oh yeah,  I’ve  heard  all  these stories about how advanced America is -
Got any photos of the place?
Oh, by the way that mapmaker you got to  draw your maps for the trip needs paying.
“Fat chance! The maps were all to hell -
I’m  telling you,  honey pie,  there’s  a  freakin’  big continent 
Blocking the way to Cathay.”
Aw get real,  ‘Lumbo,   it’s called People’s Republic of China now -
And everybody knows  you go east  like Polo  to get there, you dummy.
“Aw shucks yeah.   You know,    I  kinda thought their 
Eyes in America  were a bit too round -
And it didn’t  sound  like Chinese to  me ;  more like  Brooklynese.”
If  I was you,  ‘Lumby,  I would get round to her and give her the ships back pronto.
And don’t give her any of that  crapola  about “America”  -
Just tell her you found a new way to Cathay.
“But I thought you said it was  called the People’s Republic of China ?”
Yeah  yeah,   listen : don’t think, ‘Lumbkins.   Just tell her what I said and
Give her the ships  back, and  get the 
Hell back here fast........and you’re not playing cards with
That  Da Gama and that  crazy  Vespucci  tonight.
Them   filling your head full of  spices-and-Indies  and god knows what. 
You can stay home and fix the door hinge like I told you. 
“Ok,  where’s the tea?  Got any Earl  Grey?”

Details | Fat Chance Poem |

The Underchook

The Underchook

no escape for the momma chile,
of cuddles no directions,
but you bring a healthy smile,
no seduction no ******** ....ooops

the mind of foolish Doves ,
expound the myth of sin,
how n when n  get sweet  love,
upon the verdant green.

a chook’s chance at the meat block,
fat chance old chook for him,
old fowl you better lock n load,
Duck shot by Bantam Tim.

That’s  support for the Underchook

Don Johnson 30-may-11

Yes Anthony N

savage nightmare it does grip,
with pounding heart me fingers slip
don't sniff the burning sulphur, it...
can kill you just a tiny bit :)

when i sniffed burning sulphur, 
it  punched me lung blinking out,
n Cassius wasna there aboutsss
almost a coffin fit:)

Details | Fat Chance Poem |

we're not in Kansas anymore

Have you ever found your mind
drifting into that dark place
that secret and dense absence of light
look into the mirror and say
"There is beauty in destruction"
running your fingertips down your spine 
collarbone wrists hips ankles
only to feel numb
your heart imploding 
as the gravitational pull
plays tug-o-war 
with your passion
10 versus 1
your heartbeat slows
leaving behind a shell
the exquisite mask your sold your soul to construct
was it worth it
did all of your dreams come true
are you happy
pure 
untouched
perfect
no
just the 3rd degree burn of deception
fall to your knees 
beg for the last five years of your life back
thin chance
slim chance
anything but fat chance
click your heels 3 times
all that glitters is long gone
follow the yellow brick road back to your heart 
grab hold of yourself
time waits for no one 
not even you

Details | Fat Chance Poem |

IMPROMPTU




Words like wild cards
Bubbly bright bard


Words in fresh scripts
Ideas now rip


Jumpy jerks bounce
Watch how words pounce


Craft a fat chance
Drill that dream dance


Word for word frame
Niche no sense name


Fruits of deep thought
Poke a sweet spot


Lift laughter loud
Poise priming proud


Choice clusters poise
Love sizzles voice



Leon Enriquez
10 May 2018
Hamlet Place, ACT

Details | Fat Chance Poem |

Random Acts Of Kindness

(alternately titled “How art thou dear reader?”)

(Inexplicably triggers domino effect
and doth indirect
lee send favorable
     ripples vibrantly unchecked.)
vagaries of an uncertain
     today or tomorrow
     excites this scribe,
     with a whim

analogous to sensational leitmotifs
     introducing note worthy
     composition melody,
     and/or lyric with vim
and vivacity, particularly
     to avoid behavior
     being predicable, and also
     (more importantly for)

     to partake of the vast trim
ming of life, (not just those
     reserved for holiday time),
     where every day provides
     an opportunity, no matter slim,
and/or fat chance to bring,
     (or deliver a smile)
     via friendly gesture accompanied

     with a kind word
     such as "hello,"
cuz no cost involved being friendly
     to a self absorbed passersby
     alighting, and enabling
stark contrast day, sans
     gloom and doom uttering,
     an innocuously neutral

     greeting to bring
a dollop of good
     day (not simply,
     those festive occasions
     (mainly and most 
     optimally, favorably,
     and conveniently during)
Thanksgiving, and/or Christmas,

     but any given evening
no matter the season if only to fling,
(albeit verbally) one or more glee
full spontaneous vocalization -
     (USDA NON GMO,
     gluten and monosodiumglutimate free)
surprising yourself (myself

     in this case) voluntarily prithee
boost interpersonal 
     social awkwardness,
     perhaps even offering
     to lend a helping hand re
garding circumstance,
     where an individual
     might be contending
 
     with something obviously
beastly, heavy, and/or
     unwieldy to manage
despite the outcome, where
     no response 
     might be forthcoming,
maybe experiencing feeling
snubbed without letting
     air of indifference
     (from recipient) sting!

Details | Fat Chance Poem |

Cat Tales

Over a period of six years, I have observed three cats not my own. Though I have owned a cat before, I'm not considered a 'pet person'.

Nor have I been a pet owner long enough to lay any claim to 'pet wisdom'. Allow me to share about two of them referred to as Cat One, and Cat Two.

One day I noticed that Cat One was starring up a tree in my front yard. I observed from my front window and discovered the target of his watch.

There was a squirrel way up high, far and away from the reach of Cat One. She made at least two attempts at climbing the tree but decided it was no use.

I'm sure she knew better, but it seems her hopes were that the squirrel would either come down or somehow slip and fall. I could have told her, "Fat chance

of that happening". I don't know how long the stand-off had been going on, but I observed the episode for about ten minutes. Finally, I sensed the cat

began to say, "I'm going home; I've had enough of this". When Cat One had crossed the street, the squirrel came from the tree and ran down my fence.

Cat Two wasted no time starring at squirrels in trees too quick for him. His preference was mice. As did Cat One, Cat Two belonged to someone because

they did not appear to be stray cats. However, I'm not sure Cat Two was properly loved and fed because it was certain that his 'mice catching abilities'

came with a price tag. I say that because on at least two occasions after he caught a mouse he would purposely deposit him right near my doorstep where

I was sure to see it. It might just be 'their way', but I felt that Cat Two was saying to me, "Okay, I have done my job; now it is time for you to do your job

and feed me". Although I was never interested in making him my own, I was always happy to feed him. I have always appreciated and respected cats and

other pets and these observations of Cat One and Cat Two gave me an even higher regard for these quiet and fuzzy friends known as cats.

08102018PoetrySoupContest, Cat Poems, Tania Kitchin, 4P

Best Fat Chance Poems | Poetry

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Love's Last Audit

In Last Place

My Geatest Fishing Trip

Seeking The Registar II

Heart-shaped Pillow

Worthless or Priceless?

nothing

Friends For Dinner

The Most Interesting Man

Hubert Might Go Upstairs But Not To Rome

My Nose Is Hard

Tallow Tree

Where Art Sisyphus

Friends For Dinner

decrepid,

MRS COLUMBUS SPEAKS

The Underchook

we're not in Kansas anymore

IMPROMPTU

Random Acts Of Kindness

Cat Tales