MY DOG ELVIS AND OTHER STORIES

THE OLD CHEVY

2026-07-09T09:32:16.435-07:00

THE OLD CHEVY

www.robertmargetts.com

The highway stretched out

like a tired vein across the earth,

Pulsing under the relentless Texas heat wave,

dust rising in slow,

suffocating breaths.

Bugs slapped against the open windows,

The only things still fighting to stay alive.

The air‑conditioning had died years ago

Its last breath a quiet surrender to life

And the heat wrapped around us

Like the truth

neither of us wanted to say aloud.

I looked at my father,

Drying out like a leaf in late autumn,

Edges curling, color fading,

His body and mind collapsing

The way old engines do

When time finally wins.

Just me and my 80‑year‑old Dad

In his battered Chevy,

A truck that had carried him through decades

And now carried him toward the end.

The road was a graveyard of potholes and debris,

Each jolt a reminder

That everything breaks eventually

Metal, memory, men.

He felt every crack in the pavement,

Every scar the highway had earned,

And I knew he remembered

When the road was young

And so was he.

The motion rocked his bones

Into a fragile peace,

And he drifted off

Into the turquoise alcoves of memories

he could no longer hold

But still tried to reach.

The Chevy groaned beneath us,

Suspension joints rusted

like forgotten prayers,

Shock absorbers sagging like tired shoulders,

Tires worn thin from carrying too much life.

The undercarriage was so eaten away

We could see the road passing beneath us,

A river of miles flowing toward a place

Neither of us wanted to name.

I drove my father home

Maybe for the last time

As he aged too fast,

Faster than the Chevy falling apart around us.

The cracked windshield mirrored

The map of his years,

The flickering high beams

Echoed the dimming light in his eyes,

And the missing grill

Matched the smile he no longer had strength to give.

He just stared ahead,

unafraid,

A man who had already made peace

With the truth that waits for all of us.

He knew the highway doesn’t end

It simply fades

When the traveler can’t go any farther.

We all have stops we must take,

And some we never return from.

Every road is long.

Every life is unbearably short.

I looked at my dear old Dad,

Slumped in his worn‑out seat,

Watching wheat fields sway

Like golden ghosts in the summer wind.

They pulled him backward

To a younger highway

A beautiful wife beside him,

Four grateful kids in the back,

A future still wide open.

My throat tightened.

I looked at him and said,

“You know I love you.”

He didn’t turn.

He just smiled

small, tired

And nodded.

"I know,” he whispered,

“Now take me home.”

WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM

The meaning of this poem is the quiet, painful beauty of escorting someone you love toward the end of their life. It uses the failing Chevy truck as a metaphor for my father's aging body, and the long, damaged highway as a metaphor for the journey of life itself — full of memories, wear, and inevitable decline.

the failing truck = the failing father = the final stretch of life’s highway.

WHY DOES MOMMY HAVE CANCER?

2026-06-24T11:27:56.913-07:00

LEAVE A COMMENT.

WHY DOES MOMMY HAVE CANCER?

www.robertmargetts.com

The little boy sat in the rocking chair

in his parents’ bedroom,

rocking because it was the only motion

left in a room otherwise stilled by grief.

Forward.

Backward.

Forward.

Backward.

His body held rigid,

his mind drifting loose,

his small hands

wrapped around the rails

as the chair creaked in time

with the indifferent ticking of the clock.

He opened his dry mouth,

looked toward his father

a man seated at the edge of the bed,

fingers laced around his wife’s hand

as she labored for breath,

each inhale a fragile thread

thinning toward silence.

The boy pressed his lips together,

summoned the courage

children should never need,

and asked,

“Why does Mommy have cancer?”

He was only ten,

yet he understood enough

from television dramas,

from whispered conversations

on the playground,

from the way his classmates said

“The Big C”

as though naming it softly

might keep it at a distance.

His school desk

still bore her initials,

carved into the wood

a small act of permanence

in a world that had begun to feel

frighteningly temporary.

He knew cancer was bad.

He knew it meant

some people did not return.

“Dad…” he said,

“Is Mommy going to die?”

His father turned towards him,

knowing the truth

afraid to show his venerability

eyes swollen,

still clutching her cold hand

as though warmth might return

if he simply refused to let go.

He looked at his son,

voice trembling,

and whispered,

“Yes… Mommy is going to die.”

The words emerged slowly,

as though each one cut

its way through him.

She was only thirty‑eight

Far too young to leave,

too young to be stollen.

He loosened his grip

on her lifeless hand

and brushed away the tears

that would not stop falling.

He looked at her one last time

his high school sweetheart,

the girl he once kissed

behind the bleachers,

the woman

who had carried their dreams with a quiet,

steady grace.

Now she lay still,

hair tangled,

face bare,

a figure already half‑departed

from the world she once filled.

Her eyes closed.

A faint smile touched her lips

relief,

perhaps,

or the soft mercy of pain finally ending.

Her cold hand

rested on a cross,

palm open,

awaiting the nail to be driven,

as though offering itself to a presence

he could not see.

The father gathered himself,

looked at his son,

and shook his head.

Tears slid down his cheeks

like rain on a windshield,

wipers slapping back and forth

against a world gone blurred

passing the stranded cars along the highway,

passing the soaked hitchhikers

with their wet thumbs

pointing forward

in hopes of a ride.

Water the enemy,

clarity the cure

as he imagined the long road ahead,

just him and the boy,

moving through a life

suddenly missing its center.

He drove with both hands

Digging into the steering wheel

Driving past everything

And everyone.

He cleared his throat,

blew a breath through cracked lips,

and said,

“Mommy is gone.”

www.robertmargetts.com

What is the meaning of this poem?

This poem is about the exact moment a child realizes:

parents are not invincible
life is not guaranteed
death is real
love cannot stop it

It is the moment childhood ends.

I GOT LOST IN TIME

2026-06-23T09:55:47.435-07:00

please leave a comment:

WWW.ROBERTMARGETTS.COM

I GOT LOST IN TIME

I got lost somewhere along

the crooked streets

and potholed trails,

wandering through winding,

empty avenues

where broken streetlights

hummed over rusted‑out cars

with shattered glass

and collapsed wheels.

some still smoldered

small red whispers of life

lifting into the air

and bruising the clouds.

Relics of a civilization

that once breathed purpose

waited for a new chance,

waited for a new day

but centuries of dust

fell over their bones

and softened their shame.

I drifted down Highway 66

and took the wrong turn,

as sages do,

as dreamers do.

I got lost somewhere along the way,

caught between hope

and inevitability,

between reason’s edge

and imagination’s pull.

I couldn’t cross

the trembling line,

too afraid to pluck the note

like a guitarist hesitant

to end his song,

fearful the frequency

might crack the tempo

and scatter the harmony.

Fear held me still,

locking my hands

from choosing right

or choosing wrong

both paths calling,

both refusing me.

Life split into a thousand roads,

and my mind

tangled in a fisherman’s net

with no clear seam to cut free.

I could head north,

but the cold waited there

barren lands,

lifeless growth,

frozen lakes,

memories iced over

and unwilling to thaw.

What I had seen,

what I had sealed

in the glacial alcoves

of my mind remained untouched.

I could head south,

into the sweltering oasis

of burned‑out loves,

fired‑up pastures,

scorched trees.

No flowers dared bloom,

no buds dared rise.

Sweat and fear slid from my skin

as vapor rose

from the blistered soil,

hissing reminders

of every chance

I squandered,

every foolish gamble

that left me in ashes.

The house always wins against the gambler.

The house always wins on a reckless bet.

I could head east,

down salted roads of depression,

malted liquor,

cocaine‑bright nights,

opium dens with velvet backrooms

whispering for one more high.

To chase my dragons,

to stay forever young

in a soft, drifting haze.

Hearing but not listening,

feeling but not understanding

the shadows that lengthened

as the years slipped quietly

into sin and the belief

that I did not belong in the daylight world.

Somewhere along that winding path

I misplaced my soul,

so east became forbidden ground.

I could head west,

like the early miners

chasing gold and promise,

mesmerized by the shining stone

that toppled Mayan cities

and crushed the Inca world

beneath conquistador greed.

Yet west felt open

a direction untouched,

roads wide and breathing

for a lonely wanderer

who had tried the other three

and failed to choose wisely.

Too afraid of the unknown,

too afraid to take chances,

too afraid to stop

and ask for directions

in a world of endless winding roads.

Yes sir,

I got lost somewhere

along the way in life

but who hasn’t.

WWW.ROBERTMARGETTS.COM

WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM:

The core meaning of this poem is that a person is looking back on their life and realizing they became lost—not in a single moment, but across many crossroads, temptations, fears, and emotional climates. It’s a meditation on direction, identity, regret, and the paralysis of choice.

Each direction is a psychological state, not a place.

North — emotional coldness, numbness, memories frozen in place
South — heat, passion, impulsive mistakes, the scorch of regret
East — addiction, self‑destruction, the seductive pull of escape
West — possibility, reinvention, the unknown future

THE THEORY OF COMMUNISM

2026-06-23T07:56:32.354-07:00

WWW.ROBERTMARGETTS.COM

THE THEORY OF COMMUNISM?

The theory of communism

may have first whispered to him

long before he knew its name

back when he was just a young lad

wandering through cool summer fields,

the red‑clay roads curling gently

over green hills like ribbons

laid down by a kinder world.

Potato farms quilted the meadows,

sheep drifted like pale clouds across the grass,

and wild blueberries hid in patches

only children ever seemed to find.

Lavender breathed its soft perfume

into the warm air

a beauty so delicate

it felt like something

borrowed from God’s own hand,

something only a woman could fully understand.

The rivers were always calling then.

Trout flashed beneath the surface,

daring every Huck Finn dreamer

to skip school, thread a worm on a hook,

and cast a bamboo line

into glacial lakes that held the sky

as if afraid to let it go.

Those were the days

untouched by the noise of the world

days before the shadow

of nuclear fire hung over our lives,

before hatred learned to speak loudly,

before ambivalent politicians and

delusional governments

proved how easily they could disappoint.

It was a time when life felt simple,

honest, and endlessly possible

a time when ideas could bloom

quietly in the open air,

rooting themselves in the soft soil

of a boy’s heart

long before he understood

what they would one day mean.

WWW.ROBERTMARGETTS.COM

THE TIME TO DIE

2026-06-03T11:25:20.518-07:00

A NIGHT IN THE WIND by Robert Margetts

THE TIME TO DIE

The blade on the glass face

freezes at 11:59

a malignant omen,

a pernicious reminder

of doom in the air

a whisper of skies

choked with molten ash,

lava‑dark clouds

swallowing daylight whole.

Doves ignite mid‑flight,

their wings curling into blackened husks

that fall like cursed snow.

Oceans boil to a murderous shimmer,

150 degrees of rising death

on smoldering ash dunes

no scavenger dares to cross.

Lakes shrink to skeletons,

their beds choked with tires,

plastic water bottles,

the detritus of a species

that forgot to listen.

No trout. No minnows.

Only the echo of what once lived.

Yet the bombs are loaded

And ready to prime

The old men

those architects of ruin

huddle in a steel‑cold hangar,

their trembling fingers

grazing the button

as fear slicks their palms

with the stench of rotting sweat.

How do they face their own reflections,

those nefarious shadows staring back,

knowing the future demands a sacrifice

they are too cowardly to name.

To survive,

he must read the hidden lines,

step across the event horizon

a pull so absolute

not even a god could resist.

The hangar air curdles with dread.

The second hand refuses to move.

The circle closes.

The hourglass waits to be overturned.

One press,

and the human story ends in a single,

shuddering breath.

ROBERT MARGETTS

WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM?

this poem is an apocalyptic meditation on human self‑destruction, told through imagery that blends environmental collapse, political terror, and cosmic inevitability. Its meaning unfolds across several layers

CONTEMPLATION

2026-05-26T08:15:44.021-07:00

ROBERT MARGETTS

CONTEMPLATION

A quill without ink

cannot whisper like Shakespeare,

just as a Waterford goblet

shattered on cold Byzantine tile

can never cradle roses again.

A Gibson missing strings

tells no story to a waiting room,

and a Steinway stripped of its keys

cannot summon a single waltz.

A Stradivarius with a broken bow

is a candle without a flame,

and a soul without a heart

beats for no one

not even you.

You didn’t just break my heart.

You ground it down,

the way the Waterford flute

splintered into a million shards

of expensive, useless glass.

The thorns on the rose stem

cut my fingers to the bone,

slicing through me

like the butcher’s blade

at the corner market.

More blood has been spilled

from a thorn than from a sword,

and more wounds

carved into the hands

of the boy you once swore to love.

You hurt my soul

so deeply that even my quill dried up,

even my Baby Taylor forgot how to sing.

You stole the last of me

and left the rest in ruins.

You touched my bloodied hand,

kissed my trembling mouth,

looked into my eyes

as if you still knew me,

and brushed your fingers

through my tangled gray hair

like it meant something.

You touched my lips a thousand times,

parted them gently,

fed me wine as if mercy

could be poured from a bottle.

We shared one final drink,

a few thin moments

nothing strong enough

to drown the ache, you left behind.

The Stradivarius fell silent,

and the candle shivered

through its last breath of light.

Goodbye, my lover.

The Rubicon waits,

and I must cross it alone.

No music.

No light.

No ink left to write your name again.

WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM?

It is a poem of devastation, resignation, and the quiet, tragic dignity of a man who has nothing left to give.

A NIGHT AT THE OPERA BY Robert Margetts

PROZAC FOR HUMANITY

2026-05-21T11:20:32.285-07:00

ROBERT MARGETTS

PROZAC FOR HUMANITY

I’m an old tired man now,

Counting decades on my right hand

the way a gambler fans his cards

at a blackjack table in Las Vegas.

And I’ve had time to think

too much time,

maybe or perhaps not,

about the way the world

might’ve turned if Prozac

had been around a hundred years ago.

Back then,

psychiatry was a whisper behind a door,

not something a man could admit he needed.

And I sometimes wonder

how different the maps,

the speeches,

the wars,

the tyrants might have been

if a few pills had softened

the edges of the wrong men.

Stalin, Hitler, Sadam Hussein, Bashar al-Assad

Just to mention a few.

Now, don’t mistake me

I never claimed to be a psychologist.

Hell, I barely claim to understand myself.

But I’ve lived long enough to know this:

some people can be helped,

and a small,

stubborn few never will be.

Folks protest that idea,

call it barbaric,

but I ask them plainly

were the monsters of history insane,

or just men who chose cruelty

with both hands open?

How do you measure madness

in a single man,

or in the mob that marches behind him?

How do you medicate a destiny

carved from arrogance,

ignorance, or the slow rot of power?

I’ve seen enough to know this much,

all the pills in the world

wouldn’t have changed

the course of those men.

Some are born twisted.

Others learn it step by step,

choice by choice,

until evil becomes as natural as breathing.

And here I sit,

an old Texan man on a quiet porch,

watching the sun go down,

thinking about the world we inherited

and the one we might’ve had

if human nature were easier to fix.

ROBERT MARGETTS

WHAT DOES THIS POEM MEAN?

It’s a poem about a man who has lived long enough to stop believing in easy answers.

DAVEY JONES SECRET LOCKER

2026-05-21T07:09:53.820-07:00

ROBERT MARGETTS

DAVEY JONES SECRET LOCKER

My parents were resting on the sofa,

half‑asleep but still doing that thing

where one eyelid stays cracked open

like a suspicious lizard.

They don’t trust me

and honestly, fair enough.

I have a long,

decorated history of borrowing things

kleptomania they call it.

I prefer a more simple explanation,

A relocation of wealth!

But tonight,

the call of adventure was strong.

It was time to loot the bedroom

the legendary Davy Jones’ Locker

a place rumored to contain gold coins,

ancient relics,

and possibly a cursed sock or two.

To normal people,

it’s just a bedroom.

But to a nine‑year‑old boy

with the blood of a pirate

and the attention span of a caffeinated rat,

it’s a treasure trove of unimaginable loot.

Armed with my trusty weapon

a plastic club hidden away

under some soap and shampoo bottles

in mommy’s private bathroom.

I marched forward.

In my mind,

it was a mighty cutlass,

forged in dragon fire

occasionally buzzing and pulsating

with mysterious magical energy

grinding and vibrating

like an emaciated snake

with a full chicken

Stuck in his throat.

I crept deeper into the room,

into the forbidden zone,

the place parents go to whisper,

nap,

and hide snacks from their children.

Was I scared?

Absolutely.

But pirates don’t back down

from danger, dust bunnies,

or questionable smells.

I started on Dad’s side of the bed,

lifting the mattress like a seasoned raider.

And behold

Dirty magazines

BINGO.

Treasure!

Tons of booty.

Yup, Daddy had it all.

I also found

Loose change, old receipts,

a pocketknife,

a watch that gave up in 1972,

and a mysterious key

that probably opens a portal

to the land of forgotten chores.

But then

disaster.

The parents stirred.

Time to skedaddle.

I grabbed as much loot

as my pudgy pirate hands

could carry and fled the scene of the crime.

Yes,

I raided Davy Jones’ Locker.

And yes,

I escaped with my booty.

A pirate’s work is never done.

Time to get busy

Investigating all my new magazines.

ROBERT MARGETTS

WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM:

At its core, this poem is about childhood curiosity colliding with the hidden adult world — and the way a kid mythologizes everything into adventure, danger, and treasure.

SPANKINGS

2026-05-18T09:37:44.867-07:00

SPANKINGS

When I was ten,

my father spanked me.

Hard. Real hard!

Hard enough that the room blurred

and the air felt thin.

I remember the anger in his face

how it arrived before he did,

how it filled the doorway

like weather I couldn’t escape.

Back then,

I tried to make sense of it.

I searched for reasons

the way children do.

Maybe I forgot my bed.

Maybe the trash.

Maybe the dishes weren’t stacked

the way he liked them,

or the milk cap wasn’t tight enough

to keep the world from spilling.

But now,

looking back,

I know it was never about chores.

It was the layoff he didn’t mention.

The ticket he couldn’t afford.

The coffee pot left empty

when he needed something warm

to hold him together.

It was everything he carried

and nowhere safe to put it.

So, he put it on me.

Because I was small.

Because I was there.

Because I didn’t know how

to run or fight or question.

He told me it hurt him more,

that this was love,

that this was how fathers teach.

I believed him.

Children believe anything

that makes the world feel less dangerous.

But the truth came later

slow, heavy,

undeniable

when I realized he “loved” my mother

even more than he loved me.

The sound of his hand slapping

against her bloodied cheek echoed

through the walls

long after the house went still.

And now,

as a grown man,

I can finally say it:

none of it was love.

It was a storm that chose

the smallest bodies

to break itself against.

ROBERT MARGETTS

WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM:

This poem is about a child misinterpreting violence as love, and an adult finally understanding that the violence was never about him — it was about a broken man who used the smallest bodies in the house to absorb his storms.

TURN THE ROCK OVER

2026-05-14T09:04:38.478-07:00

please leave a comment:

www.robertmargetts.com

TURN THE ROCK OVER

A window left unbroken

spills no shards.

An unlocked door,

its hinges untouched,

keeps its silence

about who passed through.

A cloud that never rises

will never loose its rain.

And a widower will never know the truth

until he turns the rock over

and feels the cold shape

pressed into the earth beneath it.

Turn the rock over

if you dare

to uncover the life she hid,

the shadows curled beneath her name.

For a ghost

casts nothing behind her,

yet you will sense her lingering,

her salted eyelids

fused by winter’s long weeping,

her tears pelting

the still river

and blooming red beneath the surface.

And in her palm,

in that frost‑stiff hand,

lie the broken shards of fear,

deceit, and promises undone

the fragments

Only a ghost is condemned to keep.

But turn that rock over

if you must.

Just know

the truth will not warm you.

It will rise like a shadow

from what you once held,

and follow you home.

artwork by Robert Margetts

what is the meaning of this poem?

The poem is about the dangerous act of uncovering the truth about someone you loved after they’re gone. The “rock” is the past — heavy, hidden, and cold. Turning it over means confronting what was buried: secrets, betrayals, and the parts of her life that were never shared.

The widower wants answers, but the poem warns that truth is not always healing. Sometimes it haunts.

Some truths don’t set you free. (We all know that to be true). LOL Sometimes they ruin the memory you were trying to protect.

Turning the rock over may reveal what happened, but it may also destroy the love he thought he had.

The truth is “a shadow of what you once held” — meaning the truth is not the relationship itself, but the dark outline of what was missing.

MY BEST FRIEND DRACULA

2026-05-07T11:35:00.000-07:00

Dracula and Frankenstein

MY BEST FRIEND DRACULA

How do you say it.

A friend dies before his time.

Way too early.

Cancer!

And the world doesn’t pause.

You weren’t “just a dog.”

You were the only thing that stayed.

The only thing that didn’t lie.

You slept in the cold bed

because no one else would.

Your head on my chest,

listening to a heart

that didn’t deserve your loyalty.

At night you listened

cars, footsteps, deliveries

and you barked,

every night,

for eight straight years.

And now the silence is deafening.

You warned the world away.

You made strangers afraid.

Your name did the rest.

But it was only a name.

It never matched the truth.

Goodbye Dracula,

You were a giant,

but gentle in a way people rarely are.

A Great Pyrenees

with a smile too big

for the body that failed you.

You loved everything

dogs, cats, anyone breathing.

Not out of duty.

Not out of instinct.

Just because that was your wiring.

Simple. Pure. Uncomplicated.

Goodbye my friend.

If there’s a heaven,

you’re probably up there barking at God,

keeping Him awake

the way you kept me awake.

And He won’t tell you to stop.

checkmate with Alzheimer's

2026-05-07T09:36:00.000-07:00

robert margetts

CHECKMATE WITH ALZHEIMER’S

Another piece gone.

Another memory shoved into the cold abyss.

Left, right, forward

What does it matter.

The rook slams a check

onto the bone‑white board.

The Queen watches,

hands shaking,

tears soaking her dress.

Her mind flickers out.

Her husband drifts into the fog.

Everyone she loves dissolves.

She calls to the knight.

He sits high, useless,

counting pawns

as if numbers could save her.

Her memories rot,

shift, vanish

like pieces scraped across a cold board.

The King stands naked.

Bishops gone.

Lines broken.

What would Bobby Fischer do?

Bishop to E6?

It doesn’t matter.

Every move is dead.

Checkmate is inevitable.

Dementia doesn’t lose.

The Queen can’t guard him anymore.

Her mind is a pit,

a frozen snare of fear.

She fights the board,

bleeding dignity,

but Alzheimer’s cheats.

It always has

and always will.

The King stares at her,

trying to remember her face,

her name, anything.

His hands jerk.

His legs fold.

He steps left,

forgets why,

steps back,

tries to hide in plain sight.

The rooks and the Queen

scramble to shield him,

but the silence swallows everything.

Memories fall.

Pieces fall.

Chess is cruel.

Alzheimer’s is worse.

Step away from the future

if the past is already gone.

robert margetts

what is the meaning of this poem?

Alzheimer’s destroys not just memory, but love, identity, and the shared life between two people — and no amount of strategy can stop the checkmate.

The meaning of my poem is the collapse of identity, love, and partnership under the slow, merciless advance of Alzheimer’s; told through the metaphor of a chess match that cannot be won. It’s about two people who once knew each other intimately, now trapped on a board where every move is predetermined by the disease, not by strategy or will.

GOODBYE MY FRIEND

2026-04-29T12:01:00.000-07:00

robert margetts
www.robertmargetts.com

GOODBYE MY FRIEND

Goodbye, my wife.
Goodbye, my truest friend.
We vowed a life
I didn’t know how soon it’d end.

You lied as if it came easy,
hid until I stood alone,
while you gathered reasons
one by one
to chase something better,
to answer strangers
who called you Little Bear.

You began this.
You reached first.
And you
unmade a man
who only thought himself whole.

Goodbye, my heart
it was never built to last.
Goodbye, romance,
goodbye to second chances.

You handed me off
through a lawyer’s hand,
knowing it would end us,
yet wore it lightly
as if the fault were mine.

I gave you my soul.
I gave you my years.
I stood between you and the world,
and I gave you a son.

Goodbye, my friend.
Goodbye, my love.
I hope you find
what you were searching for.

robert margetts

This poem is about:

the collapse of trust
the death of partnership
the shattering of identity
the loneliness of being left
the quiet dignity of letting go

It’s a poem about a man who loved deeply, was betrayed deeply, and is now learning to speak the truth of what happened without begging for understanding.

It’s a poem about the end of illusion.

It’s a poem about the beginning of self‑honesty.

THE BLACK BOX

2026-04-23T08:58:00.000-07:00

THE BLACK BOX

THE BLACK BOX

She sits in a noisy room,

Holding tight to her black box,

Fingers rapidly scrolling,

Her mind hungry for connection.

She searches for the right page,

Reaching out to strangers

As if they hold the key

To something she has lost.

I ask her a question,

But through a fog she drifts,

Ignoring my voice

For more important people and places

Waiting behind a glowing screen.

She texts her friends,

Responds to strange men,

Smiling and imagining

fingers touching her lips

While twiddling her long red hair

Worlds I cannot see

And emotions I cannot feel.

Her fingers dance quickly,

Writing hidden messages

To men she just met—

Little innuendos,

Savory thoughts

Wrapped in digital whispers.

I ask her to stop,

To put down the device,

To pay attention to us,

To listen to me.

But she doesn’t hear.

She just keeps staring,

Frantically responding

To messages from strangers,

To messages from boyfriends,

To messages that pull her

Further and further away.

And I sit beside her,

Watching the glow on her face

Replace the warmth of her eyes.

The room grows louder,

Yet somehow emptier,

As if the space between us

Has learned to echo.

I remember when her laughter

Filled the air like sunlight,

When her hands reached for mine

Instead of the cold rectangle

She now clings to like a lifeline.

I remember when conversation

Wasn’t a competition

Against a world of notifications.

Now I watch her drift—

A tide pulled by distant moons,

A mind wandering through

Other people’s stories,

Other people’s attention,

Other people’s desire.

And I wonder

How love survives

When the smallest screen

Can build the tallest glass wall.

WWW.ROBERTMARGETTS.COM

what is the meaning of this poem?

This poem is about the heartbreak of watching someone you love emotionally leave you for the digital world, building a silent, invisible wall between you that you can’t break through.

technology didn’t just distract her — it separated you.

robert margetts

A BROKEN BOY

2026-04-23T07:26:00.000-07:00

A BROKEN BOY by Robert Margetts

A BROKEN BOY

When she looks straight through you,

Her longing drifting toward another stranger.

When she keeps texting others

Deep into the thinning hours of night,

Inviting him to early lunches,

Finding reasons to wander out to his farm.

When the warmth you offer

Is met with reluctant acceptance,

And your words fall unheard.

When tears gather

In the hollows of her eyes

As she lies turned away,

Falling silently into the cold dark

For the comfort of another man.

And hands that once Promised partnership

before a waiting crowd

Shatter the ring of time

And cast its circle

Onto deceit’s tarnished floor.

When lips that once pleaded

For hungry connection

Now spit the remnants of betrayal,

And the future you imagined

Is shadowed at its source.

There is no blow

A human hand could deliver

To match the ache now swelling

Between a man and his wife—

A pain blistering as open flame,

Stripping moisture from fragile skin;

A chill so deep it freezes the heart

And crystallizes the blood

Into shards that drift through the soul.

A pain as vast as the widening universe,

Seen through the Webb Telescope—

A hurt expanding,

stretching, drifting apart,

Leaving behind a numbness so heavy

It feels carved into the bones of existence.

And only a silver bullet in the head

Could numb my pain.

what is the meaning of this poem?

this poem symbolizes the collapse of a marriage as the collapse of an entire universe, where love, identity, and meaning drift apart like galaxies losing their shared gravity.

IS GOD REAL?

2026-03-27T06:42:00.000-07:00

JOHN 3:16

IS GOOD REAL?

“Is God real?”

the little boy asked—

a whisper trembling in a world too loud.

“Does He love me?

Does He watch over me?

Will He protect me?

Does He walk with me?

Will He take me to heaven?”

His father knelt,

eyes soft,

voice steady as a prayer.

“God is real.

And He is always with you.

He holds your hand,

walks beside you,

feels your pain.

He wants the best for you.

He knows your thoughts,

your future, your heart.

He believes in you.

And most of all—

He loves you.

He loves everyone.”

Silence.

A long, heavy silence.

The boy stared at the floor,

but his mind wandered into darker rooms.

“But…

how could He do all those bad things?

He gives cancer to children.

He lets war rage on.

He floods cities.

He burns down towns.

He lets the homeless sleep on the streets.

He lets people go hungry.

He brings plagues.

He lets priests hurt kids.

And He lets you…

hit Mommy.”

The father froze—

a breath caught between guilt and grief.

“That’s not God,” he said quietly.

“That’s man.

Man kills.

Man destroys.

Man hates.

Man chooses.

Man loves.

Man fails.

And man hits your mommy—

not God.”

The boy shook his head,

eyes wet,

voice cracking like thin ice.

“Then why does God

let man do all those bad things?”

The father swallowed hard,

searching for words that didn’t exist,

but trying anyway.

“Because God cannot control man.

He cannot force goodness

into a closed heart,

nor can He force evil

into an open one.

God

stands beside you—

not above you pulling strings.

He hopes you choose good.

He hopes you live a life

that teaches you to be kind,

to care,

to help,

to feel the pain of others,

to rise above the darkness that men create.

He hopes…

you grow into a man

better than the ones who came before you.”

MEANING OF THIS POEM?

It's just a conversation between a father and a son; it’s a confrontation between innocence and the brutal contradictions of the world. And beneath that, it’s a portrait of a child trying to understand why the person who is supposed to protect him is also the source of his deepest fear.

The poem is about a child trying to reconcile the idea of a loving God with the violence and suffering he sees — especially in his own home. It’s a confrontation between innocence and reality, faith and trauma, comfort and truth.

It’s also a quiet plea from a father who knows he has failed, hoping his son will break the cycle he himself couldn’t escape.

This is not just a poem about God. It’s a poem about responsibility, generational pain, and the fragile hope that a child might grow into something better than the world he was born into.

THE CREATOR OF ALL

2026-03-26T09:50:00.000-07:00

THE CREATOR OF ALL by Robert Margetts

THE CREATOR OF ALL:

Buck that sprang forth

from tender deer—

its antlers dried,

its borrowed year

returned to dust

before the eyes of Heaven.

And the cows

that did not moo,

silent as judgment,

lay upon the ground

with flesh

that even the gators would not chew.

And the birds—

oh, the birds—

whose wings once carved

the breath of God,

fell broken,

fallen, forsaken.

Feathers meant for flight

became their shroud,

covering them until

the earth whispered, “No more.”

And the bear,

scratching prophecy

into jagged stone,

lay decapitated—

a warning upon a chopping block.

Snow burned

hot as the wrath of angels,

licking the ground

like a serpent swallowing arsenic.

Buds blackened

on the crust of the land;

the cold so hot

it turned iron into rust

before the eyes of the unrepentant.

And the babies—

the innocent,

the untouched—

felt a pain

that was so goddamn real

it split the sky.

And when the sun began

to flicker like a dying lantern,

they dropped the Bible,

knowing the final chapter had arrived.

The world,

on its last trembling day,

bowed low and paid homage

to all who chose to stay.

And to the dying in our homeland—

hear this:

this was never the world our

Lord had planned.

And when the end

unfolded its wings,

He placed my head

in His hands,

and I wept as the heavens tore open.

To kiss the wings

of the Creator of the sun,

to pray to the One

who gave us His only Son—

that heaven above might

show mercy to the remnants left behind.

And to sit beside the Holy One,

so near,

that death itself became a shadow

I no longer feared.

ROBERT MARGETTS

WHAT DOES THIS MEANING OF THIS POEM?

it’s apocalyptic, prophetic, and mythic. It reads like a fusion of biblical lament, environmental catastrophe, and personal spiritual revelation. Beneath the imagery of dying animals and burning snow, there’s a deeper message about a world collapsing under human sin, and a speaker who finds salvation not in the world, but in God’s presence at the very end.

THE NIGHT SHADOW

2026-03-26T09:18:00.000-07:00

THE NIGHT SHADOW by Robert Margetts

THE NIGHT SHADOW

The shadow comes late at night,

Awakened from his slumber

By a sneaky crack of light.

He creeps across my bedroom wall,

Changing faces,

Changing shapes—

Changing everything, really.

One minute he’s a tree

With giant eagle claws,

Lowering his twiggy fingers Like he’s ready to maul.

And then—

Right before my terrified eyes—

He shifts again,

From something almost real

Into something wildly strange.

He sees the terror

Bursting from my tiny face.

Surely this is it,

My final moment,

My doom,

My dramatic end.

So I let out a scream

From deep inside my little core,

And Dad comes crashing through My bedroom door.

At the sight of light,

The shadow shrivels back in defeat—

A villain undone

By a lamp

And a very tired and pissed off Dad.

robert margetts

WHAT DOES THIS POEM MEAN?

This is a classic childhood‑fear energy, but it’s doing something deeper than just describing a spooky shadow. It’s really about the way a child interprets fear, the power of imagination, and the comforting role of a parent who becomes the “light” that dissolves the monster.

ROAD RASH

2026-03-26T08:42:00.000-07:00

WWW.ROBERTMARGETTS.COM

ROAD RASH

It’s road rash

I’m telling you, no joke.

The second Daddy sits behind the wheel,

He starts foaming like a rabid goat.

He hollers brand‑new swear words

And smacks the dashboard like it owes him money

And that’s before he even puts the key

Anywhere near the ignition.

It’s road rash,

I swear.

He mutates into some kind of highway creature

Eyes blazing,

Hair shooting up

like he stuck a fork in a socket,

Neck veins bulging in perfect rhythm

With whatever terrible song is on the radio.

His teeth grind like a garbage disposal,

And I’m pretty sure smoke is coming out of his face.

He’s got road rash,

no doubt about it.

Honestly,

someone should rub him down

With organic diaper balm

Same stuff we use on my little brother.

Might calm him right down.

ROAD RASH by Robert Margetts

WHAT'S THE MEANING OF THIS POEM?

Even though the poem is playful and exaggerated, it’s actually doing something clever: it uses a child’s perspective to expose how absurd adult behavior can look when stripped of adult justification.

EXPLAINING CRYPTO BLOCKCHAIN TO A LITTLE BOY

2026-03-26T08:20:00.000-07:00

WWW.ROBERTMARGETTS.COM

EXPLAINING CRYPTO BLOCKCHAIN TO A LITTLE BOY

The little boy wandered in,

dragging a half‑decapitated teddy bear in his clammy hands

like a witness he planned to interrogate.

“Dad, what’s crypto?” he asked,

voice sweet enough to trigger suspicion.

His father stiffened.

Nothing good ever starts with a child

asking about money he shouldn’t know exists.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Mommy said it yesterday,”

the boy replied,

as casually as if he were naming a cereal brand.

Dad inhaled slowly—

the kind of breath adults take

right before lying to a child for everyone’s protection.

“Well…

crypto is like seashells at the beach.

Pretty, useless, and only valuable

if someone else is weird enough to want them.”

The boy perked up.

“So we can find crypto in the ocean?

Like those shiny shells in Florida?”

Dad blinked twice,

the universal sign of a man who regrets starting a metaphor.

“No, son.

You can’t find cryptocurrency.

You can’t touch it.

You can’t see it.

It’s basically imaginary money.”

The boy nodded slowly,

as if filing this under

“Things Adults Pretend Make Sense.”

Then he delivered the bomb.

“Oh!

Like Mommy’s imaginary boyfriend

who comes over every afternoon

while you’re still at work.”

Dad’s soul attempted to exit his body

through his right eye.

“WHAT.”

The boy continued,

completely unfazed by the emotional carnage.

“Yeah!

Mommy says he’s not real,

but he keeps showing up anyway.

He told her he’s bringing his crypto

through some new blockchain thing.”

Dad, stared into the middle distance,

calculating whether therapy or arson would be cheaper.

The boy shrugged.

“I guess imaginary money goes great with imaginary boyfriends.”

And somewhere in the house,

a door creaked—

as if the universe itself was trying not to laugh.

WHAT'S THE HIDDEN MEANING OF THIS POEM?

beneath all the humor and chaos, this poem is doing something sharp. It’s not just a joke about crypto or infidelity — it’s a layered little satire about adult hypocrisy, the fragility of family secrets, and the way children accidentally expose the truth. LOL.

I GOT LICE

2026-03-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

ROBERT MARGETTS

I GOT LICE

I got lice in my hair,
noodles stuck to my chin,
and a couple potstickers
stuffed deep in my pocket again.

Sweet and sour on my tongue,
sesame chicken on my face.
It all went wrong last Tuesday night
at that little Chinese place.

They steam your food,
they fry it just right,
flip it high into the air—
what a spectacular sight!

So why the awkward stares?
Why that look of despair?
It’s only lice, people—
relax. They’re everywhere!

They toss it in with fish,
they mix it in with rice,
they sprinkle it on everything—
a little extra spice!

The school nurse says I’m “itchy.”
She says it’s quite a thing.
But lice is good for growing bones!
It makes you strong and brings…
uh… nutrients? Or something like that.
(That’s what I read online.)

I’m pretty sure they eat it daily.
It must be totally fine.

The chef was juggling dinner,
flipping food through the air.
Things got wild in the kitchen—
that’s how lice got in my hair.

So now I’ve got a bowl of lice.
Let’s not overreact.
But I was suspended from school
just like that—snap!

The principal called my parents,
shouting through the phone,
“Why did you send him here today?
He should have stayed at home!”

Teachers screamed and ran for doors,
clutching at their heads.
One tripped over a spelling book.
Another fainted dead.

“Leave this room!” they cried in fear.
“We don’t want lice in here!
Go home and scrub your filthy head
before it spreads this year!”

I don’t understand the panic.
I don’t get the fright.
It’s just a little crunchy snack
that wiggles when it bites.

There’s no secret potion,
no magic cooking trick—
just water and lice,
boil it up quick.

Then fry it golden,
serve it hot,
eat it all—
why not?

Honestly, I think they’re nice.

I really don’t see the problem
with a bowl
of freshly cooked
lice.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

This poem is a playful, absurd, and wonderfully silly exploration of childhood misunderstanding. (rice/lice) It turns a common childhood problem into a culinary adventure and uses exaggeration to highlight how differently kids and adults see the world. Obviously, the kid meant RICE, not lice.

MY LITTLE BROTHER

2026-03-20T08:47:00.000-07:00

ROBERT MARGETTS

MY LITTLE BROTHER

I’m not one to complain,

but having a little brother

is a REAL PAIN—

the kind of pain that makes you want to run away

and join a circus just for some peace and quiet.

He cries just to get attention,

and everyone makes a BIG FUSS over him—

like he’s the King of Babies

and we’re all his royal servants.

They play with his hands and toes

like he’s some kind of tiny celebrity,

and they even make STUPID FACES—

faces so ridiculous

I’m surprised they don’t get stuck that way.

They tickle his belly,

they fluff his bed,

MOMMY kisses his ears,

and DADDY nuzzles his head—

honestly, it’s like watching two grown‑ups

turn into mushy marshmallows.

Now,

I NEVER understood why

my older sister hated me so,

for I was not nearly as BAD

as little bro—

not even close,

not even in the same universe,

not even on the same planet as

THAT wiggly, giggly,

attention‑stealing bastard they call my brother!

THE PUZZLE OF LIFE

2026-03-12T10:22:00.000-07:00

THE PUZZLE OF LIFE

"What is greed," asked the little boy?

"Greed is like a potato chip,

once you've eaten one

you can't stop," said the old man.

"Then what is kindness," asked the little boy?

"Kindness is a glass of water.

Quench the thirst of others before yourself,

that is an act of kindness," replied the old man.

"What is power," asked the little boy?

"Power is holding a butterfly in your hand

and crushing him to death," said the man.

"That sounds more like hate," replied the boy.

"True," he replied.

"Most who possess power learn to hate and destroy.

You can't have one without the other."

"Then, what is love," asked the boy?

"Love is placing your hand into a fire

to save the butterfly from pain

and crushing him to death to relieve the suffering."

"Life is sure strange," replied the boy.

"Life is but a puzzle," he replied.

"When the puzzle has been completed,

when the last piece has been put into place,

then the riddle of your life will be solved.

Each puzzle is different

just as each individual is different.

Some love

Some hate

Some have power

Some are kind.

The only knowledge I can pass onto you is

knowing that most puzzles have many of the same pieces.

"Then will I learn to hate," questioned the little boy?

"That piece of you is still waiting to be found," whispered the old man.

"You will find hate in this world

and love

and even kindness

in your puzzle

and throughout your life.

Perhaps not today or tomorrow,

but to finish the riddle of life

you will have to complete your puzzle."

WHAT DOES THIS POEM MEAN?

This poem reads like a fable disguised as a quiet conversation — simple on the surface, but carrying a surprisingly heavy philosophical weight underneath. It uses the voice of an old man teaching a child, but what he’s really doing is laying out the contradictions of human nature.

My poem is about the complexity of being human. It teaches that:

greed is addictive
kindness is selfless
power is dangerous
love is sacrificial
life is a puzzle made of both light and dark pieces

And that growing up means discovering all of them

I TOOK THE WRONG PATH

2026-03-12T08:50:00.000-07:00

I TOOK THE WRONG PATH

I Took the Wrong Path

Given the toys of the rich,

I grew up surrounded by polished silver

And rooms where laughter echoed off marble walls.

Educated at the finest schools,

I was shaped, sharpened,

and shown the doors that only privilege can open.

Society welcomed me with warm hands

And whispered promises of an easy ascent.

Granted a job with rewards aplenty,

I basked in the glow of praise,

Letting it settle on me like diamond dust.

The money came in troves,

Heavy enough to dull my conscience.

I drifted into the soft haze of drugs and alcohol,

Chasing pleasures that dissolved by morning.

I lusted after many a married woman,

Mistaking desire for power,

And power for purpose.

Yes—

I took the wrong path.

Not because I was forced,

But because it was smooth,

And glittered in all the right places.

It was easier,

And far more fun,

Until the fun began to hollow,

And the path revealed itself

As nothing more

Than a slow descent.

WWW.ROBERTMARGETTS.COM

WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM?

This poem explores the idea of wasted privilege — someone who was given every advantage in life but chose a path of indulgence, temptation, and moral decline. At its core, it’s a confession, but also a reckoning.

I TOOK THE WRONG PATH

FARTING IN THE PEW

2026-03-11T12:04:00.000-07:00

FARTING IN THE PEW

FARTING IN CHURCH

I farted in church today.

Didn’t mean to.

It just slipped out

a tiny trumpet blast

from deep within my squirmy bum.

We were told to kneel

still don’t know why

on old wooden benches

and scratchy pillows

that felt like they were stuffed with holy porcupines.

We clasped our hands together,

begged forgiveness from the bottom of our hearts,

and I prayed for Jesus,

I prayed for Mom and Dad,

and I prayed to God Himself

to pardon my wandering winds.

Yes

I crop‑dusted the entire pew.

But honestly,

I’m just a kid with a tiny bladder,

an over‑eager backside,

and absolutely no warning label.

How was I supposed to know the priest would cry?

“Jesus Christ!” shouted Father George,

“May God have mercy on your soul!”

I tried not to laugh,

but a smile escaped anyway.

Next time,

maybe don’t make us kneel for so long

even saints have limits.

On the surface, the poem is a funny, mischievous story about a kid farting in church and causing chaos. But underneath the humor, there’s something more meaningful happening. The poem blends childlike innocence, bodily honesty, and the absurdity of strict religious expectations.