MY DOG ELVIS AND OTHER STORIES

CROP DUSTING AT WALMART

2026-02-24T08:03:00.000-08:00

CROP DUSTING AT WALMART

CROP DUSTING AT WALMART

“Clean up in aisle three.”

My Daddy is the Red Baron—
the crop-dusting ace of Walmart.
AKA the Terminator of ass gas.
AKA the human flamethrower
of weaponized regret.

Flying low with the eagles,
he releases his payload
by bending over, grabbing his knees,
clenching his jaw,
and shoving his soul out his asshole.

Bombs away.

This is the same mustard gas
that haunted the trenches of 1916.
Men screamed. Lungs burned.
Eyes wept.
History repeated itself—
only this time it smelled like
beer farts, bad decisions,
and three days of gas-station chili.

Bombs away.

Daddy takes position.
He waits behind a family
arguing over artisanal French bread.
He leans slightly.
Just enough.

Then he detonates.

“Get the fuck out of my way!” Daddy shouts.
“This is my aisle.
This is my moment.
Leave now—
because cluster bomb,
codename Big Boy,
is coming in hot.”

When it comes to crop dusting,
my Daddy is a stealth fighter pilot—
silent, patient,
deadly in close quarters.

He feeds on the fear.
The coughing.
The confused eye contact.

He curls his lip.
Bloats his gut.
And lets Satan finish the job.

Old ladies gag.
Toddlers cry.
Veterans flash back to war.
Priests lose their faith.
Businessmen abandon their carts.

No one is safe
from the Red Baron of aisle five.

Plug your nose.
Cover your mouth.
Say goodbye to your dignity.
Grip your dentures like they owe you money.

Because this isn’t just a fart.
It’s rotting cabbage,
burnt beer,
and pure ass-spawned evil
that scorches nostril hair,
seals eyelids shut,
and makes you question
whether shopping is worth it anymore.

www.robertmargetts.com

PLAYING DOCTOR AT 8 by robert margetts

2025-09-24T09:14:00.000-07:00

www.robertmargetts.com

PLAYING DOCTOR AT 8

“I have a tummy ache,” said Suzie.
“What do you have to prescribe for me today?”

“Well,” smiled Bobby,
“for upset stomachs, may I suggest
lithium or Prozac and some estrogen.
I found them in Mommy’s top drawer,
and she is always happy.”

“Are you sure that will cure my upset stomach?”
asked Suzie.

“Did you graduate from third grade
with a C+ in meth and a B-
in spilling?” replied Bobby.
“No, sir, you did not.
I earned my doctor’s degree with
hard work and eating all my Jello at lunchtime.”

“Okay, don’t get so upset, Dr. Bobby.
So, what do you suggest for a headache?”

“That’s an easy one,” smiled Dr. Bobby.
“I would strongly recommend
50 grams of Cialis,
followed by 20 grams of Viagra
and six tablets of Lunesta.
I found them under my daddy’s pillow,
and he never has a headache problem anymore!”

“Wow,” exclaimed Suzie.
“It sure sounds like your parents are drug addicts.”

“Yep, they sure are,” said Bobby.
“Lucky for them, I am a doctor.”

www.robertmargetts.com

Daddy left me at the zoo by robert margetts

2025-09-24T09:08:00.000-07:00

www.robertmargetts.com

Daddy left me at the zoo:

Daddy took me to the zoo today
so all the animals could meet me.
I didn’t know what they would think.

I don’t like to eat bananas,
and I don’t like to chase my tail.
I can’t swing from a tree
or howl at the moon.

I made some faces and waved my arms,
grunted and pounded my chest
like all the other kids were doing.
The primates just gazed back at us.
Some scratched their heads,
while others scratched their butts,
just like my daddy does
when he comes home late at night.

Some snarled and others howled,
while a few just sat motionless,
staring back at us
with pitiful expressions on their faces.
I thought one looked at me and smiled,
a sarcastic grin at best.

A mother sitting on the ground
appeared to be crying
while holding her baby firmly to her chest.
He clung to her
for fear of the strange creatures
behind the iron fence.
I felt panic in his stare,
tears in his eyes,
and boredom
in his body posture—
just like my daddy does
when he comes home drunk at night.

And I felt hatred from everyone
locked inside that dirty cage.
They looked terrorized,
like prisoners in a Russian gulag,
not knowing their fate.

Yes, they lived in a cage,
and yes, we lived in a house.
One had bars and cages,
and the other had doors and windows.

Daddy always felt trapped
in a life he never wanted.
Mommy said the door wasn’t locked
and he could leave whenever he chose.
“Open the cage and leave,” Mommy screamed.

I heard her tell him more than once
that marriage wasn’t a prison sentence.
He was not obligated to hang around
with tarnished, heavy chains
weighing him down to a sad life.
“You are not a simian,” she said.
“Open the cage and just leave.”

Yep, Daddy took me to the zoo today
to see all the lonely animals
huddled together inside a concentration camp,
with degrees of depression
on their wrinkled faces.

I grabbed my daddy’s big, cold hand
and looked into his eyes.
He was sad, just like the monkeys in the cage.
I thought he was going to cry.
He attempted to smile,
then pulled away from me,
turned his back, and walked
towards the exit.

That was the first and last time
I ever went to a zoo.
And that was the last time
I held my daddy’s hand.

I hate the zoo,
just like all the monkeys do.

HOMEMADE PERFUME

2020-11-09T08:02:00.000-08:00

HOMADE PERFUME FOR MOMMY

I don’t have much money, so I’ll start from scratch,

With scissors in hand, I unhook the latch.

No time for permission, no reason to wait—

A seven-year chemist must master his fate.

Beneath the old sink by the wobbling drain,

Lie treasures to tickle my curious brain.

Bright blues and yellows and purples and reds,

In bottles with triggers and plastic heads.

There’s Brillo for pans and sprays for the bugs,

And mystery liquids in dusty old jugs.

First, blue Windex for sparkle and shine—

Two tablespoons… maybe I’ll make it nine.

Then green Drano for soft, youthful skin,

I swirl it and twirl it and watch it spin.

Three spoons of Pine-Sol to sweeten the brew,

A fragrance to knock a mortician askew.

It still needs color, a festive delight,

So I stretch to the cupboard and flick on the light.

From deep in the corner I grab the bleach,

Four steady pours— just one for each.

Perfection is close, I can feel it ignite,

But something is missing to make it just right.

Ah! Viagra beside a can full of lard—

A splash of that blue should make it hit hard.

Strange Daddy would hide it down under the sink—

It makes his whole face turn rosy pink.

What else shall I add to finish the trick?

Caustic soda? Glue? Something thick?

No— just a dash of good Clorox cheer

To crown this perfume of the year.

The potion now trembles and starts to awake,

It burps and it bubbles and quivers and shakes.

It sloshes and thickens like frosting on cake,

A masterpiece only a genius could make.

The color! The scent! So bold, so divine—

Like sommeliers swirling a vintage wine.

For Mother this Christmas, no gift could be dearer—

No finer perfume has graced this year.

MY ONE INCH LITTLE HORN

2020-11-09T07:57:00.003-08:00

MY ONE INCH FRIEND

I came into life—

They said I was cute,

By barely age three

I resembled a flute.

At ten I had grown

With a curve and direction,

They promised me joy

And future affection.

And sure as they said,

When show-and-tell hit,

The pride of my youth

Was the star of it.

By fifteen it stirred

With a will of its own,

When teacher leaned forward

It rose from its throne.

A twitch and a jump,

An adolescent flip,

It bounced into action

At the flash of a slip.

By fifty years old,

With some battles long won,

The mighty old poker

Still dreamed of its fun.

It slithered in denim,

Less eager than seen—

If my wife wakes the dead,

That remains to be seen.

By eighty it slept

In hibernal repose,

Too weary, too small

For the feats of old shows.

The beast once so bold

Now withered and worn,

As small and as soft

As the day I was born.

Then laid in the earth,

Still silent and forlorn,

Till chemicals flowing

Revived my small horn.

A final stiff triumph

In coffin-bound bed—

The only time lately

It truly felt “fed.”

WWW.BATKAR.PIXELS.COM

THE NAIL BITTER

2020-11-09T07:54:00.004-08:00

THE NAIL BITTER

Crunch, crunch

Yum, yum

Tasty dirty nails in my tum.

Oh look here

What do you know

Only 3 more nails to go.

Nibble, nibble

Chew, chew

Alas no more

Now what shall I do?

WWW.BATKAR.PIXELS.COM

GROUNDED FOR LIFE

2020-11-09T07:50:00.001-08:00

GROUNDED FOR LIFE

I’ve never seen Mom so furious yet

As the day I flushed our dead hamster pet.

Her loving face twisted, sharp as a bat—

From gentle old mother to sewer-side rat.

I feared swift justice from old Sparky’s swing,

That Louisville Slugger she keeps by the swing.

“Get me the plunger!” she thundered on cue—

Like a roadrunner blur, off I flew.

“The other end, boy, if you please!

This goes in the toilet— not for your knees!”

Then plunging and pumping with warrior might,

She battled the bowl in a porcelain fight.

Clank and bash, dink and thunk—

The pipes protested with metallic funk.

But all of the plunging just wedged him in tight—

Poor Lucky was stuck out of sight.

“Fetch me a bulldozer! Plumber! A crane!

We’re not losing that rodent to sewer domain!”

“We’ve none of the above,” I timidly said.

“One more word and I’ll use your head!”

She grabbed up the pliers and started to twist,

The pipes groaned low in watery mist.

They gurgled and burped and shuddered in pain—

Then water exploded like indoor rain.

It sprayed from the joints and soaked her through,

From slippers to curls— catastrophe brew.

A giggle began deep under my ribs,

It bubbled and wobbled in mischievous fibs.

It rolled like green jelly, wobbling free—

A laugh that refused to stay in me.

Mad as a hornet she reached for a knife—

“Keep laughing and you’re grounded for life!”

She plunged a cleaver into the bowl

For one last heroic rodent patrol.

But porcelain cracked and silence fell,

No hamster rose from sewer hell.

“I give up!” she shrieked in plumber despair.

“Where are the Yellow Pages? Are they under the chair?”

And there we stood in the flooded room—

Lucky at sea in a porcelain tomb.

BILLY THE BULLY

2020-11-09T07:48:00.001-08:00

BILLY THE BULLY

Billy the bully lived on my street,

And whenever he needed a little retreat,
He’d shake me down hard for whatever I’d made,
Then hang me upside down till I paid.

He’d steal my allowance and beat me till blue,

Then laugh through a snort like villains do.
With monkey glue sticky and wickedly runny,
He’d glue my hands to my ears for fun— not funny.

I’d tell my poor mother, “He’s at it again!”

She’d sigh and dial up Billy at ten.
She’d threaten a lawsuit in stern monotone—
From the safety and warmth of our kitchen phone.

This lasted until I turned ten years old,

When fate intervened both fierce and bold.
Patsy the Pusher moved onto our block
And shattered his kingdom like splitting a rock.

At ten years old and built like a tank,

Six-foot-three with a temper rank,
Mean as a bobcat fresh from the bush,
She ended his terror with one solid push.

She snapped his foot bone clean in two—

A lesson in pain Billy finally knew.
His reign of terror met its doom,
Face in the dirt and ego in gloom.

And I, being quick with survival’s knack,

Stepped right in and secured my back.
I befriended her first— a tactical ploy,
Then married her fast— smart little boy.

And here we stand, years later, unstuck—

Or perhaps just wisely, permanently stuck.

WWW.ROBERTMARGETTS.COM

dragon with the green thumb

2020-11-09T07:45:00.001-08:00

(Bicycling Through Haight Ashbury in 1969 by Robert Margetts)

DRAGON WITH A GREEN THUMB

Pot the spruce,
Trim the pines—
Crush… stomp…
Ten down to nine.

Edge the grass,
Water the dates—
Wham… crash…
Alas, just eight.

Fan the willows,
Clip the tulips—
Whoosh… thrash…
Seven to six.

Hoe the maples,
De-flea the dogwoods—
Bounce… bump…
Five to four—
Soon to be no more.

Pick the carnations,
Fluff the rose—
Snap… crack…
Three to two goes.

Rake the ivy,
Sweep the lawn—
Smash… bash…
Now there’s one.

The dragon boasts a green-thumbed grace,
Leaves ruin blooming in every place.
He tends the garden with fearless pluck—
Yet limps away from his own bad luck.

For all the girls can plainly see
The black-and-blue result of spree—
A gardener bold, perhaps too glum,
With blossoms bright… and a battered bum.

The Chopping Block

2020-11-09T07:40:00.001-08:00

(The Time Machine by Robert Margetts)

www.robertmargetts.com

THE CHOPPING BLOCK

A blacksmith’s anvil,

An editor’s block,

The blade and the basket

Await the cock.

Steel meets the neck,

The hinge gives way—

Blood arcs bright

In a crimson spray.

To sever the spine,

To spill what must flow,

To purge the sickness

From stone below.

The calloused palm

Of a wanton hand

Stroked frail manhood,

A fragile command.

Slowly inching

Toward that crest,

Pulse upon pulse

In a tightening chest.

Flesh against flesh,

Friction fed,

A swelling crown

Of aching red.

Beneath the rise

Of the mushroomed hill,

Heat climbed higher,

Relentless still.

One final stroke—

A failing spurt.

A breath half-caught,

A fleeting hurt.

Soft talons closed

On withering might,

Clutching the last

Of fading fight.

And so it ended—

Not with a cry,

But in the hush

Where endings lie.

BOOGERS FROM HEAVEN, KIDS PICKING THEIR NOSES, DISGUSTING BEHAVIOR

2020-11-09T07:35:00.008-08:00

(the bat signals by Robert Margetts)

(wrote this one about a little boy fishing for goodies)

BOOGERS FROM HEAVEN

Lickety lick

Picket pick

Ram that tiny finger up the hole

And grab that delectable sushi role

Green and gooey

Tasty and chewy

No rhyme or reason

It’s just picking season

Hold that booger high in the air

Twirl it between the fingers and rub it on the chair

It’s a treasure trove, an endless pot

A cornucopia of delicious snot

Open wide and tilt head back

Here comes some salty crap

Not the first and definitely not the last bite tonight

I’ve got two nostrils, one on the left and one on the right.

ARE WE THERE YET

2018-04-03T11:25:00.002-07:00

ARE WE THERE YET?

www.batkar.artistwebsites.com

Stop the car

are we there yet?

My drawers are soggy

and awfully wet.

Pee is seeping down....

Speed up and turn down the heat!!

I feel wetness in the seat.

Pull off!!

Detour now!!!

Stop over there

I see a rest stop.

Come on, Come on

Hurry it up.

Oooops...TOO LATE.

THE CHOPPING BLOCK

2018-04-03T11:06:00.001-07:00

THE CHOPPING BLOCK

www.batkar.artistwebsites.com

A blacksmith's anvil

an editors splicing playground.

The guillotine and the basket

befall the head of the cock.

To sever the spine

and spurt the blood

and drain the virus from the rock.

The callused palm of a wanton girl

stroked the manhood of her frail lover.

Inching towards orgasm

ever pulsating

never relenting.

Flesh against a tender organ

as friction teased the enlarged taste buds

under the mushroom hill.

A last stroke

a dying spurt.

And the gentle talons

latched onto the withering muscle

as one life came to an end.

THE FISH AND THE HOOK

2018-04-03T10:50:00.000-07:00

THE FISH AND THE HOOK

On a sodden bank at the edge of a stream,
Gramps and I with a paper-wrapped lunch,
He—an octogenarian reed in the wind,
A thinning emblem of once-roaring spring.

He raised the bamboo rod—
A slender peninsula
Cutting into morning mist.

Casting.

The line uncoiled like a silver thought,
Sketching cursive across the water’s skin.
It kissed the surface—
A dragonfly whisper,
A teasing incision in glass.

Ripples widened,
Concentric secrets trembling outward,
Inviting the dark below
To rise.

Beneath, in the cathedral green,
A body hovered—
Gills breathing hymns
Of silt and light.

Hunger flickered.
Instinct bloomed.

An eager mouth
Pierced the mirrored ceiling,
Swallowing the glittering shard of dawn.

Then—

Lightning in the throat.

Not metal,
But a sun with barbs.

The river convulsed.
Water shattered into fists of spray.
The silver body became
A thrown blade of muscle and terror.

Pain—
White and blooming.

Pain—
A furnace behind the eyes.

The hook, a crooked moon,
Tore constellations down the tender tunnel,
Carving its claim
Behind the veil of breath.

Scarlet ribbons
Unspooled into current,
Turning the green cathedral
Into stained glass.

Above,
The bamboo bowed like an old spine,
Gramps steady as weathered oak,
Teaching tension—
How to hold
And not let go.

Below,
The fish burned with one thought:

End it.

The line sang tight between two worlds,
A thin horizon
Between air and oblivion.

The river offered no answer.
The sky offered none.

Only the pull.

Only the unbearable brightness
Hooked behind the gill.

Must stop the pain.
But how—
When the sky itself
Has teeth?

DRAGON WITH A GREEN THUMB

2018-04-03T10:41:00.004-07:00

DRAGON WITH A GREEN THUMB

Pot the spruce,
Trim the pines—
Crush… stomp…
Ten down to nine.

Edge the grass,
Water the dates—
Wham… crash…
Alas, just eight.

Fan the willows,
Clip the tulips—
Whoosh… thrash…
Seven to six.

Hoe the maples,
De-flea the dogwoods—
Bounce… bump…
Five to four—
Soon to be no more.

Pick the carnations,
Fluff the rose—
Snap… crack…
Three to two goes.

Rake the ivy,
Sweep the lawn—
Smash… bash…
Now there’s one.

The dragon boasts a green-thumbed grace,
Leaves ruin blooming in every place.
He tends the garden with fearless pluck—
Yet limps away from his own bad luck.

For all the girls can plainly see
The black-and-blue result of spree—
A gardener bold, perhaps too glum,
With blossoms bright… and a battered bum.

CHRISTMAS FOR JIMMY

2018-04-03T09:32:00.000-07:00

CHRISTMAS FOR JIMMY

www.batkar.artistwebsites.com

The house looked ever so merry and bright,
With a tall spruce glowing in candy and light.
Bulbs and ribbons blazed in the sky,
Guiding Santa and reindeer on high.

“To that house there— yes, that’s the one!
The rest can wait— now onward, run!”

Down the chimney with scarcely a shimmy,
He signed every package neatly, “To Jimmy.”

My mother and father watched with delight
As I danced in wild, pajama-clad flight.
I yanked and I tugged, I ripped and I tore,
Starting with the biggest— then hunting for more.

Paper went flying in red and green flurries,
Boxes burst open in feverish hurries.
Laughter and ribbons lay strewn on the floor—
Till at last there were presents no more.

It’s too bad Christmas comes but once a year,
A season of wonder and genuine cheer.
Of love wrapped tighter than bows tied near—
If only we kept that spirit all year.

BILLY THE BULLY

2018-04-03T09:21:00.001-07:00

BILLY THE BULLY

www.batkar.artistwebsites.com

BILLY THE BULLY

Billy the bully lived on my street,
And whenever he needed some cash to compete,
He’d shake me down hard for whatever I’d made
And hang me upside down till I paid.

He’d steal all my money and beat me till blue,
Then laugh through a snort— as villains do.
With monkey glue sticky and wickedly runny,
He’d glue my hands to my ears— which wasn’t funny.

I’d tell my poor mother, “He’s at it again!”
She’d sigh and dial up Billy at ten.
She’d threaten to sue in a firm monotone
From the safety and warmth of our kitchen phone.

This lasted until I turned ten years old,
When fate grew sudden and fierce and bold.
Patsy the Pusher moved onto our block
And shattered his kingdom like splitting a rock.

At just age ten— yet built like a tank,
Six-foot-three with a temper rank,
Mean as a bobcat fresh from the bush,
She ended his terror with one mighty push.

She snapped his foot bone clean in two,
A lesson in pain Billy finally knew.
His reign of terror met its doom—
Face in the dirt and ego in gloom.

And I, quick-thinking, sensing my luck,
Aligned myself fast before I was stuck.
I befriended her first— strategic and smart,
Then married her quick— the bravest part.

And here we stand, years later, unstuck—
Or perhaps just wisely, permanently stuck.

GROUNDED FOR LIFE

2018-04-03T09:05:00.002-07:00

GROUNDED FOR LIFE

www.batkar.artistwebsites.com

I've never seen Mom quite so upset

as the day I flushed the hamster down the toilet.

Her face went scrunch like a grumpy pet,

and I thought Old Sparky might join the riot.

"Fetch me the plunger!"

she shouted with might,

and zoom—like the roadrunner—it came into sight.

"The other end, child—don’t be blind!

This one’s for unplugging from behind!"

She plunged and she pushed

with a clatter and clank,

a bash and a splash and a sploosh from the tank.

But Lucky just tumbled still deeper below.

"Get a crane! Get a plumber! A bulldozer—go!"

"We don’t have those things,"

I whispered instead.

"One more word from you and I’ll use your head!"

She grabbed the old pliers and twisted them tight.

The pipes burped and bubbled like something in fright.

Water shot out in a wild,

messy sheet— and Mother was soaked from her hair to her feet.

A giggle escaped from my belly

so round, wiggling and jiggling with jelly‑like sound.

Mad as a hornet, she reached for a knife.

"Keep laughing and you’ll be grounded for life!"

She jabbed the poor bowl

with a desperate goal— to free little Lucky stuck deep in the hole.

"I give up!"

she cried with a thunderous grumble.

"Where are the Yellow Pages? I need a plumber!"

TO GRAMPS

2018-04-03T08:42:00.003-07:00

TO GRAMPS

two forks in the road

To my oldest and best friend

a friend in need is there till the end.

I'll stand by your side and hold your hand

buy you flowers and dream of you in a distant land.

And when I get old and gray

by your grave I will pass away.

When I wake and get judged by The Man

I hope you will stand tall for me and touch my hand.

For a true friend is there in the beginning

in the middle

and in the end.

PAIN IN THE BUTT

2018-04-03T08:32:00.000-07:00

PAIN IN THE BUTT

the face in the mirror

Oooooh what is that pain?

It starts in my back

and spreads throughout my little frame.

I yell, plead and start to cry.

Stop, stop, before I die!!!!

They may be smarter, but next time they will look

Dear old pop hurt his hand spanking my book.

In my pants it will stay

It should come in handy for another naughty day!!

A KID WITH THE FLU

2018-04-03T08:24:00.000-07:00

A KID WITH THE FLU

the blue man

Flue time

not feeling too good

Mite need a doctor

for a needle shot

Maybe some pepacillin.

Don't like it much

But what can I do

I'm just a 5 year old with the flew.

(written through the eyes of a 5 year old boy)

LEARNING THE LAW

2012-10-02T14:23:00.002-07:00

LEARNING THE LAW ONE FIST AT A TIME:

(Bond Is Back, by robert margetts)

My brother Burt was speeding through the house

on his brand‑new tricycle,

so I wrote him a ticket for reckless driving

and another for not wearing his seatbelt.

He cried racial profiling

and sexual harassment

and then punched me square in the nose.

I wrote him up for assault and battery,

but he tore the ticket in my face and

sped back into the living room.

An hour later, I walked into the kitchen

and found him playing with my Monopoly game.

I ordered him to stop,

put both hands behind his head,

and back slowly away from the box.

Burt just smiled and said it was his—

he’d claimed eminent domain over my property.

He didn’t stay to argue semantics

or defamation of character.

All I know is he smelled,

and he looked mighty stupid in the eyes of the law.

He raised his fists

and warned me about his right to bear arms—

and these were the two he planned to use

if I didn’t stop harassing him.

My sister Lonnie was in the other room

playing with her new Barbie doll,

not paying attention to either of us.

Burt marched in,

grabbed Barbie by the torso,

snapped her clean in half,

and said she no longer had a leg to stand on.

He chuckled and handed the wounded doll back to Lonnie.

Since Roe versus Wade, he said,

gave him the right to choose

the pursuit of happiness for everyone in this house,

he could do whatever he pleased.

And if he wanted to break some bones

or take what wasn’t his, then so be it.

The law protected him

from unlawful search and seizure,

and it granted him the right to bear false witness

against his neighbor.

Yes sir, Roe versus Wade made that clear—

and for Burt, it couldn’t be clearer.

He was headed to law school

just as soon as he finished third grade.

I told him he was dead wrong,

that it was Brown versus the Board of Education

that endowed us with unalienable rights

of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

And if he wanted to argue the facts,

I’d gladly ask Mommy to be judge and jury.

Burt just smiled,

gave me the finger, and said,

“You win, dude.”

www.batkar.artistwebsites.com

WEAPONS OF TIME

2011-12-12T11:55:00.000-08:00

WEAPONS OF TIME

(painting by Robert Margetts)

Through the archways they came—
out of millennia and dust,
from Khan to Hitler,
from Booth to Ray,
from bronze and iron
to atom and ash—
each bearing his hardened steel.

Pride.
Honor.
Vengeance.
Distrust and dominion.
Loathing and power.

These filled the damp granite halls
where the soldiers of time
trampled cobblestones
in sullied boots.

A nod of recognition here,
a shove and a snarl there—
they clutched their weapons
like starving infants
at a swollen breast.

Maidens in corsets moved through smoke,
their flutes spilling silver notes
that rose like incense
into vaulted dark.

The soldiers stiffened.
Helmets tilted.
Scarred lips parted.

Before them stood
creatures in white—
so innocent of hatred,
so unmarked by crime.

Desire flickered in battle-worn eyes.
The sober few drank deep of ale
like jackals at carrion dusk.

The first to fall was the knight—
entombed in dented steel.
He loosed his nail-studded mace
and cast it to the waiting moat.

Pride sank.
Deceit followed.

Deep in silt and silence
the rust began its patient work.

The seeker of Grail and glory
rose unarmed—
reborn
in the house of Arthur.

The cowboy watched.
He nodded once,
unholstered his pistol,
unbuckled his belt,
and placed them in the blacksmith’s hand.

Honor and hate,
vengeance and law—
hammered thin
into a humble horseshoe.

Billy the Kid removed his dusty hat
and offered not a draw
but an open hand.
For the first time
he shook the sheriff’s palm—
and was reborn
in the house of Garrett.

From the shadows a musketeer
let fall his blood-streaked foil.
It rang against the stones.

Revenge seeped from its narrow spine
as creeping weeds
licked it clean of memory.

For the first time in a century
Romeo looked on Juliet
without feud in his eyes—
and Capulet and Montague
were reborn
in the house of Shakespeare.

Yet in a darkened alcove
near the spiral stair
stood one more—
gaunt and terrible.

In his fist he clutched a vial,
the world held hostage
in fragile glass.

In his pocket—
stupidity and hypocrisy
folded like bribe-stained notes.

Too weary
to resist the rising music,
too tired
to bear the weight of ruin,

he opened his bony hand.

The vial fell—
a soft surrender—
and the moat swallowed
its secret fire.

Kneeling on ancient stone,
he wept.

For in that hour
in the house of humanity,
Einstein was reborn.

And for the first time
since the seventh day of making,
the Shaper of dust,
the Forger of stars and steel,
was glad.

For in the eleventh hour
of a wounded age,
faith flickered—
not in weapon,
nor in will,
but in surrender.

And the Maker wept—
not for wrath,
but for mercy.

He wept
for all his children.

The dome in Hiroshima, Japan. It was one of the very few building that survived the Atomic bomb. (I took this picture back in April of 1885)

The hand of death

(painted with Acrylic paint, December 2011 by Robert Margetts)

THE LAST RIDE HOME

2011-11-21T11:34:00.001-08:00

(The Motorcycle Accident that killed Kim Hubert, by Robert Margetts..Acrylic paint on canvas)

To my friend

for I cannot speak

words are written through another man

I am sorry,

sorry it ended this way

The pain I caused by my foolish act

I took another life,

not in self defense

And, I took a little of you with me

Forgive me, but do not forget me

for I shall never forget you

And when you are older

take pity on a young fool

Learn from my mistakes

Never again will I touch

Never again will I cry

Never again will I dream

or savor the feel of water upon my lips

But, remember this,

I walk near you at all times

And when you cry for me,

my memories grow stronger

Remember me

Please remember me....

www.batkar.artistwebsites.com

HUMAN ERROR

2011-11-21T11:07:00.001-08:00

(Human error, by Robert Margetts)

Walk with my thoughts

and learn from this cadaverous face

Cry for my pain

and die with the human race...

Breathe my air

and see through my sanguinary eyes

Listen to the hungry children

Can you hear their cries?

Crawl with my severed leg

and touch with my charred hand

Learn from my dry lips

bleeding words into our land..

This is the ballad of our future

We are to blame,

for we are man.