MY DOG ELVIS AND OTHER STORIES

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.

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,

“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.

TOO CROSS THE BRIDGE

2026-03-11T10:37:00.000-07:00

I walked to the river

and looked down from heights so high

the wind pressed cold against my cheeks

as sour ripples shivered below,

disturbed by feeble twigs—

once green with spring—

now brittle, surrendering

to their quiet fall toward death.

Hungry perch, mouths wide like tiny caverns,

hovered in the murky dark,

waiting for a tender bite

from mosquitoes dancing recklessly

close to the water’s trembling skin.

The walk had been too long,

too heavy for an aging body

that seemed to gather sixty years

in the hush of a single breath.

The weight of my body,

the weight of my soul—

redemption did not wait,

and forgiveness did not care

for the child of seven

returning home after half a century

of silence and shadows.

On the other side stood my fear.

On the other side lay the truth.

To cross the planks

I could not do—

to face the young boy

who left behind fear

like a stain,

shame like a stone,

regrets and lost friends

scattered like leaves in a storm.

But to cross, that I must do.

Returning home on weakened planks,

one trembling step at a time,

as they buckled and creaked

beneath the weight of guilt

and the heaviness of memory.

But to cross,

that I must do—

to thank the man

who lifted me from poverty and ruin;

to thank the man

who reshaped my life

into something humble,

something whole.

And so— to cross the bridge,

I will gladly do.

At its heart, this poem is about returning to a painful past, confronting long‑buried memories, and finding the courage to cross an emotional threshold that has been avoided for decades. The river and the bridge become powerful metaphors for the divide between who you were and who you became.

ROBERT MARGETTS

Caminé hasta el río y miré hacia abajo desde alturas tan grandes; el viento, frío, presionaba mis mejillas mientras agrias ondas temblaban abajo, perturbadas por débiles ramitas— antes verdes de primavera— ahora quebradizas, rindiéndose a su silenciosa caída hacia la muerte. Peces perca, hambrientos, con bocas abiertas como diminutas cavernas, flotaban en la oscuridad turbia, esperando un bocado tierno de los mosquitos que danzaban imprudentemente cerca de la piel temblorosa del agua.

La caminata había sido demasiado larga, demasiado pesada para un cuerpo envejecido que parecía acumular sesenta años en el susurro de un solo aliento. El peso de mi cuerpo, el peso de mi alma— la redención no esperaba, y el perdón no se preocupaba por el niño de siete años que regresaba a casa tras medio siglo de silencio y sombras.

Al otro lado estaba mi miedo. Al otro lado yacía la verdad.

Cruzar las tablas no podía hacerlo— enfrentar al niño que dejó atrás el miedo como una mancha, la vergüenza como una piedra, los remordimientos y los amigos perdidos esparcidos como hojas en una tormenta. Pero cruzar, eso debía hacerlo.

Regresando a casa sobre tablones debilitados, un paso tembloroso a la vez, mientras cedían y crujían bajo el peso de la culpa y la pesadez del recuerdo. Pero cruzar, eso debía hacerlo— para agradecer al hombre que me levantó de la pobreza y la ruina; para agradecer al hombre que rehízo mi vida en algo humilde, algo entero. Y así— cruzar el puente, con gusto lo haré.

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

what is the meaning of this poem?

this poem is wild, chaotic, and deliberately over‑the‑top — but underneath all the absurdity, it’s doing something clever. It uses humor, exaggeration, and grotesque imagery to turn something as mundane (and juvenile) as farting in a Walmart aisle into a full‑blown war epic.

Yes, this poem is a comedic epic that turns a fart joke into a war story. It uses exaggeration, grotesque imagery, and mock‑heroic language to make something childish feel mythic. It’s satire, character study, and absurdist humor all rolled into one.

robert margetts

“Limpieza en el pasillo tres.”

Mi papá es el Barón Rojo— el as de la fumigación en Walmart. Alias el Terminator de los pedos letales. Alias el lanzallamas humano de arrepentimiento químico.

Volando bajo con las águilas, libera su carga agachándose, agarrándose las rodillas, apretando la mandíbula y expulsando su alma por el trasero.

Bombas fuera.

Es el mismo gas mostaza que atormentó las trincheras de 1916. Hombres gritaron. Pulmones ardieron. Ojos lloraron. La historia se repite— solo que ahora huele a pedos de cerveza, malas decisiones y tres días de chili de gasolinera.

Bombas fuera.

Papá toma posición. Espera detrás de una familia peleando por pan francés artesanal. Se inclina apenas. Lo suficiente.

Y detona.

“¡Quítense carajo!” grita Papá. “Este es mi pasillo. Este es mi momento. Lárguense— porque la bomba de racimo, nombre clave Niño Grande, viene caliente.”

Cuando se trata de fumigar, mi papá es un piloto furtivo— silencioso, paciente, letal en espacios cerrados.

Se alimenta del miedo. De la tos. De las miradas confundidas.

Frunce el labio. Infla la panza. Y deja que Satanás termine el trabajo.

Ancianas se atragantan. Niños lloran. Veteranos reviven la guerra. Curas pierden la fe. Hombres de negocios abandonan sus carritos.

Nadie está a salvo del Barón Rojo del pasillo cinco.

Tápate la nariz. Cubre tu boca. Despídete de tu dignidad. Agarra tus dentaduras como si te debieran dinero.

Porque esto no es solo un pedo. Es col podrida, cerveza quemada y pura maldad anal que chamusca vellos nasales, sella párpados, y te hace cuestionar si vale la pena seguir comprando aquí.

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

WHAT'S THE MEANING OF THIS POEM?

The poem is meant to be darkly funny on the surface, but underneath the humor it’s doing something sharp and unsettling. It uses children’s play as a mirror to expose what’s happening in the adults’ world — and the result is a satire about parental dysfunction, the normalization of prescription drug dependence, and the way kids absorb what they’re exposed to without understanding it. Get it..Good....

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.

what is the meaning of this poem written by Robert Margetts?

The poem looks playful on the surface — a kid visiting the zoo with their father — but underneath, it’s carrying something much heavier. The zoo becomes a metaphor for the father’s emotional state, the family’s dysfunction, and the child’s first experience of abandonment.

The Zoo Reflects the Father’s Inner Life

The animals aren’t just animals. The child sees in them:

sadness
boredom
fear
captivity

These are the same emotions the child sees in their father when he comes home late or drunk. The zoo becomes a mirror — a place where the child recognizes the father’s emotional imprisonment.

The Child Is Trying to Understand Adult Pain

The comparisons are deliberate:

monkeys scratching like Daddy
a mother clutching her baby like Daddy clings to his unhappiness
animals staring blankly like Daddy does at night

The child is observing, absorbing, and trying to make sense of adult emotions they don’t have the language for yet.

The Father Feels Trapped in His Marriage and Life

The mother’s words reveal the tension at home:

“Open the cage and leave.”
“Marriage wasn’t a prison sentence.”
“You are not a simian.”

She’s telling him he’s free to go — and he’s already halfway gone emotionally. The father’s sadness at the zoo isn’t about the animals. It’s about his own life.

The Zoo Trip Becomes a Turning Point

The moment the father pulls his hand away is symbolic:

he withdraws physically
he withdraws emotionally
he walks toward the exit — literally and metaphorically

This is the moment the child realizes something is breaking. It’s the beginning of the father’s departure, whether emotional or physical.

The Zoo Becomes a Symbol of Loss

The final lines tie everything together:

The zoo is where the child saw the truth.
The zoo is where the father’s sadness became undeniable.
The zoo is where the child last held his father’s hand.

So the child says:

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

It’s not about animals. It’s about the pain of watching someone you love slip away.

robert margetts

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.

The narrator is seven years old — curious, earnest, and completely unaware of danger. He wants to make something beautiful for his mother, but he only has access to the things he sees adults use:

cleaners
chemicals
jugs under the sink
mysterious pills

To him, these are “ingredients,” not threats. My brother, James, actually made perfume for one of his girlfriends when he was just a kid. Fortunately, my mother stopped him before he gave it to his girlfriend. LOL

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.

what does this poem mean?

To me, the guy is getting a helping hand on his little friend. LOL..

The poem opens with imagery of:

an anvil
a chopping block
a blade
a basket

This evokes a ritual execution — something final, irreversible, and solemn. But as the poem unfolds, it becomes clear that this “execution” is symbolic.

The second thread describes the fading of physical vitality — the weakening of the body, the collapse of strength, the end of a once‑powerful force. The two narratives mirror each other:

the falling blade
the failing body
the severing of energy
the quiet end

The poem uses the metaphor of execution to describe the end of potency, agency, or life force.

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.