THE PUZZLE OF LIFE

 

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

 

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

 

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 soul.

 

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

 

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

 

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.