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.

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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.

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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

 

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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.”

 

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Daddy left me at the zoo by robert margetts

 

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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

 

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

 

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.”

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THE NAIL BITTER

 

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?

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GROUNDED FOR LIFE

 

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

 

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.

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dragon with the green thumb

 

(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.