MY BEST FRIEND DRACULA

 

Dracula and Frankenstein

MY BEST FRIEND DRACULA

 

How do you say it.

A friend dies before his time.

Way too early.

Cancer!

And the world doesn’t pause.

You weren’t “just a dog.”

You were the only thing that stayed.

The only thing that didn’t lie.

You slept in the cold bed

because no one else would.

Your head on my chest,

listening to a heart

that didn’t deserve your loyalty.

At night you listened

cars, footsteps, deliveries

and you barked,

every night,

for eight straight years.

And now the silence is deafening.

You warned the world away.

You made strangers afraid.

Your name did the rest.

But it was only a name.

It never matched the truth.

Goodbye Dracula,

You were a giant,

but gentle in a way people rarely are.

A Great Pyrenees

with a smile too big

for the body that failed you.

You loved everything

dogs, cats, anyone breathing.

Not out of duty.

Not out of instinct.

Just because that was your wiring.

Simple. Pure. Uncomplicated.

Goodbye my friend.

If there’s a heaven,

you’re probably up there barking at God,

keeping Him awake

the way you kept me awake.

And He won’t tell you to stop.

checkmate with Alzheimer's

 

robert margetts

CHECKMATE WITH ALZHEIMER’S

 

 

Another piece gone.

Another memory shoved into the cold abyss.

Left, right, forward

What does it matter.

The rook slams a check

onto the bone‑white board.

The Queen watches,

hands shaking,

tears soaking her dress.

Her mind flickers out.

Her husband drifts into the fog.

Everyone she loves dissolves.

She calls to the knight.

He sits high, useless,

counting pawns

as if numbers could save her.

Her memories rot,

shift, vanish

like pieces scraped across a cold board.

The King stands naked.

Bishops gone.

Lines broken.

What would Bobby Fischer do?

Bishop to E6?

It doesn’t matter.

Every move is dead.

Checkmate is inevitable.

Dementia doesn’t lose.

The Queen can’t guard him anymore.

Her mind is a pit,

a frozen snare of fear.

She fights the board,

bleeding dignity,

but Alzheimer’s cheats.

It always has

and always will.

The King stares at her,

trying to remember her face,

her name, anything.

His hands jerk.

His legs fold.

He steps left,

forgets why,

steps back,

tries to hide in plain sight.

The rooks and the Queen

scramble to shield him,

but the silence swallows everything.

Memories fall.

Pieces fall.

Chess is cruel.

Alzheimer’s is worse.

Step away from the future

if the past is already gone.

robert margetts

what is the meaning of this poem?

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

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

GOODBYE MY FRIEND

 

robert margetts
www.robertmargetts.com

GOODBYE MY FRIEND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

robert margetts

THE BLACK BOX

 

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

 

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?

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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.