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

 

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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.

MY LITTLE BROTHER

 

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

 

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 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

 

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.