WORLD WAR 1

 

WORLD WAR 1

The trenches are filled

with the bodies of sons

mud‑soaked uniforms,

faces ruined,

mouths hanging open with no words left to give.

I trudge through the corpses

searching for my boy,

rolling bodies over

but recognizing no one.

He was seventeen,

enlisted far too young,

convinced by others

that duty must be done.

Broken rifles

that could volley no more.

Bayonets lodged in chests,

their blades dulled by time

though the damage was already done.

I wade through the mud

looking for my son.

It clings to my boots

with guilt and horror,

like St. Longinus

who pierced the side of Christ.

Too much bloodshed

these boys did give

yet no cross to rest on,

no medals to adorn,

just forgotten corpses

encased in sour mud

of a world gone mad with war.

Through fear and duty

they jumped when the whistle screamed

grab your bayonets, your rifles,

pistols and spades

lay waste to the boys on the other side.

He may look like you,

cry, smile, and laugh,

but he is the enemy,

and that won’t do.

If you don’t kill him,

he will surely kill you.

The madness of war

turns boys into grandfathers

who remember the past

and the atrocities they’ve done.

Run fast and steady,

they command from behind

headed into hell

in a cancerous line,

bitten down by tiny mosquitos

of weapons so poisonous

even God couldn’t imagine.

Rest, boys, if you can.

Take pride in your duty served,

and bleed for your land.

I will tell your mothers and fathers

that you died a hero

but in my mind

you were always just my little boy.

ROBERT MARGETTS

The poem is about how war destroys identity, innocence, and humanity, leaving behind only bodies, mud, and memory. It shows a father confronting the brutal truth that his son — and all the sons around him — were sacrificed for an idea of “duty” that never protected them.

LEAVING THE PAST

 

LEAVING THE PAST

 

The future asks for a sacrifice

a gesture, a weight,

something small enough to carry

but heavy enough to matter.

Newton calls it motion.

Einstein calls it light bending.

You call it becoming someone

you weren’t before.

Time is a pulse

tapping under your ribs.

Roads split like bone.

You choose one.

You lose ten.

At the event horizon,

memory thins.

You reach for a harp

tuned by God,

or a piano

worn smooth

by a blind man’s hands.

Whatever sound you make

becomes the past you leave behind.

THE OLD CHEVY

 

THE OLD CHEVY

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The highway stretched out

like a tired vein across the earth,

Pulsing under the relentless Texas heat wave,

dust rising in slow,

suffocating breaths.

Bugs slapped against the open windows,

The only things still fighting to stay alive.

The air‑conditioning had died years ago

Its last breath a quiet surrender to life

And the heat wrapped around us

Like the truth

neither of us wanted to say aloud.

I looked at my father,

Drying out like a leaf in late autumn,

Edges curling, color fading,

His body and mind collapsing

The way old engines do

When time finally wins.

Just me and my 80‑year‑old Dad

In his battered Chevy,

A truck that had carried him through decades

And now carried him toward the end.

The road was a graveyard of potholes and debris,

Each jolt a reminder

That everything breaks eventually

Metal, memory, men.

He felt every crack in the pavement,

Every scar the highway had earned,

And I knew he remembered

When the road was young

And so was he.

The motion rocked his bones

Into a fragile peace,

And he drifted off

Into the turquoise alcoves of memories

he could no longer hold

But still tried to reach.

The Chevy groaned beneath us,

Suspension joints rusted

like forgotten prayers,

Shock absorbers sagging like tired shoulders,

Tires worn thin from carrying too much life.

The undercarriage was so eaten away

We could see the road passing beneath us,

A river of miles flowing toward a place

Neither of us wanted to name.

I drove my father home

Maybe for the last time

As he aged too fast,

Faster than the Chevy falling apart around us.

The cracked windshield mirrored

The map of his years,

The flickering high beams

Echoed the dimming light in his eyes,

And the missing grill

Matched the smile he no longer had strength to give.

He just stared ahead,

unafraid,

A man who had already made peace

With the truth that waits for all of us.

He knew the highway doesn’t end

It simply fades

When the traveler can’t go any farther.

We all have stops we must take,

And some we never return from.

Every road is long.

Every life is unbearably short.

I looked at my dear old Dad,

Slumped in his worn‑out seat,

Watching wheat fields sway

Like golden ghosts in the summer wind.

They pulled him backward

To a younger highway

A beautiful wife beside him,

Four grateful kids in the back,

A future still wide open.

My throat tightened.

I looked at him and said,

“You know I love you.”

He didn’t turn.

He just smiled

small, tired

And nodded.

"I know,” he whispered,

“Now take me home.”

WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM

The meaning of this poem is the quiet, painful beauty of escorting someone you love toward the end of their life. It uses the failing Chevy truck as a metaphor for my father's aging body, and the long, damaged highway as a metaphor for the journey of life itself — full of memories, wear, and inevitable decline.

the failing truck = the failing father = the final stretch of life’s highway.

WHY DOES MOMMY HAVE CANCER?

 

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WHY DOES MOMMY HAVE CANCER?

 

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The little boy sat in the rocking chair

in his parents’ bedroom,

rocking because it was the only motion

left in a room otherwise stilled by grief.

Forward.

Backward.

Forward.

Backward. 

His body held rigid,

his mind drifting loose,

his small hands

wrapped around the rails

as the chair creaked in time

with the indifferent ticking of the clock.

He opened his dry mouth,

looked toward his father

a man seated at the edge of the bed,

fingers laced around his wife’s hand

as she labored for breath,

each inhale a fragile thread

thinning toward silence.

The boy pressed his lips together,

summoned the courage

children should never need,

and asked,

“Why does Mommy have cancer?”

He was only ten,

yet he understood enough

from television dramas,

from whispered conversations

on the playground,

from the way his classmates said

“The Big C”

as though naming it softly

might keep it at a distance.

His school desk

still bore her initials,

carved into the wood

a small act of permanence

in a world that had begun to feel

frighteningly temporary.

He knew cancer was bad.

He knew it meant

some people did not return.

“Dad…” he said,

“Is Mommy going to die?”

His father turned towards him,

knowing the truth

afraid to show his venerability

eyes swollen,

still clutching her cold hand

as though warmth might return

if he simply refused to let go.

He looked at his son,

voice trembling,

and whispered,

“Yes… Mommy is going to die.”

The words emerged slowly,

as though each one cut

its way through him.

She was only thirty‑eight

Far too young to leave,

too young to be stollen.

He loosened his grip

on her lifeless hand

and brushed away the tears

that would not stop falling.

He looked at her one last time

his high school sweetheart,

the girl he once kissed

behind the bleachers,

the woman

who had carried their dreams with a quiet,

steady grace.

Now she lay still,

hair tangled,

face bare,

a figure already half‑departed

from the world she once filled.

Her eyes closed.

A faint smile touched her lips

relief,

perhaps,

or the soft mercy of pain finally ending.

Her cold hand

rested on a cross,

palm open,

awaiting the nail to be driven,

as though offering itself to a presence

he could not see.

The father gathered himself,

looked at his son,

and shook his head.

Tears slid down his cheeks

like rain on a windshield,

wipers slapping back and forth

against a world gone blurred

passing the stranded cars along the highway,

passing the soaked hitchhikers

with their wet thumbs

pointing forward

in hopes of a ride.

Water the enemy,

clarity the cure

as he imagined the long road ahead,

just him and the boy,

moving through a life

suddenly missing its center.

He drove with both hands

Digging into the steering wheel

Driving past everything

And everyone.

He cleared his throat,

blew a breath through cracked lips,

and said,

“Mommy is gone.”

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What is the meaning of this poem?

This poem is about the exact moment a child realizes:

• parents are not invincible

• life is not guaranteed

• death is real

• love cannot stop it

It is the moment childhood ends.

I GOT LOST IN TIME

 

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I GOT LOST IN TIME

I got lost somewhere along

the crooked streets

and potholed trails,

wandering through winding,

empty avenues

where broken streetlights

hummed over rusted‑out cars

with shattered glass

and collapsed wheels.

some still smoldered

small red whispers of life

lifting into the air

and bruising the clouds.

Relics of a civilization

that once breathed purpose

waited for a new chance,

waited for a new day

but centuries of dust

fell over their bones

and softened their shame.

I drifted down Highway 66

and took the wrong turn,

as sages do, 

as dreamers do.

I got lost somewhere along the way,

caught between hope 

and inevitability,

between reason’s edge

and imagination’s pull.

I couldn’t cross

the trembling line,

too afraid to pluck the note

like a guitarist hesitant

to end his song,

fearful the frequency

might crack the tempo

and scatter the harmony.

Fear held me still,

locking my hands

from choosing right 

or choosing wrong

both paths calling,

both refusing me.

Life split into a thousand roads,

and my mind

tangled in a fisherman’s net

with no clear seam to cut free.

 

I could head north,

but the cold waited there

barren lands,

lifeless growth,

frozen lakes,

memories iced over

and unwilling to thaw.

What I had seen,

what I had sealed

in the glacial alcoves

of my mind remained untouched.

 

I could head south,

into the sweltering oasis

of burned‑out loves,

fired‑up pastures,

scorched trees.

No flowers dared bloom,

no buds dared rise.

Sweat and fear slid from my skin

as vapor rose 

from the blistered soil,

hissing reminders

of every chance 

I squandered,

every foolish gamble

that left me in ashes.

The house always wins against the gambler.

The house always wins on a reckless bet.

 

I could head east,

down salted roads of depression,

malted liquor,

cocaine‑bright nights,

opium dens with velvet backrooms

whispering for one more high.

To chase my dragons,

to stay forever young

in a soft, drifting haze.

Hearing but not listening,

feeling but not understanding

the shadows that lengthened

as the years slipped quietly

into sin and the belief

that I did not belong in the daylight world.

Somewhere along that winding path

I misplaced my soul,

so east became forbidden ground.

 

I could head west,

like the early miners

chasing gold and promise,

mesmerized by the shining stone

that toppled Mayan cities

and crushed the Inca world

beneath conquistador greed.

 

Yet west felt open

a direction untouched,

roads wide and breathing

for a lonely wanderer

who had tried the other three

and failed to choose wisely.

Too afraid of the unknown,

too afraid to take chances,

too afraid to stop

and ask for directions

in a world of endless winding roads.

Yes sir,

I got lost somewhere

along the way in life

but who hasn’t.

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WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM:

The core meaning of this poem is that a person is looking back on their life and realizing they became lost—not in a single moment, but across many crossroads, temptations, fears, and emotional climates. It’s a meditation on direction, identity, regret, and the paralysis of choice.

Each direction is a psychological state, not a place.

• North — emotional coldness, numbness, memories frozen in place

• South — heat, passion, impulsive mistakes, the scorch of regret

• East — addiction, self‑destruction, the seductive pull of escape

• West — possibility, reinvention, the unknown future

THE THEORY OF COMMUNISM

 

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THE THEORY OF COMMUNISM?

 

The theory of communism

may have first whispered to him

long before he knew its name

back when he was just a young lad

wandering through cool summer fields,

the red‑clay roads curling gently

over green hills like ribbons

laid down by a kinder world.

Potato farms quilted the meadows,

sheep drifted like pale clouds across the grass,

and wild blueberries hid in patches

only children ever seemed to find.

Lavender breathed its soft perfume

into the warm air

a beauty so delicate

it felt like something

borrowed from God’s own hand,

something only a woman could fully understand.

The rivers were always calling then.

Trout flashed beneath the surface,

daring every Huck Finn dreamer

to skip school, thread a worm on a hook,

and cast a bamboo line

into glacial lakes that held the sky

as if afraid to let it go.

Those were the days

untouched by the noise of the world

days before the shadow

of nuclear fire hung over our lives,

before hatred learned to speak loudly,

before ambivalent politicians and

delusional governments

proved how easily they could disappoint.

It was a time when life felt simple,

honest, and endlessly possible

a time when ideas could bloom

quietly in the open air,

rooting themselves in the soft soil

of a boy’s heart

long before he understood

what they would one day mean.

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THE TIME TO DIE

 

A NIGHT IN THE WIND by Robert Margetts

THE TIME TO DIE

 

The blade on the glass face

freezes at 11:59

a malignant omen,

a pernicious reminder

of doom in the air

a whisper of skies

choked with molten ash,

lava‑dark clouds

swallowing daylight whole.

Doves ignite mid‑flight,

their wings curling into blackened husks

that fall like cursed snow.

Oceans boil to a murderous shimmer,

150 degrees of rising death

on smoldering ash dunes

no scavenger dares to cross.

Lakes shrink to skeletons,

their beds choked with tires,

plastic water bottles,

the detritus of a species

that forgot to listen.

No trout. No minnows.

Only the echo of what once lived.

Yet the bombs are loaded

And ready to prime

The old men

those architects of ruin

huddle in a steel‑cold hangar,

their trembling fingers

grazing the button

as fear slicks their palms

with the stench of rotting sweat.

How do they face their own reflections,

those nefarious shadows staring back,

knowing the future demands a sacrifice

they are too cowardly to name.

To survive,

he must read the hidden lines,

step across the event horizon

a pull so absolute

not even a god could resist.

The hangar air curdles with dread.

The second hand refuses to move.

The circle closes.

The hourglass waits to be overturned.

One press,

and the human story ends in a single,

shuddering breath.

ROBERT MARGETTS

WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM?

this poem is an apocalyptic meditation on human self‑destruction, told through imagery that blends environmental collapse, political terror, and cosmic inevitability. Its meaning unfolds across several layers

CONTEMPLATION

 

ROBERT MARGETTS

CONTEMPLATION

A quill without ink

cannot whisper like Shakespeare,

just as a Waterford goblet

shattered on cold Byzantine tile

can never cradle roses again.

A Gibson missing strings

tells no story to a waiting room,

and a Steinway stripped of its keys

cannot summon a single waltz.

A Stradivarius with a broken bow

is a candle without a flame,

and a soul without a heart

beats for no one

not even you.

You didn’t just break my heart.

You ground it down,

the way the Waterford flute

splintered into a million shards

of expensive, useless glass.

The thorns on the rose stem

cut my fingers to the bone,

slicing through me

like the butcher’s blade

at the corner market.

More blood has been spilled

from a thorn than from a sword,

and more wounds

carved into the hands

of the boy you once swore to love.

You hurt my soul

so deeply that even my quill dried up,

even my Baby Taylor forgot how to sing.

You stole the last of me

and left the rest in ruins.

You touched my bloodied hand,

kissed my trembling mouth,

looked into my eyes

as if you still knew me,

and brushed your fingers

through my tangled gray hair

like it meant something.

You touched my lips a thousand times,

parted them gently,

fed me wine as if mercy

could be poured from a bottle.

We shared one final drink,

a few thin moments

nothing strong enough

to drown the ache, you left behind.

The Stradivarius fell silent,

and the candle shivered

through its last breath of light.

Goodbye, my lover.

The Rubicon waits,

and I must cross it alone.

No music.

No light.

No ink left to write your name again.

WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM?

It is a poem of devastation, resignation, and the quiet, tragic dignity of a man who has nothing left to give.

A NIGHT AT THE OPERA BY Robert Margetts

PROZAC FOR HUMANITY

 

ROBERT MARGETTS

PROZAC FOR HUMANITY

 I’m an old tired man now,

Counting decades on my right hand

the way a gambler fans his cards

at a blackjack table in Las Vegas.

And I’ve had time to think

too much time,

maybe or perhaps not,

about the way the world

might’ve turned if Prozac

had been around a hundred years ago.

Back then,

psychiatry was a whisper behind a door,

not something a man could admit he needed.

And I sometimes wonder

how different the maps,

the speeches,

the wars,

the tyrants might have been

if a few pills had softened

the edges of the wrong men.

Stalin, Hitler, Sadam Hussein, Bashar al-Assad

Just to mention a few.

Now, don’t mistake me

I never claimed to be a psychologist.

Hell, I barely claim to understand myself.

But I’ve lived long enough to know this:

some people can be helped,

and a small,

stubborn few never will be.

Folks protest that idea,

call it barbaric,

but I ask them plainly

were the monsters of history insane,

or just men who chose cruelty

with both hands open?

How do you measure madness

in a single man,

or in the mob that marches behind him?

How do you medicate a destiny

carved from arrogance,

ignorance, or the slow rot of power?

I’ve seen enough to know this much,

all the pills in the world

wouldn’t have changed

the course of those men.

Some are born twisted.

Others learn it step by step,

choice by choice,

until evil becomes as natural as breathing.

And here I sit,

an old Texan man on a quiet porch,

watching the sun go down,

thinking about the world we inherited

and the one we might’ve had

if human nature were easier to fix.

 

 

 

ROBERT MARGETTS

WHAT DOES THIS POEM MEAN?

It’s a poem about a man who has lived long enough to stop believing in easy answers.

DAVEY JONES SECRET LOCKER

 

ROBERT MARGETTS

DAVEY JONES SECRET LOCKER

 

My parents were resting on the sofa,

half‑asleep but still doing that thing

where one eyelid stays cracked open

like a suspicious lizard.

They don’t trust me

and honestly, fair enough.

I have a long,

decorated history of borrowing things

kleptomania they call it.

I prefer a more simple explanation,

A relocation of wealth!

But tonight,

the call of adventure was strong.

It was time to loot the bedroom

the legendary Davy Jones’ Locker

a place rumored to contain gold coins,

ancient relics,

and possibly a cursed sock or two.

To normal people,

it’s just a bedroom.

But to a nine‑year‑old boy

with the blood of a pirate

and the attention span of a caffeinated rat,

it’s a treasure trove of unimaginable loot.

Armed with my trusty weapon

a plastic club hidden away

under some soap and shampoo bottles

 in mommy’s private bathroom.

I marched forward.

In my mind,

it was a mighty cutlass,

forged in dragon fire

occasionally buzzing and pulsating

with mysterious magical energy

grinding and vibrating

like an emaciated snake

with a full chicken

Stuck in his throat.

I crept deeper into the room,

into the forbidden zone,

the place parents go to whisper,

nap,

and hide snacks from their children.

Was I scared?

Absolutely.

But pirates don’t back down

from danger, dust bunnies,

or questionable smells.

I started on Dad’s side of the bed,

lifting the mattress like a seasoned raider.

And behold

Dirty magazines

BINGO.

Treasure!

Tons of booty.

Yup, Daddy had it all.

I also found

Loose change, old receipts,

a pocketknife,

a watch that gave up in 1972,

and a mysterious key

that probably opens a portal

to the land of forgotten chores.

But then

disaster.

The parents stirred.

Time to skedaddle.

I grabbed as much loot

as my pudgy pirate hands

could carry and fled the scene of the crime.

Yes,

I raided Davy Jones’ Locker.

And yes,

I escaped with my booty.

A pirate’s work is never done.

Time to get busy

Investigating all my new magazines.

 

ROBERT MARGETTS

WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM:

At its core, this poem is about childhood curiosity colliding with the hidden adult world — and the way a kid mythologizes everything into adventure, danger, and treasure.