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.

SPANKINGS

 

SPANKINGS

When I was ten,

my father spanked me.

Hard. Real hard!

Hard enough that the room blurred

and the air felt thin.

I remember the anger in his face

how it arrived before he did,

how it filled the doorway

like weather I couldn’t escape.

Back then,

I tried to make sense of it.

I searched for reasons

the way children do.

Maybe I forgot my bed.

Maybe the trash.

Maybe the dishes weren’t stacked

the way he liked them,

or the milk cap wasn’t tight enough

to keep the world from spilling.

But now,

looking back,

I know it was never about chores.

It was the layoff he didn’t mention.

The ticket he couldn’t afford.

The coffee pot left empty

when he needed something warm

to hold him together.

It was everything he carried

and nowhere safe to put it.

So, he put it on me.

Because I was small.

Because I was there.

Because I didn’t know how

to run or fight or question.

He told me it hurt him more,

that this was love,

that this was how fathers teach.

I believed him.

Children believe anything

that makes the world feel less dangerous.

But the truth came later

slow, heavy,

undeniable

when I realized he “loved” my mother

even more than he loved me.

The sound of his hand slapping

against her bloodied cheek echoed

through the walls

long after the house went still.

And now,

as a grown man,

I can finally say it:

none of it was love.

It was a storm that chose

the smallest bodies

to break itself against.

ROBERT MARGETTS





WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS POEM:


This poem is about a child misinterpreting violence as love, and an adult finally understanding that the violence was never about him — it was about a broken man who used the smallest bodies in the house to absorb his storms.

TURN THE ROCK OVER

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TURN THE ROCK OVER

A window left unbroken

spills no shards.

An unlocked door,

its hinges untouched,

keeps its silence

about who passed through.

A cloud that never rises

will never loose its rain.

And a widower will never know the truth

until he turns the rock over

and feels the cold shape

pressed into the earth beneath it.

 

Turn the rock over

if you dare

to uncover the life she hid,

the shadows curled beneath her name.

For a ghost

casts nothing behind her,

yet you will sense her lingering,

her salted eyelids

fused by winter’s long weeping,

her tears pelting

the still river

and blooming red beneath the surface.

And in her palm,

in that frost‑stiff hand,

lie the broken shards of fear,

deceit, and promises undone

the fragments

Only a ghost is condemned to keep.

 

But turn that rock over

if you must.

Just know

the truth will not warm you.

It will rise like a shadow

from what you once held,

and follow you home.

artwork by Robert Margetts

what is the meaning of this poem?

The poem is about the dangerous act of uncovering the truth about someone you loved after they’re gone. The “rock” is the past — heavy, hidden, and cold. Turning it over means confronting what was buried: secrets, betrayals, and the parts of her life that were never shared.

The widower wants answers, but the poem warns that truth is not always healing. Sometimes it haunts.

Some truths don’t set you free. (We all know that to be true). LOL Sometimes they ruin the memory you were trying to protect.

Turning the rock over may reveal what happened, but it may also destroy the love he thought he had.

The truth is “a shadow of what you once held” — meaning the truth is not the relationship itself, but the dark outline of what was missing.

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.