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.

The narrator is seven years old — curious, earnest, and completely unaware of danger. He wants to make something beautiful for his mother, but he only has access to the things he sees adults use:

• cleaners

• chemicals

• jugs under the sink

• mysterious pills

To him, these are “ingredients,” not threats. My brother, James, actually made perfume for one of his girlfriends when he was just a kid. Fortunately, my mother stopped him before he gave it to his girlfriend. LOL

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.”

WWW.BATKAR.PIXELS.COM

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?

WWW.BATKAR.PIXELS.COM

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.

WWW.ROBERTMARGETTS.COM

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.

The Chopping Block

 

(The Time Machine by Robert Margetts)

www.robertmargetts.com

THE CHOPPING BLOCK

 

A blacksmith’s anvil,

An editor’s block,

The blade and the basket

Await the cock.

Steel meets the neck,

The hinge gives way—

Blood arcs bright

In a crimson spray.

To sever the spine,

To spill what must flow,

To purge the sickness

From stone below.

The calloused palm

Of a wanton hand

Stroked frail manhood,

A fragile command.

Slowly inching

Toward that crest,

Pulse upon pulse

In a tightening chest.

Flesh against flesh,

Friction fed,

A swelling crown

Of aching red.

Beneath the rise

Of the mushroomed hill,

Heat climbed higher,

Relentless still.

One final stroke—

A failing spurt.

A breath half-caught,

A fleeting hurt.

Soft talons closed

On withering might,

Clutching the last

Of fading fight.

And so it ended—

Not with a cry,

But in the hush

Where endings lie.

what does this poem mean?

To me, the guy is getting a helping hand on his little friend. LOL..

The poem opens with imagery of:

• an anvil

• a chopping block

• a blade

• a basket

This evokes a ritual execution — something final, irreversible, and solemn. But as the poem unfolds, it becomes clear that this “execution” is symbolic.

The second thread describes the fading of physical vitality — the weakening of the body, the collapse of strength, the end of a once‑powerful force. The two narratives mirror each other:

• the falling blade

• the failing body

• the severing of energy

• the quiet end

The poem uses the metaphor of execution to describe the end of potency, agency, or life force.

BOOGERS FROM HEAVEN, KIDS PICKING THEIR NOSES, DISGUSTING BEHAVIOR

 

(the bat signals by Robert Margetts)

(wrote this one about a little boy fishing for goodies)

BOOGERS FROM HEAVEN

 

Lickety lick

Picket pick

Ram that tiny finger up the hole

And grab that delectable sushi role

 

Green and gooey

Tasty and chewy

No rhyme or reason

It’s just picking season

 

Hold that booger high in the air

Twirl it between the fingers and rub it on the chair

It’s a treasure trove, an endless pot

A cornucopia of delicious snot

 

Open wide and tilt head back

Here comes some salty crap

Not the first and definitely not the last bite tonight

I’ve got two nostrils, one on the left and one on the right.