Choices Are Made

minutes tick past and the child is unborn.

ropes and buttons and machines lie around.

the parents are angry, maybe they killed,

they didn’t care, didn’t know, Christ, they didn’t deserve.

i stand there and watch and i watch her rejoice

that a life filled with hatred is a lucky escape.

she looked up to me and questioned my position,

& i replied in soft whispers, & told her i agreed.

for what use is a parent who argues and lies,

ones without brains that adds no formation,

cannot answer a challenge, or be there with such smiles,

& like death in a shroud, i lifted the baby,

i took her outside and i showed her the clouds.

i showed her the droplets & i showed her the land,

i tickled and she giggled, she laughed and she learned,

she picked up a book and together we read.

we watched the stars and the planets, and traveled the world,

we made money and ate, sung badly and danced.

she learned how to cook and she played all the games,

she bought a new camera & photographed her life,

she fell in love and made love to a beautiful man.

then one day in winter, i took her back home,

we stood by her parents and stared in their eyes.

she asked them of their struggle and questioned them why,

for why burdens were passed, whey they continued to hate,

why they had unhealthy babies, and buried her with such fate.

she walked away slowly, and left a picture of her own,

of a child of her own, who she loved and she praised,

of one who was clever because she’d given her such time,

that her love and her brains and imagination did grow,

that the cycle was broken and a human was born,

who was perfect in ways that no-one could foresee,

& all just because,  i took the decision to stand in

& i ask of the world, & of the god who stands by

when will these humans learn to teach life.

~ After spending a day entertaining my nephews 🙂

(c) Ed Simkins

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Napoleon beneath the Castle.

Thick brown mud & horse manure, a mountain full beside the plot

An old man gathers, collects his shovel and slowly, sturdily, moves the lot

Winter’s ice on broken land, a cold wind blows and silence calls

A king commands a one man force, struggling against the snow that falls

Or rain or sleet or bloodied shine, prepares the ditch & plants his flag

Campaign begins, tools all prepped, a man with heart that will not sag

Unending groups of fertile green, battalions stand in row on row

This army nourished, watered, fed, 12 months of blood will make it grow

Each day he tends, and hands produce, an ancient source of fantasy

An elder man, his hands all cracked, retired now from destiny

Nature controlled and organised, this man a genius of the magic green

A plot of land so abundant in food, a man of freedom, a man unseen

It makes me sad, it makes me cry, to see this guy talk so proud

Of the things he’d done, of the victories won, of the miracles that only he’d inspired

By blood and guts, of reading much, and those manual days in which he’d perspired

In fighting off disease and nature, of jealous fools and the years gone by

He, Napoleon, beneath the distant castle, victorious in defeat, one day will die

& there in the fields he will lie down buried, a cross erected & the world will know

That this is my Father, the gardening master, & just like his plants, his kudos will grow.

(c) Ed Simkins