Gilded Games

Play their game or get swept off the board

Image by KoolShooters

Decision Makers

So many big decisions.

I certainly couldn’t
make all of these decisions.
I find it hard just to decide
what’s for breakfast, lunch or
what to watch on TV;
so many choices.

So thank God there’s people
to make big decisions
decisions I certainly couldn’t make
and make them so well.
They ask for our opinions but
thank God
they make all the decisions.

Who could make these hard decisions?
Men of strength, courage and power,
I imagine.
Men of honour, men of the old times,
gentlemen with less gentle
thoughts.

Generals ordering soldiers to
charge down battlefields of no man’s land.
They must know whose land is whose.
How clever and strategic they
must be to keep track of
all these wars.
Better they know of the world,
than you and me.

High intellectuals in Ivory Towers rise
higher than what they can reach
from such a height.
Intelligent they are, to put themselves
at such a height
we cannot
reach.

Presidents and patriarchs and
politicians of prowess—
they assess so well
what we need, so much
better than ourselves,
take away what’s bad and unnecessary
and provide provide provide…
what they know to be necessary.

Keep them in safety, these men
of wisdom,
keep them away from the action,
at the tippy top of the tower,
to make the right decisions
on how we should take action.

How grateful am I,
for the ones who make
all these decisions.

For how could I know,
what’s best for me
and my family.

How thankful am I,
they put us first
when they make
all these decisions.
They must think of us
because, they put us first,
right on the frontlines,
to carry out or test out
those decisions they made.

A pawn cannot move itself,
I suppose.

© H. R. Sinclair 2025

Photo taken by Author of the painting “Jugando al Toro” (Playing Bullfighter) by Spanish artist Eugenio Lucas Villaamil

Playing Bullfighter

The family half-fills the lounge,
only by mundane presence,
adding nothing more.
The adults sit in boredom
whispering nothingness
surrounded by art they deem the same
in their possession like ornaments.

The mother converses over her shoulder,
feet resting on pillows,
her brother spies with a side-eye,
unassuming of the rest around,
the priest watches on with a polite smile
as the boy dressed in red
unsure of it all
waves his fighting cape
as the dad charges forward
playing with the art.

Like all the greats
it died for art
An honourable death
¿right?
and that makes it valuable
¿surely?
that makes it all worth it
worth something
worthy of this room
filled with art and
bereft of life.

A traditional building
holds the traditional family,
with clean hands,
enjoying the valour
of other champions
reaping rewards
of others’ doings.

And the boy imitates the matador
and the father imitates the murdered,
once a live beast of beauty,
now merely a head
with
dull eyes and
dull horns
and a dull face
still holding more life
in its trophy head
than the trophy holders.

© H. R. Sinclair 2025

---