If Not This, Then What?
Not the masses, not the torments, not the nightmares of our longing
Not the grasslands, not the homelands, not the roads to our belonging
Not the mortgage, not the storage where our things are kept for later
Not the governed, not the owners, not a Priest to set us straighter
Not the meetings, nor the greetings, so designed to calm depressions
Not the courts, not the gowns, not the wigs of petty sessions
Not the flavours of the artists who draw and paint our every breathing
Not the architects of fashion who have us all believing
Not the rulers, no not them, they’re just trying to represent us
Not their wives who devise a smile and inwardly resent us
Not their minders who stand in line, not the shirts who seek rebellion
Not the children on the swings, not the things we try to sell them
Not the trains, not the roads, not the cycleways or highways
Not the note left in the bathroom, saying “I will love you always.”
Not the trip down memory lane as the morning breaks for freedom
Not the coffee, not the tea, not the lazy news that feeds them
Not to finger, not to fault for failure in ambition
Not the principle at stake, not the mistake of an omission
Not the envy, not the jealousy, in the paragraphs of knowledge
Not the schools, not the teachers, not the university or college
Not the interview in prime-time, not the clumsy explanations
Not the progress, not the hope to reach the heights of expectations
Not the treaty, not the signing, not the colours wrought of meaning
Not the rock on which we stand, not the ones who kill the dreaming
Not the agent, nor the landlord, not the worker on the street
Not the collector of our garbage, not the cold, or rain, or heat
Not the arbiters of style, not the magistrates of taste
Not the headlines, not the markets, not the food since gone to waste
Not the pain, the anxiety, not the teaching the insufferable
Not the diagnosis sought for a tumour thought inoperable
Not the sickness, not the treatment, not the efforts of our charity
Not the judgements, not the medicine, to offer any clarity
Not the child, not the playground, not the laughter, not the suffering
Not the benefits of television, the offerings, the buffering
Not the latest, not the oldest, not the single highest bid
Not the Sage or the Philosopher trying to understand their id
Not the handshakes, not the taxes, not the plea for some redemption
Not the platitudes or punishments that shout for our attention
Not the promise, no announcements, not until we’re all aligned
Not the phone call, not the papers that are waiting to be signed
Not the bank, nor the money, not the gains, not the losses
Not the old man sitting quietly bearing all life’s dirty crosses
Not the lessons, not the marks, not the difference that makes us all the same
Not the sign scrawled in the window saying there is no one left to blame
Not the reasons given air time shouting “That’s just plainly wrong”
Not the press release that follows, not the news to quiet the throng
Not the publishers who print, not the landowners who shout
Not the children heard round corners, screaming “What’s all this about?”
Not the beginning, it’s not the end, where there’s nothing left to see
Not the friends, not the neighbours, not the bonded, not the free
Not the groundswell of a movement, not a quiver or a shake
Not the birds, not the singing, not the tale of what’s at stake
Not the bleatings, not the boasts, not the triumphs of the few
Not the beatings, not the protests, not an inkling, not a clue
Not the slavery in thought, as some kind of gauche bon mot
It’s the weeping heart who questions “If it is not this, then what?”
© copyright – Stephen Newman 2019