What Are We Made Of?
What are we made of? asks the child who cries
who just wants a toy she can play with
or to ask most politely before she dies
“is there someone out there I can stay with?”
What are we made of? the question burns
as dark shirts mass at the door
the question is answered by various turns
while the Minister lays down the law
What are we made of? letting others conceal
with meaningful dialogues lessened
what desperation compels us to feel
that all we have fought for is threatened
What are we made of? are we afraid?
of another’s holy communion
the book we were reading is lost or way laid
there appears little hope of reunion
What are we made of? in our brand new suit
with our fresh renovations by the water
what keeps us placid, compliant and mute
to the perfectly choreographed slaughter
What are we made of? kept under wraps
to shelve it amongst our convictions
sprung from ideas disguised as maps
as we draw up a list of evictions
What are we made of? can we pin down the phrase
and tell those weary souls we hold hostage
as we meander through our bright lazy days
and define the ideas that are vestige
Who is to blame when the house blows down?
when the windows and walls break or rattle
who drives us into the dark cold town
to corner and herd us like cattle
What has gone wrong since our bold declarations
on our victorious, glorious shorelines
lining up images amidst loud protestations
and rehearsing our most tragic of song lines
What are we made of? are we too tired to try
to rouse our collective rebellion
while the well dressed, double pressed, trill tongued lie
flails in its indignation
What are we made of? it hangs in the air
a pathétique of rhetorical reflections
while the masters spring forth and brush back their hair
and remind us of their recollections
What are we made of? can we lend it a hand
can we give it some sort of asylum
can we wake it from slumber and help it stand
and give it a new coat to try on
What are we made of? is the mournful request
as others make notes in observing
as those who remember pass by those who know best
and despair at what we’re preserving
What are we made of? the question remains
as if by disturbing the embers
of our quiet desperation and all it sustains
so that somehow our conscience remembers
What are we made of? what is it indeed
that the question requires such an airing
if nothing is left but corruptible seed
it tells us just how we are fairing.
© copyright – Stephen Newman 2019