Poetry from the Borderlands

Part One

I had a notion to write about growing up
50s-60s style, post-war baby boomer,

starting with the assassination of John F. Kennedy
and the repetitive broadcast of the Zapruder film;

Vietnam trauma, disruptions swept under
the ticky-tacky sameness of mediocrity,

and I wondered how many thought about what the cost
to heart and soul would be to enter the fray,

exhibited by throwing rocks, screaming, marching for
racial equality, taking over university offices,

flipping off corporate America, anti-war protests,
playing/living the music, seeking a new sentimentality,

sexual liberation, relevance in an upside-down
ripped up social fabric, pulled in opposite directions

by selfish forces, by blurry images of supposed goals,
by stepping stones to a new life that went nowhere

until later and it was too late to change course
having become members of a status quo, as if we

(the generic we) climbed that ladder of success
only to find it leaned against the wrong wall,

compiled all things lived into a palpable fantasy that,
in the end, today, has left us alienated of connections,

lost in the pursuit of…Wait. What were we pursuing?
A post-adolescent understanding of love and peace?

We paid plenty of lip service to that.
We did the Sixties and it wasn’t all that good

(except the music), certainly not good enough to re-enact.
I dream that one day I will awaken into an understanding

that won’t leave me wrestling with the era, but at least
I might find in its chaotic landscape where I lost my innocence.

~Marc A. Crowley

https://crowley-poetry.blogspot.com/

The Ships of States that lay out there
heaved a mighty sigh,
sending the No Ones scrambling—
some went here, some there, back and forth.
¡América! De ti cantamos.

Are these the poor, huddled masses,
the tired, the wretched refuse, the riff-raff,
the dirty, yearning destitutes
scurrying toward our dim northern light?
Perhaps the Gadsden Purchase crossed them.

Someone called this a Promised Land—
Come get a new Anthem and a Waiver,
Officially written on Official Paper—
The irony of the so-called storied pomp?
Out here there is no Ellis Island;
no welcoming Madre de los Exiliados.

The kitchens are tidied by the riff-raff,
the wretched refuse mow the lawns,
the huddled masses harvest the fields.
Those Clever Foxes, wrapped in the flag,
call it The Invasion, with a clack of their heels
and a smirk on their lips and lies on their tongues.

The No Ones ask:
Where is your celebrated lamp?
Where is the golden door?
¿Por qué sea tan difícil?

E pluribus unum?
Not so much.
At that, the No Ones cry,
and no one says
Amen.

We can walk in the shadows of massive mesquites
next to exhausted rivers and streams.
There are spring’s orange daisies,
the cholla and prickly pear,
cranes on the banks of Whitewater Draw.

There are the silent boulders of Texas Canyon,
a raven’s raspy caw,
the bat’s quiet elegance,
the sand dunes’ slow motion crawl,
and blustery, silently waving grasslands.

Mothers and fathers, children,
brothers, sisters, friends, and lovers,
past, present, future—
voices that resonate in our chests,
echoing, volatile, loving, caring.

We say prayers that are carried to heaven
on sunlight’s palms and by nighttime’s woolen feet,
greeted by the sun’s opening palette.

Inviting in the light,
reading the books,
playing the music;
the passage of time,
the random dances of all things
continue their eternal, rambling ways.

I know it was there at the moment
of my children’s births, pristine and pure;

in the first meditation, after so many,
that finally resonated between me and the Universe;

in the loving union, beyond the physical
into the spiritual, falling into rapture;

in poetry about things unnamed, portals
into what isn’t said in all their intentions;

in any art that deeply affects us,
grips our hearts and won’t let go;

in nature’s relentless order,
in words well spoken from silence,

and in stories we tell from the heart.

On this road you will go nowhere without effort.
Lay down your troubles and worries.

It’s time to step out of mediocrity into challenge.
Serving your sour pretensions will not impress anyone.

From the dust of roads, know your reasons for going.
Walk so that the news of your Seeking is good news.

Do not fear silence. It is another door to the ineffable.
It’s the secret noise of loving that matters most.

Beware of anyone whose claims of certainty
follow the road of vengeance.

To live in fear is to live life half. Leap into the Wilderness.
Run naked with your lover on the rim of the world.

~Marc A. Crowley

2012

Camping in this place of redwoods
that surrounds a grassy meadow
and dazzling sky and
the Pacific barely within earshot.
Sleepy eyes take their sweet time
opening in damp sunlight peeking
through the redwoods.
I’m wondering how I made it through
the ’60s.

Look at these trees, hundreds of years old.
Is it really 2012? 1967? 1949?
It’s some other era, I’m sure.

Dew collects on my moustache.
The stove ignites somehow,
water heats, years are streaks of light,
coffee grounds in the french press,
elk graze 200 feet away, coffee brews.

Someone told me that we know nothing until
we know everything,
and I know that we’ll never know everything,
therefore we’ll never know nothing.
I can see the possibilities, I said.
Just let the contrarians be contrarians, she said.

I think about my children and how blessed I am.
September’s morning chill shivers my skin
and my first sip warms.
The aroma wanders ahead of me.

And where am I?
For now I’m off a barely visible pair of tracks,
in a wilderness teased by the Pacific,
and for a few moments the world’s noises rush
to get out of my ears.
Silence has its own special roar.

~Marc A. Crowley

There are books, so many books,
and there are gospels and proverbs
and psalms and prophets. And cook books,
repair books, novels, anthologies, poetry,
and bookstores selling new books and used books;
selling journals, sandwiches, and wine, and it all says,
Welcome into this little paradise.

There should be tamale sellers
going door to door selling their red
and green wonders. I’d buy a dozen a week.
I would cook them with eggs and homemade salsa,
but I’d settle for sipping tequila while grilling
carne asada or lemon salmon and listening
to Dvorak, Carl Nielsen, or Rachmaninov;
to Queen, Beethoven, or Enya.

And when the sun rises, there is joy
and there is dread and there is music
and coffee, breakfast, lunch, and supper;
and there are cookies and milk
and so much to do, so many places to go
and families, friends, and lovers to keep us warm.

Then nighttime falls silently like a breath of spring,
like a sigh of hope, like a gentle caress of a lover’s cheek,
like the longing for a wine-soaked kiss goodnight.

~Marc A. Crowley