Marc Mannheimer

Marc Mannheimer Poems

A house
of stone and glass,
built above the ocean,
reflects the sunlight

I saw a picture of her a year ago,
my one time brown-eyed girl.
She looked like she’d hit the pavement,
I guess like the rest of the nation.

Some tears taste
like pure, clear spring water,
despite the salt,
and despite the fact that you know

my hands

all over these words,

my plague name

was Gary

out, out,

out on Erie,

On a weekday morning,
with free time on my hands,
I stopped in the record shop
at Tower City, downtown Cleveland,

fallen leaves – neon green;
underbrush – fluorescent brown;
graffiti – acid rainbow;
rapid transit, rushing through town

in primeval slumber,
runs through underbrush,

Crescent moon,
and a star, adjacent, almost in its pocket

It’s easy to look beautiful
When everything’s in place;
Your hair, your eyes, your perfect smile,
Your job, your house, your gorgeous guy.

The last time I saw my first therapist
she was standing at the door waving in her red dress
She was a middle-aged lady, a little plump, no hint of gray
Her mood was always moderate; she seemed to be on top of it

black wings, outstretched
glistening in the sun;
orange beak
testing, tasting the air

We were on the upper field, practicing plays
(I really hated practice;
didn’t care much for games, either.)
The incarnation of stupidity,

For years, I didn’t see the big deal,
16 ounces,
sugar cream and caffeine bouncing

sweet, tiny creatures
of leathery skin swift,
acting as
familiar as pets

palm trees
line the causeways,

He walked the streets
watching all of the pairs,
hand in hand,
strolling here and there

I so rarely just stepped outside
of the apartment house
(I left a lot, but rarely just stepped outside) ,
took in the day,

One day, I happened by 10’000 Villages,
a non-profit store of magical crafts,
and arts of love, dedication and humble skill,
created by impoverished peoples from throughout the world

Marc Mannheimer Biography

I am a mental health worker,43, from an upper-middle-class, Republican family. Not the makings of much creatively. But my main weakness is my main strength - I've been mentally ill for twenty years, and I've seen the black sludge at the bottom of the Gutbucket Pond in winter, so there's a little creative fodder there. Still, I generally like to write things that might give the reader a little smile.)

The Best Poem Of Marc Mannheimer

A Man's Dream

A house
of stone and glass,
built above the ocean,
reflects the sunlight
from fifty different points,
Its long, sleek lines
speak of power
and wit;
along the
it stands
in majesty.

He has built this house
It is the fulfilment of his dreams –
his dreams within this dream
(in waking he has not yet conceived of this house,
not even of the idea of being an architect) .

He stares,
wide-eyed and unbelieving
at his work,
at his craft.

A woman in a low-cut, black
black lace
her arms,
walks up toward him from the beach,
slowly, with certain
As she approaches,
he can see that
she holds
a scale,
a glass of red wine on one side,
and a dagger
balancing it out.

Her lips are full,
like the

'See? '
she motions to the scale,
'you have a choice! '
Her dark eyes laugh,
her smile crimps
at the corners.

He feels a longing
to reach up,
brush her lips
with the backs of his fingers

And then, a flash of white
falls across his field of vision,
for an instant -
A bird? An illusion?
The sleeve of a white gown?

He looks up at his home.
A smile lights his features,
and he wakes.

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