Biography of Marc Mannheimer
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.
Marc Mannheimer's Works:
A small chapbook of poems, As He Supports You From Within, put out in early 2008, and one put out in 2009, She Heals with a Word. Poems published in the Doubting Thomas Quarterly, the Lakewood Observer, and the Cleveland Reader, and online @ messymagazine and Deep Cleveland Junkmail Oracle.
Marc Mannheimer Poems
A Man's Dream
A house of stone and glass, built above the ocean, reflects the sunlight
How She Got The Blues
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 Good
Some tears taste like pure, clear spring water, despite the salt, and despite the fact that you know
my hands all over these words,
I long for recognition, kudos for my poetry, kind words for my song, for my story
After my last haircut, I took the mirror which my barber gave me, checked over the work,
Red-orange, plump, orange-yellow orb, sitting on a nest of treetops, treetops spreading tall
little sparrow, feathery frumper, flitting feet over rock, over rifts
Trace A Malady
Trace a compulsion back to its roots the genesis of a mental/behavioral malady, a kink, a spanner in the works of ones functioning.
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
Same View, Different Me
I so rarely just stepped outside of the apartment house (I left a lot, but rarely just stepped outside) , took in the day,
He walked the streets watching all of the pairs, hand in hand, strolling here and there
Pineapple-topped palm trees line the causeways, geckos
sweet, tiny creatures of leathery skin swift, acting as familiar as pets
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
But I was very young
and the surety of my “knowledge”
kept me from hearing
what I needed to hear