Some memories are small on the surface, but run deep through our lives. Do you have any of these memories of mom or a loved one?
(Feedback is welcome)
The Santa Poem
My brother told me that Santa doesn’t exist. He showed me where all the gifts were stashed. G.I. Joes were everywhere. I felt a thrill throughout my body. Finding that Santa doesn’t exist is a double-edged sword. Your childhood is almost over, but now you have the advantage in gift begging. You can manipulate your parents into getting you what you want, and now you have someone to blame when you don’t get it. I’ll probably lie to my kids about Santa if I ever have any. When they find the gift stash, I’ll still lie to them. One Christmas, our dad made us leave a can of beer for Santa. He said that he wanted to see if Santa would drink it. The can was empty in the morning.
by Marc Alexander Valle
Nice, quiet, smart.
People have told me this all my life. I don’t know how I feel about those words anymore. I used to hate them, but I think I’m making peace with the fact that I’ll never really get to shake them off.
Nice, quiet, smart. A combination that makes me a rare bird in this world.
Why do we hate being different when we’re younger?
Why do we need so much of the three A’s–acceptance, approval, admiration?
Why does it take so long to get to yourself when you have to live with yourself every day anyway?
The rare bird has few avian friends, but people love him and put him on stamps.
Now I just tried to make a metaphor where birds represent people, but I couldn’t figure what actual people represent in that particular metaphor. I cringed at every possibility, thinking of what readers would think of my writing. So I guess I’m not that rare a bird that embraces its uniqueness yet. I don’t know if we ever really get there in mid-life.
But wouldn’t that be cool to be on a stamp?
A poem I wrote that was filmed by Billy Mack at the Coffeehouse without Limits in Allentown, PA.
A poem written and performed by Mavthewriter (Marc Alexander Valle) at Coffeehouse without Limits in Allentown, PA.
A video poem written, performed and filmed by Mav The Writer. Feedback is welcome.
A video poem that I wrote, edited and performed in. All photos from pixabay.com
*A poem that I wrote 10 years ago. Also the image is mine, taken this year.
Cowards are those with nothing beautiful to share
except the scent in the air
that represents something
running our life in the ocean
despite this great notion
that we are all one
sitting inside a small sun
that’s void of emotion,
inside of our hearts,
thinking how life really starts
without a beginning
and without our proud sinning
which makes us real hard
from the fact that we gasp
as we run real, real fast
on our toes
and come to respect all our lows
in the past
and curt when we learn
from this yearning inside of our mind
that we tend to remind
ourself in concern
firmly, but curtly like a flower
since we’ve only the power to blurt
all that works
like when we say in these hours,
“Cowards are those with nothing beautiful to share.”
A piece from 10 years ago. I don’t see myself publishing it as I don’t feel that my work from back then is strong enough.
If what you see is what you get
and what you feel is what you fret
then what you’re dealing with is death.
I will say it twice
that karma is the weight of the universe
wearing a mask called ‘your life’
that knows there is no worse
than living on the blade of this knife
that is a gift or a curse
hanging on the roll the dice.
Second, back to the top:
The human heart’s yearning can not be stopped.
Cause we are who we are cause we are who we are.
What more do you need to see the stars?
The ones beyond the wrath of Mars.
Is it possessions you need
or to see someone bleed?
Is it to want what you watch
or is it a life without a blemish. . .a blotch?
Is it a dignified name?
Maybe to drive your foes insane?
Is it to justify your grudge?
To justify the verdict of who ever you judge?
And is that all we’ve got?
A complex knot,
saying how life is good with a lot?
But let’s suppose, just supposing,
that we were meant to go neither fast nor slow,
wisdom is loving what we’ve yet to know.
Let’s suppose we are toy soldiers
to gods, who push feathers and boulders.
And gods are merely metaphors
for a meaningful life when the weather pours
the world’s illusions after begging for more.
That would mean, greed is betrayal.
It’s what you decide to become when you fail.
to set sail
on the sea of your dreams. . .so you bail.
But this is what you call a hypothesis
and I am just an obnoxious twit,
who still believes that a Superhero-type God exists.
So I am not looking for converts.
Believe what you must and what you feel works.
But if you take any heed to this unproven theory
Then there is one more thing that I want to state clearly:
Choice is an extension of individuality
that, of course, comes with its own duality
where the world says, “I am your life’s totality,”
and the true self whispers gallantly,
“Know your heart and you shall know reality.”
by Marc Alexander Valle
Mixed Media Artwork by Marc Alexander Valle
by Marc Alexander Valle
She told my co-worker
that I was just in deep thought
after he asked why I don’t talk.
So often labeled ‘quiet’
that I started to get used to it.
She said that co-workers referred to her as a ‘dolt’
when it came to judging character.
But maybe she just needed a euphemism.
Like ‘deep thought’ for ‘odd’,
or ‘good-natured’ for ‘dolt’.
But I never said anything.
I was in too deep of thought
to realize that I should.