The Olive Tree by Marc Alexander Valle

This piece was first published in NortheastPoetry Review 2020

The Olive Tree

I had a roommate in college that couldn’t understand it. His name was Frank and he’d walk in the room and find me sitting in bed, staring at the ceiling and the wall. He’d say, “How come you’re always just looking at the wall when I come in?” I wanted to tell him that I was actually staring at the corner between the ceiling and the wall, but I thought it wouldn’t matter. So I’d say nothing back.

I didn’t know what to say, and I couldn’t understand it myself back then. I would just lie there and think. In those years, I daydreamed a lot and I’d get very depressed, so it was probably a bit of both. But it really seemed to bother him on some level. It was the way he’d say it. Not with malice, but not jokingly either. Like he’d caught someone smelling their own underwear. In time, whenever I heard him approaching the door, I’d sit up and find something to do in order to look occupied.

Living with others forces us to be more self-conscious in a very uncomfortable way. Even if ‘living’ means living on Earth with co-workers and classmates and family and friends. We still have to walk on eggshells and look into what we think are other people’s mirrors. Even if it’s for a second. What a horrible encounter.  

I sat my ass in a nice chair today for 40 minutes with a cup of tea and stared at the wall, half-thinking and half-not-thinking at all. I hadn’t done that in a very long time. And when I did get to thinking, I finally thought of Frank and what he would say if somehow he walked in the room. Then it all came to me like a wild horse over a razor edge sand dune. Frank just didn’t understand. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

I exhaled and picked up my tea. A few drops pooled at the bottom. I lifted the cup and tilted it toward my mouth. I could taste one sweet drop, and I swallowed it down.

Sometimes the one thing harder than life itself is picking the right place to just sit. 

With or without a ceiling or a wall.

The Santa Poem by Marc Alexander Valle

(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.

Human Anagram: A Poem by Marc Alexander Valle

Human Anagram

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?

Phenomenon ©2016 by Marc Alexander Valle

*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,

exploding

inside of our hearts,

thinking how life really starts

without a beginning

and without our proud sinning

which makes us real hard

apart

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

fast

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.”

The Bargain by Marc Alexander Valle ©2015

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.

The Bargain

If what you see is what you get

and what you feel is what you fret

then what you’re dealing with is death.

Right?

But first,

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.

Why?

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,

non-stop

saying how life is good with a lot?

Maybe.

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