Two dozen Purity Roses.

The aroma embraces them
Like an aura.

Frederick hands them to
Five years ago.

Now she stares at his picture
While sipping watery iced tea.

And talking with their daughter
Whom they never had.

Something New and Hopeful

Pushed off the Mountain.
By the fierce wind.

Joey chased his kite,
Grabbed it,
Hid it behind the rocks.

Joey stood up to the wind,
Protecting his kite
From all comers.

As the last gust exhausted,
Joey’s kite rose
To the permanence of their
Flying through the sky


I do not expect you to understand.

Very few people can see
the clear blue in a field of bluegrass.

Or the blue – way back – behind a girl’s eyes
When her teenage man goes off to war.

Mother made blackberry cobbler

That Last night before Tom went off to war.

What we got back 4 years and 3 days later
Was a man with no arms and legs
Who opens his mouth to be fed.


Eventually in meditation
One sees the blank wall.

Not a vehicle for something,
Just a blank wall.
Then you are home.

You, a person, get up
From Meditation,
Drive the kids to school,
And wash the dishes.

The Study of Ego

The Ego
Is a Blackbird
In a Pitch Black Room

Pecking at itself
In a Mirror.

Marc Isaac Potter (we/they/them) …  is a differently-abled writer living in the SF Bay Area. Marc’s interests include blogging by email and Zen.  They have been published in Fiery Scribe Review,   Feral A Journal of Poetry and Art,  Poetic Sun Poetry, and Provenance Journal.  Twitter is @mocai01