On The Wings Of A Falcon

 What we hunt for is what we desire most.

The lords went hunting

early on the wings of a falcon.

There were the whinnies

of the two chestnut horses,

then the bays of the hounds.

The hunting horn sounded.

The sun went dark behind a cloud.

They plunged into the wood.

Following the old trail,

the two hares disappeared

and the dogs circled disappointed;

but later, as they approached the pond,

there was the view beneath them,

and they avidly became hunters

of both memories and laughter,

of the best of times and the worst of times.

 Emily Isaacson

From Castle and Cottage

An early poem, inspired by Victoria Magazine.

In the mist of snow

at midwinter,

Christmas-red running

down the candles,

stars white and breathless

at the sparkle of lights

on snow

and icy silver.

Pontresina

rosy lilts,

bright-clothed

in the embroidered flowers

of tradition,

light and warmth

to the pealing alpine valley.

Where the true color

of a thousand years

scratched, lingers,

children joyous singing

we chase the winter away

and coals

are the brightest, sweetest light.

Allelu…

March the streets, ringing.

Emily Isaacson

Arbour

When love for life is a flight from reality,

then promote honesty and natural behaviour.

With the illusion of a happy make-believe world,

and a blooming wood to replace conflicts,

the mask of the carefree covered the boy’s eyes,

the arbour of clematis flourished, as a miscast actor.

His deep fear of tin artificiality

and hidden inner discord

kept him in essence seeking glycerine cedar soap

and chocolate-covered almonds in a gift box.

With both a pronounced sensitivity

and a strong need to be happy—

in the most natural way possible,

the boy defused problems by accepting

them as part of life and making the best of them.

Critical situations float harmlessly past him now,

while each song he sings bolsters the spirits of others,

nonchalant in the face of the repression.

Emily Isaacson

Holly and Hawthorne

An early poem, inspired by Victoria Magazine.

In this season,

wreathed with garland and velvet,

listen…

To the hushed falling

of Christmas stars in the dark,

dusting the mistletoe

with icy silver;

be rich and warm in the

firelight and evergreen:

crimson, emerald, and gold,

radiant in the arabesque of time.

Be joyous, shining,

as the childlike voices of starry carol

walk

whispering

into the morning…

O Immanuel,

O Immanuel, come.

Emily  Isaacson

Steeping Tea

Early on, the oils poured themselves from the

heart of the Divine Mother into the prophet.

The fauna of the Divine Mother

was a rising neckline of moons;

the soft starlit road, a pearl necklace.

The prophet followed each jade beaded

glimmer of her woodland broach—

the river ran blue in her veins,

a well of tested alkalinity

was the depth of her well arranged soul.

It was the wood and the mother who taught her

to gather the edible plants, to live outdoors;

salmonberries and nettle, comfrey and cedar,

simmer-sear the herbs, boiling,

the deep throated growl of the wilds untamed—

but the mother was always near,

dimmer-dear the call of the steep forest paths,

infusing mint to oils over the fire in a glass bath.

Emily Isaacson 

Promène

An early poem, inspired by Victoria Magazine.

September’s verdant view:

light translucent through the

still green and

sun-fire-lit leaves;

country paths followed

in search of my wildflower wish,

out of sun-playful days

into the cool.

Fruit swells sweet,

where mellowed heat

now tends to summer’s garden,

and apple-smooth tendrils of

bottle-green vine

climb to shadow…

Out of my window,

I watch the skylarks dive

and feed on ruby stead.

In fields,

we climb the slopes

of black-eyed susans

and render back

those oft-loved autumn days,

where song of summer’s heart

still lingers.

Emily Isaacson

Gold and Innocents

The most powerful force in the world is deception.

There was a golden

aura around the earth,

a pure carat wealth,

the mother of all metals.

She hid her deposits of ore in stone,

and the river wound away,

carrying glittering waters

from its motherload.

At that time, the earth was innocent

and pure: only a garden between two lovers.

But evil entwined itself between them,

as a serpent bent on deception.

Lust for gold would grow in men’s hearts,

and they would drive their oxen,

lighting fires under them, to press them

on through the treacherous pass.

Emily Isaacson

Aspen Game

The essence of courage aids against foreboding,

guiding our subconscious.

With foreboding, they played “Farmer in the Dell.”

A sensible child, she stood in the middle.

The five year old girl with an active imagination

continued the song long after it had stopped.

Intuitively, she knew more about rhymes

than the average person,

and could predict when they would sing again.

On warm afternoons, someone would become the cheese.

She had an inspiration to interpret

their varied meanings, the occasional slights,

the looks, and the sing-song

“roses are red, violets are blue.”

She knew no fear. Her deep-rooted

sense that all are safe filled her

with optimism—the aspens shook in the wind,

gazing into the iris of her existence and fate.

Emily Isaacson

Come June

An early poem, inspired by Victoria Magazine.

Come June,

I’ll find my place

in the sun—

weathered wicker swing

caressing wearied limbs

with evensong,

under the blossoms and

promises of summer:

sweet lemonade

wreathed with mint

gracing my tongue,

and laughter

silvering the breeze.

Emily Isaacson

Diamond Door

There is a multifaceted existence that allows us to believe

more than one thing at a time.

There is a Victorian door of thought

you must pass through,

to decorate the lofty ornate rooms,

and arrange the blooms

from floor to ceiling

with inspiration,

wafts of cedar and balsam rise limitless;

now, hang the snowflakes a child made

to the ceiling by a theocratic thread,

and watch the genius stroke of wide brush,

as snowflakes fall like milky fairies from the sky.

Is the galaxy a mineral,

a plant, or an animal?

Atheists believe it to be a metal,

Buddhists believe it to be a plant,

while Christians believe it to be a person.

The moment earth was visible,

was the moment at which the person said:

“Let there be light,” and the diamonds

(each facet said “light!”)

appeared beneath the earth’s stones

and caves to symbolize covenant.

Emily Isaacson

The Puppeteer

The clock ticked at three when two women

entered the room, one dark, one fair.

Take your brush, put aside Gaudi—

the cupboard swung open to the artist’s palette.

Scurry across the page in shades of sage,

obliquely color the moon,

temper the threads of the puppets,

dancing their rage this way and that,

cajole the rhythm of life into color and paint,

acrylic, paper nubs—or puppet’s snubs.

The dark-haired woman sat in the waiting room,

in a large red dress with leather shoes;

as she sang and smiled to herself,

I asked her what she did.

“I am a puppeteer,” she said.

Then at last a door opened,

and a nurse called for her

to take her injection in the next room.

Emily Isaacson

Forgotten Raspberry

Gleaning what is left of the harvest is an old art to the poor.

Really, more should come

from me—more time on my hands—

to pick the raspberries swelling

under the beech trees

into ripe blisters of nourishment.

The juice runs down

my son's face. He is only five, but already

he knows a ripe raspberry is his favourite.

He passed by the row of canes,

icy and silent in the winter once.

He stretched his small hand,

and saw one small left-over berry,

petrified by frost. Scavenged by a tiny palm,

with the hope that there would be raspberries now,

or a drop of blood would fall to the snow

and turn into a forgotten raspberry.

Emily Isaacson

Songwriter’s Sky

Songstress come out into the open; piece together the scars.

  

Nature was my living room,

sky was my glass window,

she breathed in and out

with the cloudy wind.

The firs rustled a melody line—

spruce needles, my harmony bed,

the stream, my rhythmic water faucet.

The company tilted the mist

over the cedar trees

and they were cut down, sawed,

and turned into sheet music.

A man stood watch

over the valley;

his childhood was pieced

together in scars,

his only obedience to order was

to ride on without worldly goods

until the song—

“I am not without pain,

I am not afraid of pain,”

resounded over the falls.

“I’ve got your heart in my back pocket,” said sky.

Emily Isaacson

Art Stacked Against These Walls

Increase faith in our process over fear of our failure.

Of all starving artists,

I was most content to be

poor, to own nothing in this world,

save the art stacked against the walls,

the life-sized paintings of Bohemian women.

My artist’s loft held uncertain

ruminations of pen and page,

the scripts of playwright, actor, and director.

I watched the luminaries

parade by with their advice

beneath my window; they were promising

and exacted their arts and sciences

as a woman compels her child

to perform with finesse, with

a futuristic style that promised

wearing a top hat, a cape, and procuring a rabbit.

Emily Isaacson

Raspberry Cordial

The bravery required to rise, and that all may have the opportunity,

is something of the New World.

The new cordial: a summer berry wine,

pristine and clairvoyant,

buoyant and effervescent with a zany tang.

She hit the floor running,

bracing her heels to ice dance—

warming her audience to heartfelt applause.

Her tea was velvet,

her dress, black sequins.

The icing of life was a fairy tale ending

to the beginning of tulle and magic wands;

only a raspberry cake would suffice for this party,

with a carefully plucked cordial rose.

She sat on the mahogany chaise,

never wavered in confidence for the crown

of silver cloud linings and imperfect landings,

over demi tasse discussing triple axels.

Emily Isaacson

Seamstress

Resolve to endure until the reward comes for your labours.

I was the seamstress

of Clayburn village,

sewing in serenity

from morning, deep into the night.

I made my living,

never you mind,

but I made it with every stitch

that continued by candlelight.

Not one to be discouraged,

I was never more alive than when

the wedding dress of early love

was embroidered with symbol

and hemmed to perfection.

It was the groom who rose

with the morning and

lit the sky over the roses.

Emily Isaacson

Harbour

Each ship at sea has a personality all its own.

The sea swept along

the harbour wall,

an immense gray symphony

conducted by the hand of grace

and pattering of feet along

the sand; shore

buffeted its rage with salty fury

pounding sanguine spray.

I was self-controlled

as a harbour wall,

doted on by ships,

dotted with translucent sails,

their handkerchief-white vessels

dabbing salty tears in the blooming

undersea garden. Toward austere

foreign journeys.

Emily Isaacson

Salmonberry Ore

A man must find his destiny in life, even follow his dreams.

I stand in the dust

before sunset.

I am caked with sweat,

beaded with light,

and the valley's eerie parting sight

has illumined and left me alone.

My palms are lined

with doing good, without reward.

But I have no recourse if I fail.

It is just me,

a man against the savage elements,

the north.

Metal is my most desired gift,

and most frightening ore,

shaking scarlet gold

as a salmonberry in my pan.

Emily Isaacson

Spring Door

The new day will always be the awakening of new thought.

Here, I dwelt on earth, but heaven was imminent.

The road continued as an amber

wake of cobblestones

through villages of lace.

A flow’r of morn

entwined through the lattice,

I smelt the light,

I felt the warmth.

As a young girl from

her white fresh pillow,

I arose from the ground.

It was the Lavender spray

I diffused into the room

as an activist of women’s rights.

When women had the right to vote,

I would sleep late.

Emily Isaacson

Red Chestnut Tree

The red chestnut speaks of a pathos released into productivity.

What ring of time

gives significance to planetary measures,

spinning reason

as white gold, like a wreath

of natural solidarity and commitment

to eternal realms beneath your branches.

My child and I took hands under the red chestnut tree

then walked along the roadside.

Her heart was a cloistered contemplation,

mine, a despairing tear, welling

up from pathos.

Could I really worry anymore

that I would not find my way

along this mercy road?

The sweet peas waved

their bonneted heads.

Emily Isaacson

Garden Parchment

Winter’s garden, with its glittering stars, icicles, and frost

became the evening where we gazed into the sky.

Shine, earth, shine

with icy furor

at the evening of my soul,

and the end of my life.

For I have lived many a year,

and now I have turned white

as the winter,

my hair of organza wreathed

with dried papery roses,

wrinkled as a frozen parchment

beneath the snow.

The last frost I saw

kept the colour of a leaf burgundy,

and iced it like a cake ready for the tea,

the sky was dark and tumultuous

as Earl Grey,

the clouds were my line of teacups,

striped, flowered, and fired pottery,

the falling snow onto my lace doily,

patterned

the chocolate road

with powdered sugar.

Emily Isaacson