Door to the Sea

Find the door early in life that will lead you into your future.

Stand in the sand—

meet the vast ocean in your bare feet

where the relentless salt waters the shore

pounding it in forgiving rhythm.

Washing my soul this way

with tide pools left behind,

archiving hermit crabs

in miniature mother-of-pearl spirals.

All that she claimed as sacred in her life,

are as the artefacts for a future art gallery.

As a child, she collects the rocks,

shells and seaweed of the shore for her museum;

seastars are the lights of Stella Maria.

Later, as a gallery attendant, she leads us on a tour

of the museum of human life, its first conception

through final breath and beyond. 

Emily Isaacson

Entrance of Wild Oat

The discovery of a foreign land is as discovering the country within you.

While I was waiting for you,

sitting in the entrance,

the halls hushed,

I heard the sound of a bell,

tip-toes clicking on the marble floor,

then you appeared, with lips like satin

and skin bronzed, with slanted eyes.

I stood at salute, while you bowed.

Here was a gift from me to you;

a watering of a stone

from many journeys.

When you saw my grand pianoforte,

your curiosity placed one hand

upon its keys, which sounded the note.

Resonating on, as a noctilucent cloud,

we would transcend.

Emily Isaacson

1800's Rival

The sun and moon are rivals. The present life and the afterlife rival each other also. My name in Latin means rival.

The creaking burnished door to life

named her Rival—

and every woman who looked on the child

glowered white until their eyes grew dark.

She blew the dandelion in seed,

wishing, wondering, wanting—

The fairer life of the meadow

met with the mountain’s shadow.

Hoping for things not to be hoped for—

her 1800's purse was black with gold tassels—

believing in things not to be believed in—

on her velvet dress was the beaded bodice.

Forever gone, holding on—

opaque moon and golden sun rivalling—

present life and afterlife rivalling—

the dream of time gone by.

Emily Isaacson

Wild Rose

Make one's way in the world, from the very childhood that enclosed you in a place of dreams.

Follow the river’s edge

where the wild red rose

and dark horsetail grows,

follow the impulse—

on earth, the mountains of stars

can be watched

on a flat rock that

would destroy all my apathy.  

Don’t resist the moon-watered rock,

capturing and controlling

my stony unimpressed eyes,

with the inspiration not to run,

but to enclose my spirit, to re-live,

to breathe deeply

from my lungs

into the morning.

Emily Isaacson

Ginger Lily Needlepoint

Antiques are the haunts of yesteryear.

The solid walnut narrow chest of drawers

contained the treasures of Victorian time:

ginger lily needlepoint spoke

of painstaking measures;

a velvet autograph book,

enamelled with its signatures

of well-wishers and sweethearts, rose

and fell with the swoons of youth.

There lay a pile of faded photographs,

children without smiles,

spinster women in black, and men with top hats.

In velvet, a set of vintage silver teaspoons

and sugar tongs tarnished with neglect,

an antique fan aged, embossed with memories

and pewter swirls; a pocket watch,

precisely stopped at half-past nine.

Emily Isaacson

The Willow Tree

The mother lifts her child up to the light.

Beside the path, where

I wandered, there grew

the crocuses, gold and lilac—

early morn had invited them

and not hindered their bud,

they called me mother...

A bloom under

the willow bent with years.

Where the knarled branches

lift us to paradise,

closer to the sun and moon,

high in their ethereal limbs,

I let my child climb—

youthful and questioning

of nature’s realms and heaven’s glory,

of the rising from decay.

Emily Isaacson

Victorian Portrait

At times we hold a paint brush for a self-portrait,

then are captured by another’s face.

The vanity mirror over the bonnet chest

hunted my image, creating a self-portrait,

and choraled my maze of human emotion

into the glassy eyes with fringed lids,

bossy curls, nomadic hairline,

purling mouth, with teeth like

knitting needles,

clickety-clack, purl, purl.

My scarf of faith had the same quality

of seven church services, only more colourful,

with wool singing an hymn

of having once been carded, spun,

and dyed. Now the lamb saw

her practical purpose, in giving

of the fleece that would start white as snow,

then drift into other bright-hued shades.

Emily Isaacson

Winding Road

The road, as a ribbon, wound through my hair.

The fury of life

is depicted in its fortes,

unleashed by its powers,

drawn up from within—

while others hesitate

you roar from the desert,

kinetic eyes staring into the sun,

mimetic at an oasis of finery.

The wallpaper climbed like a vine,

and you were its flower;

in iris hues, warm and delicate,

you rebirthed prestige

from within a silver frame,

wore each bud,

and named each child

after you.

Emily Isaacson