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

Autumn's Fiery Mantle

A sunset is a prophet, each reading a day’s triumphs and tragedies, stroking them over the canvas of the skies.

  

When the day settles,

and sun begins to part for the night,

it is you sweetly singing I hear.

The sun melts in the sky:

a cloak of many colors from a doting father.

The meld of the sun’s fiery departure,

spun itself in all colors into Egypt.

The world, with misgivings,

painted its darkness after sunset.

But I was a king of this world,

and the chalice of my wine

could incriminate whosoever I desired:

once a prisoner, now a prophet.

From my mantle of kindness, parts the

oil for his head, anointing every past hour.

Emily Isaacson

Beeswax Candle

Indian Summer 

melted chaos of death

and partings into order, the eventide of life.

One leaf fell across my path:

it was as a first note in a symphony of fire.

I was impressionable.

The trees melded with the cool

into an auburn unlike

the smouldering pit burnings of leaves,

the musty chaos and cries of children,

the soft beeswax candle melting upstairs.

It was eventide, dark was coming swiftly.

No longer afraid of my nightmares

as mistress of the manor—

through the upstairs window,

I let down my hair from its braid

and the lady’s maid combed

my tresses, laid out my dresses,

polished my shoes, and lit the hearth.

Emily Isaacson

Sun Over the Hillside

Go to the place that knows you, as an artist returns to their medium.

Take off for the fields—

let your skirts gather the wildflowers

where the circle of the sun meets the earth

and canters ’round its pasture.

Find that great horse of light

steadied beneath her hand,

a master painter’s impressionist

dewy breath into the morning’s fog.

She lifted her hand again,

a conjurer of ink and paint,

and the rays became a white stallion

with a mane of gold vermillion.

He appears when the light sears

through the cloud, thoroughbred and proud,

he gallops with the wind,

he stands at last light upon the field.

Emily Isaacson

Sweet Chestnut

She poured the water where her mind was deepest.

The solid sweet chestnut washstand

held the porcelain bowl

where she poured the water

and dipped her handkerchief.

The purity of grief

wiped her tears; where love 

would not suffice, and she could not go on,

there was hard work and wages.

Otherwise,

she would plunge down and down

under the waves

and her hair would surface first,

hemming about, with gold flecks

still in her seams, and sides.

The motherload would ring

in her shallows, and haunt her depths.

Emily Isaacson

The Vale from Wildflowers to Seed

Every woman who has both birthed and buried a child

knows grief from the inside out.

I took a brush,

and stoked the rose gold as a fiery ember,

painted the sweet scented way.

All through each vale,

and ripened meadow,

lithe with the lace of the fields,

I filled my straw hat to the brim

with watercolor wildflowers.

I meandered along in this life,

meaning to tell you how I felt

eventually, while you were

carried at birth,

with a soft downy head

like a seed pod blowing in the wind,

and again over the churchyard.

Your body, now aged, laid down.

Emily Isaacson

Vervain

A stream of fine perfume flows from the crystal decanters.

The forest threw back its evergreen shoulders

with a throaty laugh,

and I disappeared into its sun-drenched

shadowy fronds;

the ways of the streams

became the vervain pathways of my heart,

the moss became my blanket,

the ferns, my pillow.

I had left the reason behind

that I needed a brick and mortar home,

a fireplace, and a kettle.

For I was warm, in this missionary zeal,

beneath the branches of religion.

Only summer’s day could mend this;

no rain or snow could fall

and drive me back beneath the eaves.

Emily Isaacson

Nantucket

The moment of noon, when the sun was high, was summer’s cherished bounty.

I sat out on the point on a picnic blanket

and watched the kites high in the sky,

swooning, tasting the light;

children held the long strings whose

wind dancers fluttered with the currents.

The seagulls over the shore

gave a raucous cry of recognition,

and tried to fly as high as the break of color.

Two women sat on a bench in Nantucket

with a thermos of cold tea.

They were old friends, and had come here often.

The water and the green

were a soothing patchwork, lulling the point

into stupor on the warm afternoon.

“Let’s not forget this,” they said,

their memories catching each other by surprise.

Emily Isaacson

Vine Chorus

A name is a gift we carry through life, unlike a blessing of legacy.

How in singing, we are like thee

blessed Saviour, 
cherished as our eternal home, 

carried through life.

We follow you, as our shepherd

in the paths of your heart,

wandering no further than your crook

would lead us to drink.

Heaven awaits the children

who long after thee;

the vines entwine your door.

A father’s arms are open

to those who seek thee.

Your precious care of us

keeps us in this world.

Allelu, Alleluiah.

Emily Isaacson

Proverbial Awakening

The order of morning was the spring of the earth, papery with fragrance.

There were paper blossoms

on the spring trees

that lined the boulevard;

a woman pushed a baby in her tram.

An older woman turned her head,

but the moment of criticism had passed,

for babies in trams had been ordained 
by Queen Victoria, written meekly.

A pair of sweethearts strolled

hand in hand along the inner harbour

where a horse-drawn carriage passed,

his smile was a grin and her eyes were bright—

the color of sea water

when imbued by light at the horizon.

They were in the city of honeymoons, 
flowers, and bees—humming, entwining sweetly.

Emily Isaacson

Walnut

All things need to be cared for, and from birth to death, we are unprepared for the commitment of upkeep.

There was an inner rhythm,

unlike the seashore on a summer’s night,

and it caught me off guard—

I could touch the sand barefoot,

and reach the sky,

but my starched nightgown met my chin

and birth was something

I was unprepared for.

There was a blue plate with a fillet

and walnut ginger glaze,

only my silver spoons painted it

instead, dabbling in the acrylic, beguiling

the white empty space. And whenever

something appeared that had not been before,

it pained me to carry it from the outset

to its eventual death and metamorphosis.

Emily Isaacson

Masquerade

For we must all have reason; and reason will not leave us limitless.

There is no thief
that traverses the night by darkness;
he cannot find the door
to sell my wares.
My soul is no stale hind of rye,
no lime rind shall grace my table.
For I wear a mask in a masquerade,
and my gilded heart is beckoned

By a brass lantern—
the light that shines,
ever sweeping o'er the sea,
the light that shines on me—
lighthouse biding each ship obedience,
the gulf of night opening its dark mouth.
For we are only one step ahead
of the Filipino street child.

Emily Isaacson

Water Violet

The door to inspiration remains open as long as we cannot control.

Order the days, of thought, memory,

and nature: reap draughts of fresh inspiration

from the mahogany sideboard,

where the English china abides whitely

in the shallows.

Pour the Yorkshire tea 

and remembrance, the star quilt

of first birth.

Here, rare collections adorn

our minds, while our souls search

for elegant traditional recipes—

jubilee cake, cranberry scones,

and spice cookies.

The apron of authentic

cuisine repeats upon

our memory.

Emily Isaacson

Little Goose

The night comes softly, and tucks each little one under the eiderdown.

At last I have found you:

your hand-mirror framing curls,
the bright crinkle dress

shimmering like silk—

one of the gowns of a young princess.

In aqua and lavender

the sun melts over the hills,

dusty with the heat of day—

And then, with the moon’s advent

the necklace of beads

is lovingly placed

in an old jewelry box.

Through the window

I can see the wild goose garden

where the pond reflects

the house lights.

Kiss goodnight,

little goose.

Emily Isaacson

White Chestnut

Free the birds to prophesy; fly like a bird.

The feathery bars of a cage

pronounced order from the smoky chaos 

of fires on the hillside; call me home

and I’ll become a ray

that slips through the stark white bars

and disappears.

The moon rising in a half sliver

was red, and called me freedom.

I rose into the smoke and ash,

between the sun and the moon

as a pheasant would,

golden plumed,

primed to recall

all beauty for mourning

with a sweet voice, lilting trill:

no cage can hold this song.

Emily Isaacson