Emily Isaacson - Company Message

Arioso of Virtues

"Virtue has honesty as its trademark, and loveliness as its hallmark." 

                                      Emily Isaacson


The kindness of gold on white
the polish of its reclaim,
the stream from which it flows
within the mind,
the mountain from which it is mined,
when all within us is hounded
for a virtue, of the hero’s
worth delivered, his noble speech—
the precipitate of such smooth worth
opposing all malice,
against cruelty as cowardice,
the cross forever in its setting of zircon-like valor
and nature’s coincidental applause;
the pause with all silence
and the final wave from solitude.

The purity of silver on white,
an attentive pursuit of contrast,
the polished spoon at each place setting,
and ray of each firmament cloud,
the house no gore will pierce
in its heroine of the hour, poet
of the meek and modest, lowly;
no superfluous gesture of the wealthy
is a blow to stealth of the midnight thief—
the hysterical notion of the candlestick’s demise
casting tarnish at each step,
the shadows of its slander
no decoration of virtue
and nature’s boisterous clamor
is now the silent moment
before a house of cards.

The chivalry of bronze on white
rising to salvation
in humility, the sword upon a stage,
and the earth a cycle of gestation,
with spring rising from where winter meets its death—
the heroine blossoms, painted as the lips of a tree
speaking virtue to the sky and streets,
gesturing without apathy in articulated
splendor, capturing summer’s brave end
as the light fades its branches,
opposing its brightness,
reddening its leaves
and applauding the gloss as they fall,
pausing just before the ground—
autumn’s farewell before repose.

The vintage dignity of copper on white
I was in a melancholic mood
and forgot to visit color my world
before I painted the wall,
a rising gray barrier
between East and West,
the graphite on a page
no altriustic response
to the festering shame
of negligence,
the disparity of governments,
and my despondent constitution
concluded with the wall
in pieces,
and a diagnosis for liberty.

The fortitude of iron on white,
a loamy intimation,
voices to introduce the empire
which rises steadfast and immortal
out of an ocean of constellations,
a proverbial shore of seastars
from the cadence of bladderwrack;
mitigating against stoicism,
dancing on waves of brine,
thirsty in the wake of control—
the almost corpse escapes
without aperture,
in a clamor of windchime songs.
Then silence… the quiet lingers,
and the mansions are filled with the dead.

The delicate healing of clay on white
its traversing through the divine iris, kinetic
from messianic earth,
laced throughout the cosmos,
deep within the ground:
the teacher smeared clay over
a blind man’s eye,
nobility over poverty in a gesture
of compassion to capture
the very essence of miracle and its opponent death,
hell pitted its cowardice against virtue,
the life from which it came,
the murmurings of a crowd
gave pause in the soaring heat,
rising into the atmosphere.

Emily Isaacson