Last chances grown dim,

And lust cringed, for I my soul,

Had no conquest.

To brown-clear cider

In blustery kegs,

The pomander’s simmer

And baby blue eggs.

Be of the light

For, always, sail 

And twice, move. 

  Emily Isaacson

The tempting ideals,

The chocolate in its wrapper,

And I in my dressing gown.

Moments from affliction’s source

And first, the shedding of the breath,

O thirst unsatisfied.

And in its seasons, turn,

The leaves to crimson

And the dawn to sage. 

     Emily Isaacson

Circling, in an arc,

O pensive souls:

Repeating only the grafted grey-blue,

As seagulls do, cry.

Riveting the far-away lands

With verse and poets unbeknownst.

Shall we find our passage, find our doom.

Shall we find India, at starboard ? 

     Emily Isaacson