Books by Emily Isaacson are available at House of James, Hemmingway's, The Book Man, Better Buy Books, and other fine bookstores. 

Also at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online bookstores.

For more on the poetry of Emily Isaacson, or to order directly visit our publisher's booksite: Potter's Press

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The Blossom Jar 

A Familiar Shore 

Snowflake Princess

House of Rain

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Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.

–Helen Keller

Time stays only long enough for those who use it.

–Leonardo da Vinci

And all the loveliest things there be/Come simply, so it seems to me.

–Edna St. Vincent Millay

In solitude the mind gains strength and learns to lean upon itself.

–Laurence Sterne

It is while you are patiently toiling at the little tasks of life that the meaning and shape of the great whole dawn upon you.

–Philip Brooks

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods/ There is a rapture on the lonely shore,/ There is society where none intrudes,/By the deep sea, and music in its roar.

–Lord Byron

Home is not where you live, but where they understand you.

–Christian Morgenstern

The ability to simplify means to eliminate the unecessary so that the necessary may speak.

--Hans Hofmann

With an eye made quiet by the power/ Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,/ We see into the life of things.

–William Wordsworth

A wise man will desire no more than he can get justly, use soberly, distribute cheerfully, and leave contentedly.

–-Benjamin Franklin

The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson

Live simply that others may simply live.

–Mohandas Gandhi


Contact Us

The Wild Lily Institute

P.O. Box 3366

Mission, B.C.

V2V 4J5 Canada


New Poetry by Isaacson

A New Valley


While I was waiting here,

he conducted the symphony:

his head was wreathed in clouds,

he had climbed a mountain

and the air was thin, but there

was a message for him at the top.


He spoke of new beginnings,

a time for children to be born,

to be rosy-cheeked with health;

a time to plant the fields,

a time for new ideas,

and countries to be made over.


I bought a lavender farm:

its fragrance rolled off into the sunset,

I was emaciated

with reckoning, afraid to live

and unprepared to die,

unsure how to continue.


This is a new vein—

being extravagant, healing souls

with rough flowers,

gathering the bitters in linen,

now that the fear is over,

when we reach a summit

and dare not go on alone.


Holding hands is new oil

that flows through the valley

of San Jacinto,

where I dream and you speak:

the oratorio glistens with wealth—

of thoughts and revelation.

  —Emily Isaacson, Hallmark

From A Familiar Shore by Isaacson

Pisces Austrinus


The yellow tolerance of lemons

growing in the raw Californian heat;

sheltered in the branches,
accepting and informing the sunlight
to stay and ripen
what once was young
into a wrinkled smile.
Dot dot Botticelli—the artwork of the masters
are the lemon half-moons
glowing and drowning in my glass,
tart and spring water-fresh:
my mouth is a canvas
of tastes and textures,
my whipped meringue
is the steady hand of white acrylic.



A green-eyed patience stares at
the almost-winter hazelnut trees,
the reticent tap beneath the spring;
today comes swiftly as the wind,
yesterday parts as the autumn-parched leaves,
tomorrow will fulfillment bring,
a chance tryst beneath the sister pines,
where mother moon shines merrily
through the drought of clouds,
too long without the linen rain—
flying, a low angel over the fields.
The shadow world shifts
its black and white ellipsis
into beaded wild grasses, burrs
in the change of time and blackberry blossoms.



The joy of blue glass,
the vase, the bowl,
tinted and shaded as the sky,
with sister stars, the anise
and cardamom pods,
in constellations of pungent sweetness.
Tomato seeds,
ready to grow
in the dialect of soil,
and the potter’s directives
a warm hum of life-giving words
enameled over the silence
of neglect and starvation.
A pail of well water,
transparent and authentic.



The goodness of a purple crinoline
as a ballet measure, to the barre with graceful limbs,
ready to debate the radiance, as a dark fruit
takes in the sun, sanguine as a dancer in leotard:
an equitable fit for a mysterious woman
with a vivacious postmodern congruity
as her mandate, seeking a revered vision,
a courage angel standing, arms out, insensible—
the bluntness a prohibition, and aureole
refusing the dross with eagle-eyes.
She is desirous, faintly yearning, learning to dance.
What permanence she dreaded
became the equanimity of composure.
Singing as we are sung to, loving as we are being loved,
with each abating faculty, unfettered.

--Emily Isaacson, A Familiar Shore



The Wildings



Foliage and the violet orchards

flowered and picked,

the folded and faded variety:

preserving traditions

with old jam.


Fields of fruit,

from Kent to Cambridge, vigor— 

a strawberry flavor, the most

English of all.

Linen Press


The pots, upside down

and brown

holding earth, as we

dry the moss and lichen,

a decorative accent.


The hot water

on the pot-bellied stove,

a twenty-minute endeavor:

the basins, for snow-pure

sheets, socks, and scarves

hanging in the breeze.




an engraved charcoal flight,

the ancient Romans

on the isle of wings:

the pigeonholes, laced

antique boots, leather-brown,

and monarchs converging

on wild asparagus.


The tiny white flowers

in a mother’s apron:

freesia an ointment

from the 17th century onwards,

chimneys, a soot-tainted

handkerchief, and

a wreath over the door knocker.



Pots and pans

in a quiet space,

small head, with one

moment’s wish;

cloth towels to wipe away

smears, and a wild goose lake

where the blue stains.


Hand mirrors,

silver, ivory, and ebony,

with chaste and embossed

flowers: wreaths, ribbons, and bows;

in the hedge, small wildings

heckling the wrens.

The Gardener 


The water can,

silver-blue and rain

falling into hay barrels;

the clouds, a thick lining

against Portugal’s clavier.


An indent per daffodil,

and weather-worn ladder

for the garden shed,


under a tangle.


Blackbirds, blossoms,

redwings, and fieldfares

join in after the frost.



Apples, no two alike,

from old cores,

grown among the verges.


Hidden deep in the woodland,

its seeds a jumble

for foxes, pies, and cider,

the crab apple dons its apron.


From pollen to blossom,

field to field:

woodpeckers, nuthatches,

and thrush nesting mistletoe

in the old apple wood.



Pondering through the boughs,

barrier to wind or stock,

the wildings

in the Welsh uplands,

pink with blossoms:

weighted down with

small green spheres,

the autumn, a hidden tryst

with light:

ripening a tune.


One apple for three thorns,

pips, as hedgerow root stock,

and graft a twig

from morn to moon.


--Emily Isaacson, The Fleur-de-lis