Bringing In The Sheaves

Willful, and of the roots
of a great tree,
from every continent,
they shall, singing,
converse with the morn.

Seeing how they were, captives,
freed, and in their prime
harvested from earth’s mortal
snare and the toil of sweat.

Here, they shall be of one love
to rival youth, and the fortune
of the rich.

The poor shall gather in their arms
a woman of finest comely
gesture, and on a stage as a ballet,
she shall bring the ancient sheaves
to a royal coronation.

Emily Isaacson



Olive Tree

Syrian Pear


Yellow Wild Pea

Star of Bethlehem

Sea Daffodil

Sour Cherry

Rose of Sharon

Rice Millet

Jerusalem Buttercup

Acacia tree

The flora & fauna of Israel show its remarkable beauty in all seasons.
Israel has a beautiful legacy, as the country of the Jewish race and deserves to be protected: both spiritually and physically.
From the place of Jesus' birth to the founding of a world wide religion that has for its liturgy a bestselling book: The Bible... this country had appeared in the news recently as the country that Canada protects. These allies align as Jerusalem becomes the focus of the end times, the city in which Christ was crucified.


Queen Anne's Lace

The story tells us
of a Queen in a royal garden ...
and her riveting court:
to equate justice and liberty

to remind us to hope

for a future

that builds on dreams

and writes


House of the Rose
The wild carrot flower
grew in the royal garden,
and the Lady of Denmark,
consort to the King,
was an expert lace maker.

She challenged the court ladies
to create their best lace,
in the fine and dainty
fashion of the garden flower,
antique white.

No one could rival
the Queen Anne’s handiwork,
so fair and lovely
was her pattern: as the white
florets of her lace collar.

As the legend says,
she pricked her finger
and a single drop of blood
fell in the center, coloring it purple
and so it remains to this day.
Emily Isaacson


A Tapestry of the North

Something is always
simmering on the black stove
and in the journal of time;
she wrote of
the shining northern purity
of a female icon—
love and sincerity
in the figurative,
stargazing in the field,
weeping at transgression:
the sorrow of her eyes,
the sweetness of her mouth—
Stretched on a loom,
the huge white cloth
of the North;
we were the threads,
short and long,
our ways
stretched across it.

North as a place
in the mind
where a safe house
with a much-needed

Blackcap and
red huckleberry,
nettle and fern,
cascara, buttercup,
burnished hazelnut,
and red rose hips.

Indian plum
in an open wood,
dandelion suns dotting
the wild grass,
and coltsfoot,
inhabiting the shaded ground
of the river bank.

The trailing blackberry
wound its way
along the neck
of the forest;
its purple-seeded harvest
a steeped nectar
over the fire.

A dreamer of the North,
of wind, of fire, and of water,
like a lodge overgrown
with moss,
behind the Northern
lights, beyond a wall of mist:
his footsteps
walking down,
his walking stick, aligned,
to see the bears cross the sky,
to see the ladle of the stars;
like night sounds,
slow across the
about to fall…
they give themselves
to his arrows.

The imagined mirror
of time and plenty
where the green waters
gave forth a harvest
to last the winter.

The driftwood
peopled the shore
and surf pounded
a breaking rhythm.

To walk the sands
of time,
both past and future:
to find the eternal song.

Legend carried us far,
an island tapered
by wild winds
and wildflowers.

in the pale light
over the tundra,
the tall grass in the meadow,
at the coming

thyme, rosemary,
and marjoram
brightened with
the flowers
of indigo petals and
yellow goldenrod;
a silent prayer
upon the altar
of peace.

Corn and beans,
squash and savory;
like mist over the plains,
Three Sisters Stew
a staple of the North,
and Indian stature
of wombs with eyes
to gaze into the
heart of earthly and
each child
a new planet
into the constellation
of sun, wind, and tears.

of the Arctic Inuit,
blooming round
the cabin door,
a stream to cloak the
Northern star,
nursed in a pine cone.

We are as flowering dogwood
and Nootka rose,
planets moving
through the night
lens of milky universe,
transient as the seasons pass
without appeasement,
at the mercy of the storm.

Yet now,
I have completed
a measurable act:
I have built a home
in the wilderness,
where the beams,
warm with the smoke
of a hearth-fire,
are hung with elk
and bear,
dried sorrel and madrona;
maize and beans
dot the soup
with gold stars
in the spring sky.

--Emily Isaacson


The Fleur-de-lis

"When Aurias comes stately home,
and banners of the sea doth fly...."

THE FLEUR-DE-LIS, dedicated to Prince Willam

This book featuring the stylised lily as main character will be released March 29 and is in three volumes.

In the movie Legend, starring Tom Cruise, there were two characters, Lily and Jack. In this book, there is a section called Legend, based on the movie, and Lily is the narrative voice of the childlike Empress writing to C.S. Lewis.

I am now just finishing up the publication of this book of poetry with Tate for its release early next year.

I started by burning all my poems, before I left on the road of life, thinking I couldn't take then with me. Then after I was awake nights, I began writing all my poems down one by one. The ones I remember off by heart are in this book in the Oracle of the Stone. The rest I have composed since then, over the last six years.

Finally comes the poet . . .  Starring Emily Isaacson and Joe Armstrong
in over 800 poems and prose.

Two poets corresponding with a monarch, deep in thought.

Yours Truly,



Girl in Beacon Hill Park

Beacon Hill Park, by Emily Isaacson {sepia}

I took this photo in remembrance of a story of a young girl who was photographed in Beacon Hill Park in about the 1960's. She could not walk, and wore a brace, was wheeled about in a wheelchair. At her insistence, when the aunts who cared for her finally let her out of her chair to swing on the swings with the other children, she was healed, and was able to walk. They took her picture in front of the flowers, and well... when the photo was developed, it held not the girl in black and white, but the face of Christ.

I saw the photograph for myself when I visited an elderly woman at nine years old, and it was such a miracle that have remembered it ever since.

In every photo I took, starting here in Beacon Hill Park, with my husband at the time who was paralysed from the waist down, sitting on a park bench... I attempted only to catch a glimpse of the master's face.

Somehow the transcendent will appear, it will make itself known, if not through a photograph, through the ordinary progression of life as we choose to serve those who can't repay us.

In poverty of spirit,



Consulting The Oracle

The practice of divination as a means of aquiring direction and knowledge has been practiced from before medieval times, in fact, the sacred means of aquiring wisdom are mentioned several times in the old testament of the Bible. The stones Urim and Thummim are used by the priesthood as lots, to divine the direction to take in their leadership of the people. These stones are also mentioned in the book 'The Alchemist', a story about a young Andalusian shepherd boy named Santiago who is seeking his life's treasure. Whether God reveals to people the future remains a question in this book ... "God only rarely reveals the future. When he does so, it is only for one reason: it's a future that was written so as to be altered." The boy learns to recognize and respond to omens as a means of communication between himself and the spiritual world.
How the spirit world communicates with man is a lesson that is learned over a lifetime, and to be successful in the spirit world is not necesarily of the things that make one rich in a worldly sense. What is your spiritual identity, and your role in a spirit world that is invisible and dependent on capturing the eyes of your heart and your imagination?
Some find that answer in religion, but religion without the creativity of love and application of its precepts is a dead church. When we examine the spiritual world along with nature, and the beauty that God has placed around us in music, dance, art, writings, and prayer we find a mosaic that is bound together by love and trust, that resonates in response to good character and morality. To sing a song you must remember it, so it is written on your heart. In the Bible they told young men to write the words of God on the tablet of their hearts. This speaks of a tradition of leadership based on theology, handed down over centuries to become the integrity of today.
It must be said that Christianity is rarely in favor of divination, and condemns this idea in the Bible as occult, but instead reverts to a relational means of aquiring direction and wisdom, to be friends with the Creator is to receive positive instruction. It depends on the written word of biblical instruction, pastors and leadership to guide and direct people who are said to be like sheep.
The Oracle by Emily Isaacson, is an inspired book written by a modern day poet and prophet. It is one of five books in the collected work 'The Fleur-de-lis', coming to bookstores this December. This may be a book that can provide direction and wisdom, opened to any page, as it was written for the guidance of one particular person and people group in the face of contemporary and very secular society. Dedicated to Prince William and the First Nations, it has five poetry selections in three volumes, written to recapture the spirit of a nation in peril: her homeland Canada.
'The Fleur-de-lis' enters with The Laurel Wreath , which is 222 poems in 22 sections: St. Augustine's formula. From beginning to end, it tells of human nature and our part in refining the soul for the spirit's benefit; in a postmodern sense it may be a revolution against the modern world, and contradictory to modern thought. However, it paints the poet's diametrically ordered and established world, offers perspective and waxes philosophic over poetic. With rarely a meter or rhyme, the poetry is like modern day song that superceded the hymn and hymnal.
Very Truly,
[Painting: Consulting The Oracle, by J.W. Waterhouse]


Carpe diem

Seize the day, or Gather ye rosebuds while ye may...
take care to realize your destiny, training to achieve your full potential. Practice your scales, stand at the barre, twirl your baton, swim your laps. Everything is useful for self-discipline, in the grueling pace and race of life.
From the moment your alarm goes off in the morning until your head hits the pillow at nighttime, recite each moment as having meaning: in the way of the Celtic tradition, having a soul and the substance of a prayer. When we couple the daily monotonous events and rituals of life, sometimes menial, forever repetitious, with song and prayer, the moments become sacred and cherished. The essence of relationship forms, with both the divine nature, and those around us.
Music is composed note by note, understanding is built word by word, transcendence is reached prayer by prayer. And a home is built on good memories and cherished moments with the people we love and care for. When we gather them as rosebuds, we have a bouquet to adorn the table, a jar of potpourri, a fragrant perfume, a drawer sachet.
People enjoy the sea, yet they are cautious of her power, her unceasing rhythm, her roar of stinging salty grey which could pull one out to the depths and watery grave. Yet we worship in her fury, unceasing as the cords of death, we worship in her shadow. The sea is our mother and we cherish her power and her moons of plenty; her seashell harvest, and kelp washed beach of bleached driftwood.
The sea is like the unicorn, vast and beyond our imagination, both myth and legend. It is like the lion shaking his salty mane. Home of the whale and the starfish, a desert of blue and milky tide. The beginning of an embryo is unlike the minute life of the sea, in its fluid like a small universe. We dare not transgress against its miniature life, its small form, its tiny shadow--fluttering heart. To care, to shelter this life against the storm, is in essence to save one's life against the sea in our macrocosm. When the smallest unit of our life and humanity on earth has value, it is imparted to everyone and all are welcome and received. This small child is not weak or poor, still shaping its constitution and powers, but has nothing to give until its journey into life is complete.
Don't forget to love life unto birth, carpe diem ...


House of The Unicorn

Inside the mind of the poet, in the house of the unicorn, there is a pale gold haunt of the spiritual nature and silver horn of truth. The unicorn, shaking his horn, salty-sea-fire, has words of revelation. The myth is central to his imagination and contemplation. The dance of time is his leadership to remain in the center of perfect will with absolute timing.

Revelation is the language of encouragement instead of information and contempt, indifference. It speaks to the spirit instead of the mind through symbol and metaphor, through verse and poetry. It provides images and art to nourish the spirit with a feast instead of veritable starvation. To eat of its table, we must accept the invitation to be part of eternity, to come in to the mother of peace.

The church in the end times is like a unicorn with no horn. It is a church without revelation, and missing its empowerment of the prophetic. It has the power of contemplation of a child in a bomb shelter. It suspects its judgement as innacurate, and its perception as evil under a plethora of occult books, movies and influences. It contantly corrects and overcorrects its inner imagination to newsprint and fact, to secular viewpoint and modern worldview.

When will we listen to the wind, the stars, the sea, to the cultures still paddling in birchbark canoes, and hear their perception of the creator in a galaxy of old meteor stones? We must listen, for the roar of our society drowns what is tranquil, quiet, and perceptive. It distorts the messages that regulate our bodies and our minds to create health. We must learn to listen to our bodies and its senses to write, to understand poetry, to be balanced and in balance, to be healthy and without disease.

The lion and the unicorn is a symbol, constituent of the coat of arms, metaphoric image of Scotland and England. The veil of romance is in their shield, as they represent the union of marriage. The lion and the unicorn must not divorce, but even now question their union. As one country asks to be removed from the Commonwealth, the nations watch. Canada states its cause, its needs, its requirement of spiritual influence which is uncorrupted. It presents its cause in the book 'The Fleur-de-lis', in three volumes, coming to bookstores March 2011.



Footprints of Waterhouse

The enchantment of Waterhouse makes its way into the present with the dozens of his historic paintings of figures of Greek and English mythology. I have almost a half-dozen life sized Waterhouse hanging in my home, a gallery of tribute to the namesake of The Waterhouse Foundation. Almost daily we add to the number of artists who wish to associate themselves with our cause to further contemporary art forms under the name of this great painter who pinioned like no other the muse.

I invite artists from around the world to make themselves known through our networking directory and become registered artists as never before. There is a passion and inspiration that births itself in the discipline of the many mediums of contemporary art forms, but we must first approciate the art of others before we strike out to do something of our own. Each artist sees from within his own heart, through his own lens, on his own unique life's road, and creates through art a paradigm for interpretation of the world, nature, literature, movement and film.

There is something beautiful in capturing the poor, the cultures of the earth, nature's resplendent roar, the sea, the seasons, and the dance of mythic legend imprinted on the face of the earth like footprints.

Where we walk, angels fear to tread.



The Last Battle

You may remember in the last book of The Chronicles of Narnia, by C.S. Lewis, how Prince Tirian had for his closest friend, a unicorn. The beautiful and mythic creature invites us to contemplation, to enclosure, to a medieval spiritual world that in his case was corrupted by evil, and resulted in many people suffering from disillusionment in their inability to see or hear from the Great Lion Aslan.
For some reason during this time, Aslan was not making himself known to the people. Instead, there were two impostors of lions, the monkey Shift, and his lion-skin dressed partner, a donkey named Puzzle. No matter how you dress a donkey, it is still a brute creature, and the imitation of intelligence and bravery can only cover up so much cowardice.

In our day and age, I hope we are not dressing up in old lion skins to cover up for our lack of true character: the nature of chivalry, justice and liberty. We are hesitant to go the extra mile for anyone, even if this defines love. We so often sow hurtful or demeaning words towards those we don't understand, and we look down on those with less money or possessions.

We are also inundated with things to buy, places to go, and zoom zoom.

When we cherish the simplicity of the things that money cannot buy, we are looking for what makes up the threads of family and friendship. Eventually, if we consider the songs and stories of life as essential, we will have a tapestry of legacy that will bind together generations with the essence of what heals.

We must begin to heal with our words, our uncomplaining gestures, our heart intentions, or we will maim what is most precious to us.

When the intimacy we value the most seems so far removed in this day, we can know that the nature of God he put in each person to draw us to himself will draw us to become the character he wants us to be. If you are singing a song that speaks of truth, it comes from your inner being, and you will continue to sing, even if you are cast into the darkest prison.

Never give up, for this may be the last battle.



Voetelle Exhibit

This is my first solo exhibit, and encompasses my work of the last five years. With only a camera, I started in 2004, with aspiration to model my art exhibits after GAUDI, from a brochure I saw from an exhibit in Europe. So far, this has been successful, as on September 11, eleven people came by to view the gallery, with comments like this reminds me of Gaudi, Ansell Adams, Guess. It helps if one is interested in the professional art of photography if you could work for a magazine and take photographs that are both pristine and professional with a quality of a magazine ad. I look for this in my digital work, although none of the images exhibited this year are digital. All are analogue, without any computer enhancements.

With all the world hads to offer there is much to be photographed, and you can become overwhelmed by the number of photographers, particularly on Flickr, a worldwide repository for photos. I am always encouraged by the delicacy of the fact that every photo is different and every photographer sees a different angle and dimension of life. I have always sought to benefit the disabled community with my work, and this exhibit is dedicated to VTEA Valley Therapeutic Equestrian Association, in Langley where I volunteered with the horses and disabled children for three years. The photo I took in the barn there will be given to them at the end of the exhibit as a donation.

I have always enjoyed working with the disabled on horses, teaching them to ride, and appreciate their ability to contribute and give back to the community in whatever way they are able. Whatever our condition, we are always in the position of finding someone with less resources and benefitting them with our talents for the betterment of humanity. Thus a humanitarian cause: one which does not discriminate, but equates all with deservedness of the service.

In good faith,



Coco the Cat

I have been living in the Clearbrook area for one month now. On Canada Day, I celebrated my niece Angel's half-birthday, since she was born on Christmas Day. I gave her a single pink rose in a gold box in honor of her graduation from elementary school. It was also the one year anniversary of our international non-profit organization, which I founded last year on Canada Day.

Just yesterday, I adopted a cat that is part Persian, part Siamese. Her former owners couldn't keep her anymore, and I noticed their ad in the paper. I drove out to their house in the country, and met this wonderful feline, for an addition to my eclectic condo lifestyle. I live quite happily alone and thought I could use the company. Her name is Coco. Although we are still getting adjusted, I think it is going to be a good match.

Coco is a one person kind of cat, who is shy of children, and I have noticed typically hides under the bed. She sits and looks out of my balcony door over the neighborhood. The cool evening air is refreshing to us both, and suddenly I realize that I quite like having a friend with black furry ears.

My brother's mother-in-law is a German opera soprano, who teaches at TWU. She grew up in this area, and attended Mennonite Educational Institute (MEI) school while it was still in downtown Clearbrook. Their family backgrond was German Mennonite. She mentioned this to me last time we we at a family picnic. She met her husband there in grade seven, she said, and they went to high school together and years later married and now have two grown children.

When I attended their old German Mennonite church two blocks from here last Sunday night, there were pews of white haired elderly ladies and their husbands; everyone in the room seemed over seventy. They invited me in right away, and their hospitality was quite congenial. I think I will attend there in the evenings, if I don't mind the hymns.

You never know where you will find a friend--be it cat, grandma, or child.

Enjoy the new moon solstice,




"Madeira has been a stopping point since the 16th century for sailors wishing to take on board barrels of wine. Madeira wine is quite used to travelling around the world as this was the natural way of making it taste even better..."

My mother always referred to me fondly as Madeira when I was a child. I was small with large green eyes and white-blonde hair that she curled every morning. I think this was something about the 1970s, that girls all appeared in the classroom every morning in ringlets with starched blouses, wool skirts and patent leather shoes.

I have since learned 0f the wine, originating in the Madeira islands, from which vintage bottles can still be found dating as old as 1772.

There are five types of Madeira wine:

Sercial is made from white grapes grown at about 800 m or above. Younger wines can be served lightly chilled. Drink with consommé or as an accompaniment to light seafood and even sushi, served chilled at the end of a meal.

Verdelho grapes are white, grown at 400-600m and make medium-dry wine for drinking with meat. Good with light seafood.

Bual wine is rich and nutty, made from white grapes grown on terraces below 400m. Can be served as an alternative to port. Goes well with cheeses and desserts, especially toffee.

Malmsey is the most celebrated Madeira, is made from Malvasia grapes. A rich and robust wine with an appealing caramelised quality. Good as an after dinner digestive, perfect with chocolate mousse.

No name on the bottle brand: Tinta Negra Mole Madeira. This red grape occupies the biggest percentage of vineyards on the island. There are four styles, dry, medium dry, medium rich and rich. This Madeira comes as a 3 year old, 5 year old and 10 year old wine.

This island wine is rich in history, back from the days when sailors stopped to load barrels of this delicacy for the civilized world.

In modest temperance,


Spiritual Touch

The touch of a king
would condescend to heal;
if one was touched
one hundred times,
one would turn into a princess.

If you had loved
so dearly, the beloved:
the early sky, a dark jewel
in domes of foreign temples.

Their hands clasped,
knees tightly bent,
a burning sword
thrust between
the mind and soul;
and the deepened heart
will arise in the splendor
of modesty.

One million children
stand at the gates
of their straw village,
asking to be let through:
to where the golden bird
welcomes dawn,
the translucent orb of sun-star
crossing the sky
from morning to sunset;
I tend my mantra of gardens
just before dusk…

The glass of time, so fragile,
and cloven antelope hooves
upon the sand:
ghosts meant to clothe despair with
purity, the oils of acacia
and eucalyptus.

Glassy water
in the riverbed, too dry;
the speaking of the raven,
and unheard silence:
my memorized word
so clear and vibrant—
to a diseased room.

What enchantment
shall I break to heal you?
O ebony soul, caught within
the prisons of deformity
and the sepulcher
of infertility and pain:

The kiss of wisdom
is a touch piece,
and the dying,
healed do ascend.


A gift from our country to yours: a heritage linked like stained glass...

To the monarch deep in thought.

O Canada,



Hunting The Unicorn

Legend has it that the young virgin is the only one who can tame the unicorn. "The gentle and pensive maiden has the power to tame the unicorn, selfless yet solitary, but always mysteriously beautiful..." In The Fleur-de-lis the unicorn is a reocurring theme, and the lion and the unicorn represented in the Canadian coat of arms speaks of two nations: the Lion traditionally represents England and the Unicorn, Scotland. So the country of Canada seems to be equated with Scotland in this manner. The two nations bow to each other in mythic love and dedication.

Ruth Pitter's biography by Don King is titled, Hunting the Unicorn, and her poetic accomplishment as a fellow of C.S. Lewis at Oxford makes her almost legendary, yet she is never mentioned by Lewis in a public way. She was so gifted she transcribed his own work into poetry including parts of Perelandra. She won the Queen's award for poetry, she never married, she wrote seveteen volumes of war-time poetry, and excelled in her craft.

When I started the section "Ode To Enchantment", it was with the English Ruth Pitter's Battersea Bridge in mind. She crossed the bridge quite frequently and wrote about it in her journal. Although I wrote by entire book of poetry without having read any of hers, I don't regret this choice, for now I read her comprehensive work with great satisfaction.

Is the poet a mythological type that can only be described as a unicorn? These furtive, shy creatures are seldom seen in the open. They hide in the shadows. They have much symbolism and antiquity to impart. When we search for poetry, are we Hunting the Unicorn? And will we ever find one to tame.




I, Emily, am writing about dimensions and layers on what it means to be a poet in the postmodern days of the internet, when everyone is still, in a medieval way, quite superstitious about how art is created using multimedia, when things just "appeared" online and the whole medium of publishing to a culture using photographs, words and sounds.

As a writer, I love the euphoria of creating something that looks and sounds unique, and yet symbolic and meaningful. The art of words fascinates me, and has since a very young age. I learned to read as a very young child and could read forty words by age two. I began writing poetry at age ten, and believe philosophy and art are always interconnected if we find meaning in words. This of course applies also to song writing, where theology is paramount: our songs ingrain the ideas of our philosophy into the heart.

In the realm of contemporary art, I have only in my late twenties, taken to photography. I was never a good photographer before that. As for the art form, I would like to say that time generally does not improve photographs, it only dates them. Therefore they are particularly relevant during the decade they were taken, and moreso if they can be made into prints and sold. Photography was once thought to compete with painting in its realism, in the early days of the camera.

Words are timeless and relevant in more than one generation. Words and writing is a generally free occupation: it does not cost a lot of money if you write in a paperless society. Most of my writing was written without paper, and only printed out in its very final form. Almost all of my poetry has been made available through a paperless form to my online audience for people to read and enjoy, either in websites or e-books. I always want my words to be finely crafted, each line to become a favorite quote in mind. When you are a wordsmith, never throw a horseshoe.

I have found over the last five years, since my first website, Voetelle drew a crowd of 600 people, that writing to an audience makes the work that much more secure, and is enjoyed by more than just yourself. My journey as a writer has not been an easy one, and as a photographer, even less so, from the early days of standing in the snow barefoot to get a good shot, or the denouncement to become a self-disciplined artist. Finally, now my work is beginning to sell, and my first solo art exhibit is coming up in September.

I grew up on a rigorous schedule of playing the piano until I was in university and was trained by a concert pianist with long red hair who reminds me of a medieval Elaine of sorts, painted as Waterhouse's The Lady of Shalott.

You can read more about the character based on the Waterhouse painting named Aurias, which was originally the name of an early Canadian 18th century clothing company, at my tapestry series, called the Lion and the Unicorn Tapestry Series' (now the Clay Road Tapestry).  
The short stories of 'The Portals' expands on the idea of the muse, and her purpose as a medieval model for a painting.

I am a solitary unicorn. What I have to say to society will probably mature as a writer's voice matures, but I have waited twenty years to publish my poetry, waiting for that unicorn and seeking to find the true voice.

I tend my mantra of gardens just before dusk...