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