The Heart is a House: Selected Poems by Emily J. Cooper

By Emily Cooper

How do you define home? What small miracles have you witnessed that made you feel alive? What dreams, nightmares, and memories fill your mind? A collection of poetry which is all at once whimsical and dark, The Heart is a House is an introspective journey across our shared human experience. The eight chapters deal with br

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily Joan Cooper
• Release date: Aug 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9780578566504

Emily Cooper

Emily Cooper became a published author at age seventeen. She has written nine manuscripts, published eight, and is in the process of publishing another; she has many more novels to follow. Born in Dahn, Germany, Emily grew up as a military brat, traveling all across the United States of America. In 2010, she wrote a poem called 'Emily Cooper?'. It was chosen and published in the Arizona Teen Zine magazine. She graduated from Queen Creek High School in 2011 and enlisted in the United States Army Reserves two years later. She was married in 2018 and now has two sons. Despite the demands of a family, she remains dedicated to school and writing. All of her novels are now available in print as well as ebooks. Magia! (Mad-GEE-uh) and Nicole Sastasha and the Kingdom of Anasazi (Suh-STAW-sha) are now available as audiobooks. She can be found on Facebook and Instagram. Emily invites all to visit her website at https//www.inspiredproductions2011.com. As for her works, you can be sure to see many more to come.

Book preview

Often I am Dreaming

Often I am dreaming

of the provenance of thrushes;

the river’s domain,

the oaken kingdom.

I imagine that Wood

in the misty blue hour—

drops of light twinkling

from each singing tree.

Often I am dreaming

of quietude’s homestead,

the twitch of a hare’s ear,

cool brooks over stones.

Always a breeze,

a snail in the mud,

the last strains of night,

trout dances.

Windblown Light

There’s a windblown light

Coming in through my window

And the sound of the birds

Makes it seem so absurd

That there ever was strain in my heart.

Breath

The things I’ve seen

fly wingless—

flecks of snow or spots of ash,

bright pink petals or russet leaves—

are to me the very proof

the world is breathing

in and

out.

Springtime in Davis Square

The petals fall,

silent, pale like

snow.

Casting shadows in the gutters they form

mounds scented like sugar

and decay.

Propelled by passing wheels they tumble.

Blowing over sidewalks

they fly off into the endless blue,

and on and so on.

Ice

A dollop of sun, pink

spill on window frost,

sinks and disappears

like clinquant scales

beneath the sea—

half-remembered

glints in all

this silence. I

wait for the birds

to return.

First