Melinda Coppola

twenty four may | from the inside out

Melinda Coppola

twenty four may | from the inside out

About My Blog

I started this blog to quiet the voices in my head and heart that have been whispering and cajoling and sometimes yelling at me to write more.

This is a space where all the parts of me—mother, poet, wife, lover of beach stones and furry creatures and frequent toe-dipper in the river of song, Yoga practitioner, and teacher and she-who-cooks and she-who-makes-art and she-who-loves-silence, where all the parts of me can come out to play.

I started this blog to keep myself engaged in dialogue with my soul. If what I write interests you, educates you, moves you, …well, that’s a beautiful bonus.

Most Recent Blog Post

Ode to a Vessel

Dear Useful Thing

 

You are more
than receptacle,
a pleasing weight
in my cupped hands.

You’re the one I reach for,
mornings when I stumble
into kitchen, into waking,
into day,

and if I haven’t said it aloud—
I love the way you receive,
unquestioning,
whatever I pour,
be it lukewarm or scalding,
and the plop of papery bag,
a little milk,
fine white stevia,
on occasion
a drizzle of golden honey.

You are gateway to the dawn,
invitation to sit,
come fully into my body,
peruse the morning’s offerings

of poems, news, salutations arriving
in the little box of phone
I also hold
(I’d like to say briefly,
but it does bring poems, after all).

Sometimes, you are the sweet bearer
of afternoon contemplations,
my cupped hands
holding your warmth
tenderly, as I would a child.

My dear, most useful one
you are also beautiful,
and yes, you spark delight,
appreciation, contentment.

I have wrapped and carried you
from one home to another,
finding the right shelf
to shelter you in comfort.

I thank the gods of pottery,
artisans, designers of mugs
and other lovely weighty hunks
of service and possibility,

Whoever brought this ware forth
from vision into the physical world,
to find a home
in my grateful hands.

 

–Melinda Coppola

Read More Blog Posts

Ode to a Vessel

Dear Useful Thing   You are more than receptacle, a pleasing weight in my cupped hands. You’re the one I reach for, mornings when I stumble into kitchen, into waking, into day, and if I haven’t said it aloud— I love the way you receive, unquestioning, whatever I pour, be

Read More »

More Autism Awareness

For many folks on the autism spectrum, medical encounters are fraught with anxiety and fear. Sensory issues, limited ability to understand procedures and express themselves, the speed at which things are expected to proceed, traumatic memories of previous encounters—all can combine to create some serious daytime nightmares. Bink and I

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These Monikered Months

A  month of daffodils is upon us.  Yay, spring!!  April has been branded both Autism Awareness Month and National Poetry Month.  Here you go, then, a post that covers both.  I’ve shared this poem before, but it feels annually relevant.  As D, a sister mom of a young woman with

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Farther

I’m so pleased that my poem, “Farther”, which I share with you below, was just published in the Spring 2024 issue of Metonym Literary Journal. Metonym is a print journal, available for sale through their site at https://metonym-journal.com/ Poetry is art. While not everything written in all poems actually happened

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In the Pink

“Fruits on Pink” by Bink She begins. First, there is pink. Well…vivid electric magenta is more apt.  She pushes the frayed brush into the water jar, hitting the  bottom too hard. Taps out a neurodivergent rhythm on the canvas. Some would call it background. To her, I think, it is

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A Tale of Two Motorists

Poem for the Pissed-Off Driver   I have a third eye that sees beyond your scowl, man-behind -the-wheel who couldn’t bear to wait when I slowed to turn right and so zoomed past, horn blaring, finding just enough time to turn and glare at me, mouth a “F*** you” before

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Still, After Years

This is the Love Poem, Mid-Life for Super Guy “Who, being loved, is poor?” –Oscar Wilde Remember the night I woke moaning, ankles on fire, some ghost gripping my arches, preventing even a twitch of toes, a wiggle’s wriggle? You rolled without hesitation from the warmth of our layered nest,

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The Continuing Saga of Little Stream

A 2022 Story Part 11 You can read part 10 here: https://www.melindacoppola.com/little-stream-an…22-story-part-10   Part 11 “Lily Pond?” Little Stream called out again and again without answer into the bright air. Her voice was thin and tired, and it seemed to blow away in the wind. The long, odd journey she’d

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