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

It Goes Like This

You smile down on me from a slightly precarious perch on the shelf above my messy desk. It’s my favorite photo of you—young and exuberantly happy, arms flung wide, dressed in colorful layers that reflect your signature style. I’d never seen this picture until your Memorial Service, but I loved it immediately.

My second favorite image of you exists only in my mind, yet it’s as clear as it was when you visited me— the day after you died. I was sitting on the couch in my living room. Superguy was next to me. The empty space in front us filled with palpable energy. The air seemed to shimmer as your face burst into view, larger than life and filling the upper two thirds of the room. Your long, wild, gray-blond hair floated around you as if you were underwater, some kind of angel-mermaid treading in a sea of air.

To say you looked and felt angelic is a gross understatement. You were positively radiant, with a joy that penetrated my skin and raised the hairs on my arms. Warmth flooded my chest, my eyes filled.

Superguy didn’t feel it, but I’m used to this—for as long as I can remember I’ve been seeing and feeling and hearing things others don’t.

Anyway, I digress. You were there in full spirit then, and you’ve come to me a few dozen times since.

In the beginning, you would come as a silent, joy-filled, deeply reassuring vision. After a few months this shifted—you became quite verbal, sometimes loud, and your language was, ummm…. earthier.  This was—is—so like the you I knew when we were both embodied. And so we talk.

The writing has come hard, I tell you. This after multiple friendly hauntings, your F-word laced admonishments from behind a veil that is too thin sometimes, even for my highly tolerant sixth sense.

You manage to convey it all in a human nanosecond:

Don’t f-ing fritter time away on worry, or planning, or mindless scroll. Honor the art, sister. Whether you perceive it as gift or imposition, those words and images are apparitions that must become real. If you ignore them, they will haunt you more than I ever will. They f-ing need to be born. Be a midwife, help them slide out into the earthly world. Then you can let them go and do what they will do. Then you’ll be free.

I know, I know. We all arrive with Things To Share. And, like it or not, we are tasked with getting those pieces of ourselves out of our heads, hearts and hands. No matter how loud our insecurities are, how tenacious our fears, we are here to share what we’ve been given.  That’s it. Get empty before we die. Though our allotment of years is a well-designed mystery, we ought to trust there will be time enough to complete our mission. Even though you left so soon.

Sometimes, dear one, we can be deeply aware of our given work. Maybe we have been for decades. Finding the impetus to push outward and onward while living within the drum of skin and sinew—making song after unfinished song while brittling bones hold the patient shape of the soul’s longing —that is the hardest work of all.

Don’t leave me, dear sisterly ghosting soul. I need you blowing chilly breezes into my complacency. But could you maybe be a little gentler? And Marina, do you really need to swear so much? I would’ve guessed that wouldn’t be necessary in the afterlife.

Miss your earthbound form.

Love always,




Read More Blog Posts

The Shift

art: Moon Goddess by Melinda Coppola, done in watercolor.   On my best days I do dwell in gratitude and I experience most everything as a blessing. My poem, “The Shift”, attempts to give voice to that. The poem, which you can read below, has been published in Writing in

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Night Upon the Prairie

My poem, Night Upon the Prairie, was published in Writing in a Woman’s Voice poetry journal yesterday. While writing this I channeled singer/songwriter energies. If I had learned to play guitar, I think this one would have morphed into a folk or country song.   It was night upon the

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The Life Cycle of a Day

Bink and I walk outside a lot. We are blessed with a number of parks and nature sanctuaries in our area, and we know some of them quite well. This poem stemmed from a particular ramble early last spring. I’m pleased that Willows Wept Review chose to publish it in

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Why Poetry Matters

I’m so pleased to share that my poem “Nobody” was published in Thimble Literary Journal today. You can read it by clicking on this link: My writing process is anything but logical. Sometimes it feels as if the poems begin as embryos planted in the unseen folds of my

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In my nearly 30 year journey parenting my child with special needs, I’ve had much time to reflect on the juxtaposition between How I Thought Things Would Go and How Things Have Gone. How Things Are.  I revisit memories of child-me, teen-me, very-young-adult me, and wonder—what if she knew how

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The Visitor

  In the dark, a baby fox hoists her short legs one by trembling one up the steep stairs, tripping the sensor light as she reaches the back deck in a sharp-eyed heap of gray brown fur. She toddles, adorably unsteady, across the width of composite boards, circles metal table

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Slack Satori

satori \ sə-ˈtȯr-ē n (Buddhism) Zen Buddhism the state of sudden indescribable intuitive enlightenment  [from Japanese]• Hmmm. Tell a creative (poet, artist, musician, sculptor) that something is indescribable, and chances are they will receive your words as a delightful challenge! I’m happy to share that my poem, Slack Satori, was

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The Color of Swans

Hello out there! The blog has been quiet this summer, but I’ve been editing and submitting work to a wide range of literary journals. My submissions practice has been haphazard and sporadic over the past ten years. I made a commitment to send out a lot more work this year.

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A Little Bullish

I know, I know. Much is not right here in the world. We conjure and raise up hatreds and fears born of misconceptions. We bow down to profit and convention instead of the goodness in each other. We make wars, first with ourselves, and then with those we call other.

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