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

New Poem Published

I’m pleased that one of my pieces, “Honeymoon”  was just published in Last Stanza Poetry Journal. The journal is available in hardcover, softcover, and on Kindle.  Last Stanza is a beautiful journal, so if you’ve any interest in poetry for yourself or as a gift for someone special, please consider ordering a copy.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D28R69VQ/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.wY0A1oXJxC9H52BkfBJe2CtaMRH1CveI2fvY0_G7fn8.Mup6ucmLiTO910-CxspaHeIT7nqHv9qTyZSSK736WK8&qid=1713626398&sr=1-18

The poem:

 

Honeymoon

Across the Kenyan plains,
armies of fine golden dust
rose and swarmed around every living thing,
clung to skin and lips,
tongue and cornea,
the camera’s shuttered eye.

Who can say when a marriage begins or ends?
There are no dreams here,
she might have thought, no poems.
at night under the mosquito netting,
perhaps she watched his back rise and fall,
didn’t sleep but mourned the years ahead.

Three decades later, she excavated
a brown book of photos, met
a man and a woman, young and familiar,
hats angled away from the dust or each other.

Against a backdrop of zebras grazing,
with elephants walking in the distance,
the two squinted straight into the lens,
the haze already coming between them.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Read More Blog Posts

A 2022 Story, Part 8

A 2022 Story You can read part 7 here: https://www.melindacoppola.com/a-2022-story-part-7/   Part 8 Many suns and moons came and went as Little Stream and Wee Lily Pond tumbled along in the powerful pull of Big River. They were quiet—Lily too exhausted to speak, Little just too sad. Still, both felt

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Hush

I’m pleased that my poem, ” Hush”, was published in Amethyst Review today.   Hush Is it by aging alone that I landed in this sparse, harsh forest, where most branches are sharp, all bark is sandpaper, and even the birds., diligently practicing their scales, can sometimes shake my equilibrium,

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A 2022 Story, Part 7

A 2022 Story, Part 7 You can read part 6 here: https://www.melindacoppola.com/a-2022-story-part-6/   Part 7 A spark of something wonderful rose inside Little Stream as she waited for Wee Lily Pond to push her towards the banks of Big River. Hope!  There would be a way out of this soon.

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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

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A 2022 Story, Part 6

And why, you might be asking, is she still working on a 2022 story? We are, after all, a few sturdy strides into 2023 spring. The answer is in the story itself. If you’ve been reading these discontinuous pieces, thank you!   A 2022 Story You can read part 5

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A 2022 Story, Part 5

A 2022 Story   You can read part four here: htts://www.melindacoppola.com/a-2022-story-part-4/   Part 5 Little Stream wasn’t sure Lily Pond had heard her question, so she asked again. “Wee Lily Pond, do you think there is a way out of this raging river? I really miss my quiet life.” Wee

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(She is) Unbroken

Unbroken There were times I imagined you different. My young mother mind pictured you— normal, typical, non-disabled. I can’t use those words anymore for their opposites evoke— lack, absence, tragedy, and you, my child, are a celebration of plenty, a bounty of delight, a well of fascination. In fact, you

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a 2022 Story, Part 4

You can read part three here: https://www.melindacoppola.com/?p=2948 Part 4   Little Stream and Wee Lily Pond bounced amicably against each other as they were rushed along in Big River’s mighty flow. “So, how’d you get here anyway?” asked Lily. Little felt her waters swirl with pleasure at the burbling of

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First Digit Singular

This Is What Really Happened Trigger warnings: Run-on sentences. Querulousness.   Thirteen days ago I had my thumb joint reconstructed. This was  elective and a long time coming—both carpo-metacarpals whittled down to bone on bone, naked osseous matter grinding boorishly against its equally unclothed neighbor, hyaline cartilage having fled years

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