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

Anxiety, the unwelcome house guest (who never seems to leave).

An older painting I did of Bink stimming at the beach.

 

Agita

Sometimes I think there four of us
making a life inside this sweet gray house.
Add the felines,
we make a quirky octad.

There is the me who is I
poet, I mom, I carer for everything
and everyone who moves
within this circle––
the him and her, the furniture
which claims no gender please,
no polish, just a cleanish
dry cloth and a bit of appreciation,
the felines who purr and hiss
their love and judgement
direct and pure,
the glassware that tells me daily
how it desires to be placed
within the cabinet.

There is the he, who is he
who shoulders that which I cannot,
who is he who knocked on my heart
and wouldn’t leave
even when I didn’t open the door.
He who loves
the her and me.
He who is so funny
and tender
behind the stray F word
and under all that huff.

There is the she that needs
so much, so often, the she
that tears things apart-–
not to destroy, but rather to
discover what’s inside,
the she who cannot be left
alone, who can tell you exactly
the date in 2001
when that mean teacher dragged her
and screamed at her so loud,
so loud it burned her ears and forever
branded such a sound as red fire screaming.

The fourth is Agita, who is the shot of speed
startling her brain into flight,
who pushes my she down a spiral stair
and I can only follow.

Agita inserts herself into everything,
turns the stakes to high,
mars even a calm beach vacation
with worry, obsession, and fear.

Some say autism and Agita are married.
Perhaps so
but I’ll never stop hoping
she leaves without looking back,
leaves without scarring,
leaves and never, ever returns.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

 

Read More Blog Posts

April is….on Autism, Art, and Friendly Commerce

APRIL IS… As you may know, April is Autism Awareness Month. It’s also National Card and Letter Writing Month. Please allow me to make things more interesting by combining the two! Bink paints once a week, usually working on two canvases at a time. I also dabble in paints and

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What’s in a name? More pub cred, musings

Mid-April already?  Time is such a liquid concept. Today, my  already may be your finally. It is already April?  Finally, it is spring.  In February, my finally was louder than my already. Finally, Winter has lifted the frayed ends of her long gray coat and begun her drawn-out egress. I’ve

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AUTISM AWARENESS DAY Redux

I’m re-posting this poem in recognition of “World Autism Awareness Day.”   As D, a sister mom from my autism tribe, has said, ” We are aware. We are very aware.”   Autism Awareness month is April, World Autism Awareness Day, April 2 and, in case the day lacks color, (as

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All This Joy, All This Sorrow

Monday, March 28, morning. It’s snowing as I write this.  Big, fluffy flakes that arrive past the date of our northern hemisphere Spring equinox.  I wonder if they know they won’t accumulate. If they did know, would their especially short lifespan would matter to them?  I suspect not.  Nature cycles

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A Little Flower

“I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand. And that hasn’t much improved my opinion of them.” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince Hello, First, here’s a sweet daffodil that blossomed outside my door yesterday. A little yellow beacon of hope.

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I Wish You Knew

In the Garden   Imagine if you will, dear one, dear one and all, that you are sent to manifest something unique and quite vital to the world.  You arrive as rich seeded earth, landing in just the right geographic location to support your eventual yield. The trees and the

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Folliculi, Follicula

TEND and SAVOR “Why the hair is attached to the head it will not come out please respond to me in a video.” These were the first words Bink communicated to me today, shortly after she got up.  I’ve answered this question—one of about six in the current sequence that

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Saved

  It is a blessing to find those things that save us in small ways. At the checkout counter a teenaged boy offered to carry groceries for an old couple. They said yes, and I was quietly saved. Last Tuesday, late morning, a brief shaft of early winter sun reached

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Everything is a Sign

Of all the offerings, a thousand possible signs, the Spirit Messengers chose poop. A pile of it, excrement of vague animal origins, arranged in a circle too perfect for random, dead center on my front step. And I, lover of beauty, faithful to poetry and all that sings cannot make

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