Set the alarm
Lock the doors
Lock the windows
Lock the shutters
Find the cricket bat – “put it by your bed”
Say goodnight to mom and dad

Although young, not naïve
I knew every night had the possibility of being my last

A routine that is now muscle memory.

Fear –
You may think
But life –
Normal for me.

Wake up
Turn off the alarm
Unlock the doors
Open the windows
Open the shutters
Put the cricket bat in the cupboard

Never being able to be left alone at home. Unwillingly dragged from store to store.

But – that’s the thing –
People don’t know the real Her,
They know the exquisite scenery, the unforgettable wildlife
They don’t know… But I do.
Because She is my home
Because being in constant fear for my life –
is normal.

Confused –
What do I tell people about Mother when they ask?
The person who raised me, taught me how to be grateful, how to ride a bike,         how to love.
Do I tell them? Will I scare them?

Although hidden beneath the tyranny – I would say –
the bloodshed
the faces of malnourished children left for dead on the side of the road the poverty struck soil the corruption      the greed the hunger the death the separation of class and race

Although a place feared –
Africa.

My Africa –
Whose sunshine you feel ignited in your soul
My Africa –
Whose smile is irresistibly contagious
My Africa –
Whose heart lies in the grassy terrain
The golden dunes of sand
The never-ending mountain tops
My Africa –
Who is the heart of various people
           cultures
   languages
          All who call Her home.
She is –
Where my heart lies even if I am thousands of miles away
Where my mind wanders from day to day.

Her air, instantly calls you
Her smell, instantly smelt
Welcoming you ever so dearly –
      Home.

Like all good mothers,
She is the one who can handle both the tranquil and turmoil,
the love and war.

She is my home. She is who I fear of disappointing.

My Africa –
is beautiful.

Kopelke
Poetry
She Spins
 
She Spins!
She Spins!
She Spins,!
 
I declare that this woman is a spinning top!
She blows into a room without hesitation,
Leaving her students in anticipation.
Then
Challenge the very foundation of their imagination.
 
She Spins!
She Teach!
She Reach!
 
I declare at times that woman even Preach!
 
She treats us to a moment in time,
Dictated by Rhyme,
And make me feel like it’s Mine.
 
Inhale Poetry!
Live Poetry!
Digest Poetry!
Spit Poetry!
Eat Poetry!
 
Eat Poetry?
 
Like a mother to her child,
Don’t get up from that table until you finish,
your Poets!
 
Taste the natural wonders of Walt Whitman,
Drink of Gertrude Stein like an Ancient Wine,
Sip until you are hooked on Gwendolyn Brooks,
Eat all of your hash, I know it looks like a dash (Emily Dickinson)!
 
Don’t Blink!
Just Think!
 
Her Alliteration,
Invites smooth Interpretation,
Sprinkled with a taste of Intimidation,
Yet, in Moderation.
 
It Hits!
It Spits!
It Flips!
 
You down, but not to the ground,
And it’s she who keeps Control, the Flow,
And maintain our Pace,
With Media, Rhythm and Rhyme.
 
She Spins!
She Spins!
She Spins!
 
Spiting Knowledge at our Feet,
And dare you to Creep by without,
Hearing, Tasting, Feeling, Smelling and Seeing, the Diversity,
In
William Carlos Williams, Langston Hughes, and Wallace Stevens.
 
And She Spins!
Us
Our Minds!
Our Pins!
Our
Starts!
Our
Ends!
 
And I walk away,
Knowing,
The Breeze,
The World Wind,
That Spins!
 
Kopelke
Poetry,
She Spins!