Long Imperialist Poems
Long Imperialist Poems. Below are the most popular long Imperialist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Imperialist poems by poem length and keyword.
To claim more imperialist Russian land.
An invasion of a neighbor was planned.
Unbacked slander was said about them.
Creating for the world a major problem.
Putin claimed they were a pro-Nazi harbor.
But the truth really couldn’t be any farther.
Ukrainians have always been their target.
The Holodomor is a genocide not to forget.
Between wars one and two, Joseph Stalin
orchestrated the starvation for many fallen.
To feed communism, millions were deprived.
The empty breadbasket for Europe arrived.
So generations later the bully is back.
But now other countries cut no slack.
While they attack innocent civilians.
It’s obvious they are truly the villains.
Destroying homes and those trapped inside.
Soldiers with unjust orders forced to abide.
Attacking neighborhoods of peaceful kids.
Willing exterminators as the Kremlin bids.
But their target shoots back and hits hard.
The fighter won the crowd on the undercard.
Like a hard uppercut from Mayor Kltichko.
The Ukrainian’s counterpunch is on show.
The other Vladimir is a modern David.
Daily turning the Russian Goliath livid.
Shoring up defenses as the underdog.
Battling through heavy gunpowder fog.
Swaying global leaders to invest in defense.
Convincing nations Soviets make no sense.
In this invasion, the bully is being repelled.
As global Ukrainian patriotism has swelled.
Depleting the Russian tanks by the hundred.
Forcing civilian involuntary enlistment dread.
Fleeing their nation to avoid an early death.
As troops are rushed into their final breath.
Unprepared to invade into mortal combat.
Putin’s propaganda machine caused that.
Forcing battles soldiers don’t want to fight.
Knowing the motives for war are not right.
Nations give Ukraine billions in military aid.
Causing global inflation to devalue our paid.
So we cut jobs with layoffs for bottom lines.
To fund fatal battles in forests full of pines.
Great are his exploits
honour and rank
he's celebrated
he's immortalized
He's fondly recalled
Back to memory
The great legends of Old..
Great Chief Waiyaki wa Hinga..
Aged nine he killed a lion
with his bare hands...
When the imperialist came.. Waiyaki..
Raised a huge Army armed with bows and arrows
Testing the might of the staff which spat fire
Fore told by the great seer Mugo Wa Kibiru..
..see people dressed like butterflies
they come from the sea of the hawk
and move on an iron caterpillar to the
lake of the eagle.. they carry a walking staff
which spits fire killing instantly... your weapons
will be useless when faced with this magical staff..
The great seer advised the people to learn
The pale skinned colonizers magic..
At right time armed with the right knowledge
The land of the slopes of Kerenyaga..
Will be liberated by its sons
The mountain of splendor and mysteries
Where people since ages ago have offered prayers
To the Supreme Deity Ngai Murungu..
Who is all loving and of good virtual
The supreme deity's Prophet Mugo wa Kibiru...
Is office of the chief seer..
Water Tabernacle the resting place of - Managi
The greatest Holy relic and the Box that is the relic
I recap they say Great Chief Waiyaki
Was betrayed by the pale colored..
foe he had called blood brother..
Angry Waiyaki took out his favorite club..
Mathiokore.. it was nicknamed..
Within minutes brains of the Great captain
were scattered on our rich soils
The invaders captured Waiyaki..
Our great Chief and opened his skull
Waiyaki died not.. they buried him alive
Head facing downwards.. Great Chief..
You should have heeded the Great seers
prophecy..
...don't allow the butterflies to enter your homesteads...
Buried alive..
Immortal Warrior king fate
The annual pilgrimage around
Kereenyaga - the abode of Ngai
Goes on each year.. pilgrims
Make seven stops as they
Circumbulate the Holy Mountain..
Of stories and more stories from the land
Where gods.. immortals.. and mortals
Rub shoulders looking each other..
Eye to eye... tales of KENYA
code 254
LEWIS NYAGA
of the world war (3rd!)
I'm not the forced applicant
I don't wanna be the forced applicant
of the world war (3rd!)
no; I'm not the well-wisher
not the advance receptionist
columnist, they are political analyst
journalist, they are critics of the war
socialist, they are international relationship scientist
they can greet in advance as horror enjoyer
their provocative speech, writings, paintings
as if now decorate the war in advance (3rd!)
far away, have gone far away
the first and second world wars
the earth became the asylum of the universe
oh! pain, sorrow, melancholic days of mother
for her child have gone far away,
waiting days of a new bride for her groom
became the fire on the pyre,
the orphanage became the address of the humanism
now far away, the remembrance of the wars
I'm on the Bay of Bangle,
this sub-continental, inter-continental,
continental birds chirping
soul-stirring and I love independently
of the world war (3rd!)
I'm not the advanced writer
don't wanna be the spokesman
or blood painter
cause-
the vernal breeze here gives me warm embraces,
eyes of the butterflies still here find the flowers,
busy days of ants here teaches me-
" a stitch in time saves nine"
here on this Bay of Bangle
five times Azan of Muazzin from the holy Masjid,
the pleasing sound of the Temple bell,
air balloon in the full moon night of Buddha day,
praying of the holy Easter Sunday
teach me the unity of love and universal brotherhood
I cannot paint in my dictions
the advance blood of world war (3rd!),
I cannot speak advance in my writings
the scheme of world war (3rd!),
I'm not the fertile blind prophet Tiresias
then I'll be liable for that blood war (3rd!)
more than the bloodsucker imperialist politician,
if I write, speak, paint advance the forecast of undesired war
© Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
October 22,2019
My daddy, he gave me a silver dime
For to fetch him a bucket of cider.
My mama, she tended the laundry line,
With a big wicker basket beside her.
I took a hard left at the barber pole
And I walked past a drunk by the deli.
He was likely reliving his throw-away years
In some dark nightmare’s underbelly.
The Ferris wheel is frozen in place
By the exotic dancer’s cherry tree.
The sideshows provided the usual freaks,
Teasing gut brain and muscle memory.
An ascot wearing yacht rock commodore
Come ashore for his usual wage:
A pickpocket imperialist strutting the boards
On his chosen colonial stage.
He came from some tiny Alpine principate
After stealing a movie star’s roadster.
Just know for a fact that it weren’t Lichtenstein,
It was really Lichtenstein’s monster.
He has black labs, brewskis, and bluebirds
Neatly baked into his trendy man bun.
For when a little dab ‘ll do ya, as they say,
Who needs all that greasy kid stuff?
He’s just another two-bit clown
We see his pants fall halfway down.
There’s no understanding really what he did.
He claims he played marbles with the Sundance Kid
And the barkers lined the midway
From the high bridge to the gateway,
As I marveled at the wonders I saw
In this place they call Carnival Town.
THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR
A SUCKER BORN EVERY MINUTE
I chose to write,
For all those torn-off branches,
For all those scarred backs,
For all those dehumanized bodies,
For all those centuries of persecution.
I chose to read,
To deconstruct racialist concepts,
To destroy the carnivorous chains of slavery,
To desacralize the supremacist missions of colonization,
To uproot the alienation installed in my consciousness, brutalized by imperialist Westernization.
I chose to educate myself,
To denounce the negrophobia of the Republic of Enlightenment turned slave trader,
To challenge the heirs of the enslaving empire of racist philosophers,
To never forget the bestiality of the Code Noir,
The savagery of the slave trades,
The barbarity of human zoos,
To never erase from my scorched memory the drownings of black bodies.
I chose to turn off my television,
To no longer listen to parrots singing the praises of xenophobia,
To no longer be imprisoned by the conspiratorial diatribes of the fascist fanatics of the far right,
To no longer watch the privileged squabble while fattening themselves on the taxes of the proletariat,
To no longer pollute my mind, tormented by the misery of the cradle of humanity.
I chose to fully embrace my Africanness,
To never say that my ancestors were Gauls,
Like those domestic blacks who champion the celebration of republican hypocrisy,
To never curse Africa in my heart,
Like those traitors who participated in the slave trades, slavery, colonization, and neocolonization,
To never sanctify the banana republics of the sphere of influence of the so-called homeland of human rights,
Which drives thousands of Sub-Saharans onto the deadly paths of clandestine migration,
To never place myself on the same level as those racist, racialist, supremacist, and eugenicist complexes,
Who sustain vile theories about the utopia of racial superiority.
Africa's land, shadows of colonialism still linger
Leaders rise, with hearts aflame, resisting the fetters
Of Western dominance, a legacy of dolor
Their courage, a luminary, in the dark of night's refrain
Kwame Nkrumah's vision, a guiding radiance
Pan-Africanism's fervor, burning bright
Unity and self-determination, his battle cry
Ghana's freedom, his legacy, forever exalted
Julius Nyerere's Ujamaa, a path less trod
Self-reliance's puissance, Tanzania's nod
Non-Aligned Movement, his noble quest
Distance from West, and do what's salubrious
Patrice Lumumba's heart, untold stories bear
Congo's freedom, his legacy, beyond compare
Assassinated young, his spirit remains
A symbol of resistance, against foreign chains
Thomas Sankara's fire, a revolutionary's conflagration
Burkina Faso's self-sufficiency, his people's encomium
Anti-imperialist, with a people's cry
Empowering Burkinabés, until his final valediction
Gamal Abdel Nasser's stand, Suez's mighty tumult
Nationalized the canal, with an iron hand, forever more
Arab nationalism, his passionate plea
Reducing Western influence, his legacy
Other leaders, with stories untold
Nelson Mandela's fight, apartheid's fold
Samora Machel's valor, Mozambique's beacon
Haile Selassie's legacy, Ethiopia's guiding luminescence
Ellen Johnson Sirleaf's path, a trailblazer's stride
Liberia's economic growth, her careful guide
Navigating West, with a nation's pride
A female leader, with a story to abide
These African leaders, with hearts of aurum
Resisted West, with stories to be told
Their legacies live, in history's page
An evidence fortitude, in a continent's stage
Where have we gone awry? Who do we offend?
What are they searching for, in Africa's land, again and again?
Now, they pursue Traore, Burkina Faso's president true
May they not succeed, in their Machiavellian pursuit, anew
I thought I’d go too far away with you
Where our dream will be true
But one bullet shatters the flower
Which spreads the scent of love in the air
I thought I’d win one day the throne of God
Where our prayers are compiled a lot
But one bullet stabs the hands of the praying
Which embraces you as a true human being
I thought I’d spend thousands of autumnal fair
Where our unity will be a divine pair
But one bullet incarnates the pair a corpse flood
Which drives away the innocent fresh blood
I thought the rose would be our commutable heart
But the inhuman bullet makes it an imperialist dart
© Mahtab Bangalee
October 21, 2023
Chattogram
I have read the Code Noir.
I have read the papal bull of Nicholas V.
I have read the charter of imperialism.
I have read the Indigenous Code
I have read the Torah, the Bible, and the Quran.
I have read the racist recollections of ***** swimming bans and France’s human zoos.
I have read the dismal pages of French history.
I have studied the ideological constructs of negrophobic, supremacist, and racialist philosophers.
I have meditated on the sacrifice of the Black Force in the trenches of world wars.
I have meditated on the centuries of torment and dehumanization endured by my ancestors.
I have pondered deeply the savagery of slavery,
the barbarity of colonization, and the capitalist tyranny imposed by the demons of Western democracy.
I have meticulously leafed through and examined every blackened page of the slaver, colonialist, imperialist, and racist history of the West’s slave-trading nations.
I have journeyed across the Earth to affirm that Black skin remains the most despised of humanity.
Imperialist Western powers bear responsibility for every human catastrophe that falls upon Africa.
They sow chaos so the bloodiest dictatorships may thrive.
They sow Satanism so every shade of decadence, disguised as progress, bursts from the bowels of hell.
They have always fed on the wild plunder of Africa’s riches.
They have always treated Africa as a reservoir of raw materials and a free bank of human organs.
They divide, steal, rape, plunder, burn, massacre, genocide, demonize, assassinate,
Whomever they want, whenever they want, wherever they want, in Africa.
there are calamity of swam of locusts
there all are attacked by the virus
coronavirus is attacking the inside living cell of organism
Oh! about this I'm true illiterate
poisonous airing, envenomed environment
make the procession of dead
though chemical-atomic experiment
pacifies the hypocrite imperialist
now-a-days every fierce (so called natural) disaster,
every dangerous pollution
obliges to read out these as the cursed from God!
how wondrous buffoon I am!
For whom the innocent dies
and whose name does the curse write!
I abhor myself
to float on this stupid obligation,
to float on the marrow-less praying
they say pray
I say pray for mental calmness
but need to do something best quickly
for the attacked and non-attacked all
Come; save the world from the envenomed air pollution
Come; instantaneously stop the chemical-atomic experiment
Come; save the world from the toxic hands of hypocrite imperialist
-February 06,2020 Chattogram
They came as dawn's fresh light fell upon the land.
With their hard hats and high viz jackets.
Busy men clamour and plot,
Measure and scratch,
Cigarette smoke floats up high.
They never told me.
Bulldozers and diggers,
In splattered yellow overcoats,
Sit patiently for ignition.
Waiting to devour.
They never told me.
Angry Chainsaws roar,
Felling arthritic trees
That tumble silently.
Only homeless jackdaws,
Screech resistance.
But why didn't they tell me?
Maybe they don't know,
That I was once emperor of these woods.
The tycoon of rickety treehouses,
Whose Kingdom stretched for acre and a half.
Are they unaware of our imperialist acorn
Wars,
And slingshot invasions,
That lasted to tea time,
Or until a ice cream van
Rolled down the road,
Where's Clint Eastwood when you need him,
He would ride in on his trusty mare
With guns ablazeing,
And rapidly put an end to this unfurling travesty.
By this time next week my childhood memories,
Will be erased, buried beneath tarmac and
White lines
Terminally extinct, so stressed out shoppers
Can get their trollies
To the shops at least five minutes quicker.