Long Shaka Poems
Long Shaka Poems. Below are the most popular long Shaka by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shaka poems by poem length and keyword.
She is known as Honorable Queen Mother Nanny. The lady was so sweet as sugar candy.
Enhancing the fight, smiling with much delight, knowing her cause was right.
She was the awesomely true Westward Maroon liberation queen in the highest esteem.
Hailing from Ghana's Gold Coast as an Ashanti or Akan—"A free woman!"
His Excellency the Right Honorable Marcus Mosiah Garvey Jr. "Visionary Diasporan."
Founder, Universal ***** Improvement Association and African Communities League.
Created the Black Star Liner, forging the link between African and North America
Desiring to take his people back to their ancestral African roots, starting with Liberia.
The heroic grandfather, The Honorable Paul Bogle, says, "No taxation without representation!"
National Jamaican hero, Stony Gut Baptist Church deacon, and Morant Bay "Victor!"
Usually referred to as a "Shaka Zulu Pickney," an ancestral famed freedom fighter.
Proverbial singer Bob Marley uplifts his grace in the song "So Much Things to Say."
Faces printed on currency show the value of national and cultural pride—"None to hide!"
Standing on many shoulders, such strengthening standard-bearers, faithfully abiding!
If you could see what I am seeing
Mesmerized,speechless,amazes,intrigued
What a man of statue
His words say it all
Royalty in its raw form
A monster in the making
Yet his love is so deep,
Thee,amalgamation of culture
As the spear being raised up high
Honouring those old souls
Embracing who we are as a nation
Our hearts filled with joy
And respect is at the tip of the tongue
Thee, dream is being manifested
As we proceed with,which was written
Honouring our commitments
Your majesty is here to stay,
If you could feel what I am feeling
Sense of belonging,maturity,blessings,anointment
What a diverse man
His Royalty with endless love
Everyone must bow
The monster has arrived
The King! King Shaka!
S
UNBEARABLE DARKNESS OF
NEAR VOID
Unbearable darkness of near
Void
when my Heart sits indigo
at the back of my throat
I see no endearing
vacant eyes of guides
grit in joints scream
generational curse
which stubbornly brick
build a house faraway
as mental escape into
limbs to twine around
clean waves caught
on deserted beaches
humans trying to prepare
for something they seek
somewhere in a future
at the tip of a nose
penning Zen water time
So strange this time of change
when we know we cannot
evade justice of timespace
flames of distant dissolution
Galactic Sun calling us to
surrender to its melting
we wonder about other
hands or lashes or meals
listening to Seven Sisters
where comrades pour
gentle wisdom edged
finger tips touching our
cheeks and hair silent
Voices falsely echo
performance plans or
contact counties for
plumbing permissions
make no sense in
coffee cup thoughts
Who are we to question
footsteps in caverns or
in government corridors
corruption or thanksgiving
when these reflect minutes
and themes we passed
some time ago ?
Why do we re-read
lessons for another
like threshing corn
again and again for
bread which is not
for our cutting board
to tolerate their viral
pain in our own swollen
fingers reconfiguring cells
to silence love aching
fluid which will not move
to sleep away until
another wakes
Oh ! Darkness of near
Void
swallow mind, toes, wind
tick every crumb and crime
as love sickles time moving
standing still messaging
Shaka Zulu and his impis
watch resting guarding
a foundation slab hastily
laid as hide and seek
a usual ostrich trick
surfing experiences
God patient nods
“Wait” what else
I ask to sleep in
Darkness of near
Void
cannot instead
caress Awake
as profiles become
particles picnicking
my constancy
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&
Song2024
The tribe of tribes of South Africa
Lead by their king Shaka
1816 they formed their state
As they head into history
What be their fate
British Conflict, internal rife
13 kinglets loss of life
Rorke's Drift 1879
Mission manned, all was fine
British soldiers, African colonials
Squared up to the Zulu swell
Attack after attack,
Murderous aggression
Who really won
This theatre session
KwaZulu homeland, now KwaZulu-Natal
Buthelizi, Inkatha political hell
Members of the above and the ANC
Fight amongst themselves
For the country they want free
This mighty tribe, over a century ago
Powerful and strong, as their neighbours would know
But in this modern world, as history has told
Another tribe no longer the bold.
Woe to you… whitewashed tombs!
You glitter in gold vestments,
swing incense in marble cathedrals,
chant Latin like sacred thunder—
but your silence
is louder than the bells of Rome.
Tell me, O Holy See,
why must the holiest of seats
remain the coldest to change?
Where is the Pope with skin kissed by the sun?
Where is the Cardinal whose accent echoes Kilimanjaro,
whose spirit dances with the Ganges,
whose roots pulse from the Andes to Soweto?
Are we not also made in God’s image?
Your pulpits once whispered prayers—
now they echo with centuries of chains.
You spoke of Christ’s body, broken for us,
yet broke the backs of those
whose only sin was a different shade of skin.
You sold blessings to slave traders.
You baptized ships
that dragged our ancestors into the Atlantic grave.
You placed your cross on their bodies—
but never in their suffering.
And now we sit in your pews.
We kneel beside you.
We chant your hymns.
But we are ghosts
in your white cathedrals.
The black priest walks in shadow.
The Asian bishop stands in silence.
They serve, but are never seen.
They preach, but are rarely heard.
They are welcomed—
but not embraced.
You tell us Jesus is white,
blue-eyed and blond like your artists’ dreams—
yet he was born under a Middle Eastern sun.
You gave us Abraham and Jacob
but erased Shaka, Nefertiti, and Ashoka.
How can we see God in ourselves
if every image looks like you?
O Vatican,
you cannot hide behind stained glass forever.
The truth seeps through like sunlight—
slow, persistent, blinding.
We are not bitter.
We are broken.
We are not rebellious.
We are awakening.
And with every tear we shed in silence,
a pillar of your sanctuary begins to tremble.
This is not hate.
This is heartbreak.
The Body of Christ is global.
And every limb matters.
You cannot proclaim unity
while exiling our identity.
The day is near
when the roof shall split—
and the wind shall carry the voices of the forgotten
into your chambers of power.
We do not wish to destroy you.
We long to redeem you.
But redemption will not come
until you cleanse your heart
as much as your altar.
Remember: The Church is not white.
It is every child of God
crying for justice.
Even from within your own walls.
HEAL THY SELF O WOUNDED AFRICA
(no to XENOPHOBIA).
Wake up a voice shouted
You slept like a pregnant woman
While the drum beat of my assagil sounds like trumpet
With fear and deep chill I listened
The ghost of mighty black warrior standing in shiver
As I face the Great Zulu warrior lost in fear
I saw him Shaka cry to the members of Mambers the great Gods of Africa
There before him stands the Mighty Nile in disbelief
With the Niger filled with bloods disagrees to stay calm
The Senegal and the Congo revolted with flood
The orange and the Limpopo grumble and cried as the sky shared their pains with continuous rain pour.
O you failed cried d Zambezi as she invades her neighbors with flood
A knock on my door I heard a voice shout
Speak out for Africa
It is I Kwameh Nkrumah speaking
This is a sacrilegious act echoed the Mighty Zik
When the house is not in order the cockroaches becomes violent
Cried out the anguish voice of Awolowo
From afar I saw a running giant coming with the force of a chariot
Then I heard a voice so mighty was it that the visitors chased it with fear
He a mighty figure decorated and protected by glory of stars
Stood there is burning eyes of anger
Cover in the black glasses with general pride
As curious as a questionnaire
I ventured in to the glorious illusionary scene
Standing before my trembling eyes was The General Abacha in his full stature
Like a Ligtening spark the mighty figure bent his head in shame
As I looked to behold who thou art
There before me I saw The Mighty Mandela in tears of betray
Weep no more thou wounded soul
The thunderous voice of King Sailaise shouted
In council with the great Ghaddafi as furious as
Idi Amin
Sankara frowned like a disgraced old man
While the ghost of Seda Sengho felt it lost its victories like Anthonio lost all his titles
In schock I turned as a firmed hand gently parted my hand
It was a mighty spirit with two heads
It is the heads of the great secretaries
Achebe and Giwa
Handing me a pen a paper
Written on it
Heal thyself O Africa before yesterday bleed to death.
He holds his head and lifts his eyes to the sky
Where are you when i need you Lord.. Rama
He intones the creator in a strange tongue
Rama karama ye na shaka yo... Rama
He offers supplication in a strange tongue
Actually its as if the words are coming out
From a well a cistern of his soul.. deep inside
He continues his supplication and in his minds eye
He exits the third heaven approaching the throne
The throne of mercy is unveiled and he enters
In worship he is dedicated and in prayer
He gains transcendence.. to the throne
We thank the Lord for small mercies and favor
We thank the Lord for the unveiling of the throne
The throne of mercy in the transcendental realm
We intone in worship thankful for small mercies
(His mercies are new each morning.. He is Jehovah Roi)