Details |
Naa Shika Coleman Poem
"The forests are my bones"
I was born without a home
On the forest floor I grew up
I was named by the wind
it's soft whispering and the music it plays is the song of my people,my mother tongue
I know ever inch of its earth
the forest has become my home, my solitude,
its streams are my veins
its roots my bones
its vines are extensions of my arms,
when I swing along them I feel at home
I spend my days dancing with the wind
painting with the sunsets
I compose symphonies with the creatures of my woods
the forest is my home
from it I was born
and in it I live,I thrive
to it I will one day return
and from my decaying remains
another will be born
to be named by the wind
and entertained by wolves
I was born without a home I thought
but this is not true
my home is all around me
its beauty bright in its hue
Copyright © Naa Shika Coleman | Year Posted 2022
|
Details |
Naa Shika Coleman Poem
They say we need their help.
They come in their numbers
preaching salvation,
while their own people sell their souls,
for the hope to keep living.
They offer hugs we receive with arms wide open,
and their fingers, long enough, pick from our pockets.
They take our people and our land
and are angered when we fight back.
They create the beginnings of our problems,
planting disaccord and distrust among us
as if they were seeds.
They stab us in the back
and put pressure on the wound
as if they were being helpful.
Now they come to my country,
taking pictures of the unfortunate
and handing out sweets we did not ask for.
And they bring along laws that speak of a peace,
we once knew in their absence.
Copyright © Naa Shika Coleman | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Naa Shika Coleman Poem
Dear bastard,
You are the mistake of a failed love affair
Your mother wasn’t aware of your existence
Till your father decided he wanted out
You were just a tiny clot of blood
But it was all your fault.
Your father tried his best to stay
But your mother kept crying at his door at night
So he left
She never saw him again but in your face
Poor bastard
You were never meant to live a life free from rebuke
You were never meant to taste the metal of a silver spoon,
Much less see it
Poor bastard
You will dig through the muck of the gutters and arise with a bottle clutched in your fist
And your eyes reddened by the drink
Your vision will never focus enough to handle the bastards you will beget
Years to come.
But, bastard, right now
You are just a tiny boy
Chasing tires along the streets of Accra.
Copyright © Naa Shika Coleman | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Naa Shika Coleman Poem
I hope I'm not the villain in your story
I hope I'm not the big bad wolf
you flee from
in the middle of the storm.
I hope my shadow doesn't flicker
in the light of lightning,
and my voice doesn't send
a shiver down your spine.
Please tell me I do not chase you
through the pages
of a story you do not feel is your own.
Please, I pray, I hope.
Copyright © Naa Shika Coleman | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Naa Shika Coleman Poem
About being able to understand a language but not speak
Like with people
I can understand you,
but everything gets muddled in translation
and you don't seem to know how much I understand you.
I can't tell you in a way you will recognize.
And when I speak in my own language,
you shake your head
and leave
because you can't understand me, and there is no use.
How many people have left me because I don't know how to communicate in a way they understand?
How many people have left because I scream in a language of love that sounds like rubbish to them?
Copyright © Naa Shika Coleman | Year Posted 2026
|