Manic Monday

Choices

The light-brown Mourning Dove pecked at the kernel of cracked corn.

Fat with grain, she hobbled, still eating.

Springtime and eggs are coming.

She waddles and pecks, driven by instinct.

The only thing more powerful than the need to eat,

is the need to nest.

She ;picks up a single bristle from an old broom.

She gathers brown withered weeds.

She collects a shimmery piece of Christmas tinsel.

Her beak is fat with strings, twigs, and strands of whatnot.

She sees another kernel of corn.

Her beak is full.

Kernel of corn.

Beak is full.

Her thoughts cannot go in two directions.

Corn.

Strings.

Eat.

Nest.

The snow begins to fall, as snow does in February.

Kernel.

Thread.

The snow falls on her back turning her light brown feathers snowy white.

The quandary plays over in her mind.

The snow falls.

Her eyes dart back and forth.

Grain.

Bedding.

The flurry gains force and her feet disappear in the snow.

It covers the grain.

The Mourning Dove tries to remember why she’s sitting in the snow.

_____________________________

Josh Jones

 

Emmanuel Idaago Odogo

Emmanuel Idaago Odogo: Lagos, Nigeria

Poetry is my thing. It lets me express myself in the most creatively captivating way. In poetry, every word is heavily pregnant, and can be beautifully understood in different ways; even in ways different from the poet’s, but equally beautiful. As a poet, I can express myself and still be my non-talkative self.

Connect with the Author here.

Manic Monday: Resumé

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
_____________________
Dorothy Parker, “Resumé” from The Portable Dorothy Parker, edited by Brendan Gill. Copyright 1926, 1928 and renewed 1954, © 1956 by Dorothy Parker. Reprinted with the permission of Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Source: The Portable Dorothy Parker (Penguin Books, 2006)

A Voice from Nigeria: CLOAKED

This is a poem I wrote about Death. We may or may not have people close to us who are already dead but if we do have, it’s best to know all hope is not lost. They are gone but will never be forgotten.

volkan-olmez-523

CLOAKED

You’re the priest at the altar,

Where loved ones are brought to rest.

You rule the kingdom,

Where so many have called “Home”.

Possessor of a boundless vial

Stealing precious breaths.

With heavy hearts and helpless wails,

Cherished ones taken

Tears flow, hearts broken.

A mother and a father,

Little ones, future unknown,

Teens with brighter goals,

Lovers, journey unfinished.

Merciless Taker,

How I wish you turn your back

To see many who have wept,

Many who are shattered.

You’re the sailor, the captain,

You come to take,

Only to return, vessel empty.

Except you don’t know,

That those who left never left,

Those gone, never gone.

There is a land you can’t reach,

A place you’ll never touch

And there we have given them homes,

To keep and remember

In our bleeding hearts

__________________________________________

Photo by Volkan Olmez on Unsplash

Hannah Faleti I. has spent a lifetime in Nigeria. She is currently living in the cosmopolitan city of Ibadan, north of Lagos and the Gulf of Guinea.  She begins law school in March of 2018 at Obafemi Awolowo University where she hopes to become an advocate for civil rights. Her poetry and writing reflect the grand dynamics of her homeland of Nigeria. Hannah will curate a weekly series of postings from Nigeria for Introvert Press.

 

A Voice from Nigeria

Hannah Faleti I. has spent a lifetime in Nigeria. She is currently living in the cosmopolitan city of Ibadan, north of Lagos and the Gulf of Guinea.  She begins law school in March of 2018 at Obafemi Awolowo University where she hopes to become an advocate for civil rights. Her poetry and writing reflect the grand dynamics of her homeland of Nigeria. Hannah will curate a weekly series of postings from Nigeria for Introvert Press.

(A letter to Corruption)

Corruption is slowly eating up Nigeria and sadly no one is ready to put an end to it.

Here is a poem I wrote about it.

 

RAVENOUS

Why have you come, you ravenous beast?

You feed on our flesh, you tear our guts

We are your prey, the monster we fear

You strip us of our pride

You snatch our dignity from us

We run to those who say they hunt you

Only to know they nurse you

You have made our mothers weep all day

Our fathers bite their fingers in dismay

Your howls have come to steal our sleep

Why have you come, you ravenous demon?

You ignore the dried tears on our cheeks

You turn deaf ears to the cries of young ones

Waylaying them on the way to the future

Our blood quenches your thirst

In those eyes, we see pure evil flames

Those claws have made marks unforgotten

Long fangs bringing along nightmares

Why have you come, you ravenous destroyer?

I wish we all live to see your end

But to face you, we all abscond

Endless fear pushes us against walls

With painful heart, we have embraced you to stay

A Voice from Nigeria

Hannah Faleti I. has spent a lifetime in Nigeria. She is currently living in the cosmopolitan city of Ibadan, north of Lagos and the Gulf of Guinea.  She begins law school in March of 2018 at Obafemi Awolowo University where she hopes to become an advocate for civil rights. Her poetry and writing reflect the grand dynamics of her homeland of Nigeria. Hannah will curate a weekly series of postings from Nigeria for Introvert Press.

 

Rape cases are getting worse in Nigeria. Nowadays, men believe their hungry libidos will be satisfied when they force themselves on young girls (1 year and above). It’s really sad, tainting those ignorant, innocent girls.

 

TOUCHED

I’m the newly molded clay.

I’m the new shimmering fabric.

I’m the new seed, bringing more.

I’m the precious stone, untouched.

As the clay, the flood has come to wash me away.

As the fabric, pain has come to rip me apart.

I’m no longer the seed, the wind found me.

No longer precious, the stone has been touched.

I’m the wall that bears the cracks.

I’m the broken pitcher, who shall pick me up?

I’m the withered flower, trampled, destroyed.

I’m the Queen, I’ve lost my kingdom.

As the wall, I shall soon fall, soon crumble.

As the pitcher, the grasses shall choke me in.

As the flower, years shall make me vanish.

As the Queen, I’ve no pride, no crown.

 

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