American Tender-Age Detention Center

It took only months for the goal obtained

tender age children with cheeks tear-stained.

The White House man feels satisfaction

creating the child and parent fraction.

Put them on the floor, be careful to not hold,

the room is clean, hardly any mold.

Chain link walls rise from cement floor,

no curled razor wire, who could want more?

Time to eat because it’s 3 AM,

WAKE UP you grunt, forget your REM.

Diaper changes we cannot do,

prison policy dictates ‘no hugging’ too.

What’s all the fuss, brown babies on the floor?

Their parents are criminals, infesting our shore.

Who cares they’re babies, these disposable worms,

our props for publicity in the midterms.

Thoughts of wrong-doing? Don’t it let enter,

the American Tender-Age Detention Center.

Father’s Day

I put my cigarette out in a dish, on the table.

Grinding out my frustration, my contempt.

Commercials of dads in polos playing catch with kids.

Everywhere: on TV, on FB, on Twitter.

I throw my phone into the wall.

I light another cigarette,

sucking in my angst,

blowing out my rage.

Father’s Day.

The day I rue.

The father who left me behind,

and the kids who I left behind,

because that’s what fathers do.


I put my cigarette out in a cup, on the table.

Stubbing out the anxiety of this day.

I pour the three fingers of amber liquid

Into the tumbler next to the dish and the cup.

My father just left. My mom didn’t care.

I light another cigarette,

breathing in the fire,

exhaling the fear of

Father’s Day

The day I rue.

Me, as a father, the failure.

My father, as a failure, the cycle.

because that’s what fathers do.


I put out the cigarette, in the dish, two butts now.

Extinguishing the burn of this fucked up holiday.

I pour the rest of the bottle,

and lament the bottle’s emptiness.

I am my old man.

My father just vanished. My ex just took the kids.

I light another cigarette

Tasting the ash

of a burned out life.

Father’s Day.

The day I rue.

I was better off without him, wasn’t I?

They’re better off without me, aren’t they?

My father, a myth in my mind..

Me as a father, my mind amiss.


My phone on the floor, across the room

from the dish and the cup and the bottle

It rings.

I stagger to greet its electronic complaint.



Oh shit.

A Voice from Nigeria

A poem about the saddening and depressing state I find myself in anytime I think about my country.



Let me speak of this
This self I am
My skin, my origin
For life has a tale of me

Black blood formed
Formed to make me
In a land where
we are lost
I find a destiny all mine

Let me speak of men
Men with power
Some of words
Some from us
Pushing us to our death
Guns silencing us
Drinking from a goblet
Filled with our sweats

I eat forgotten bread
Bread is all I can have
I have been looked upon
Spoken against because
I wear a black hide
A battle won to keep our dignity
Yet keeping a dignity soiled

Let me speak of my home
Home, I can’t run from
A beholder of sorrow
Misery wraps me round
Makers of our own bitter pill
Achievers of a darkened future

Let me speak of our doom
Doom ahead, eager to trap us
This is my home
This is my land
All we have, all we own
Destroyed, wasted
My fatherland
But is it too late?
Too late to be rescued?
Too late for peace?


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.

Manic Monday


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.





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



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.



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)