Empty Pocket Deep -R.D. McManes




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Caurapâñcâśikâ

Swan Song of the Thief       an adaptation of Bilhana’s Caurapâñcâśikâ     by  Dawn Corrigan   1. Still I remember her, the white magnolia of her body, the line of hair down her belly a stamen trembling beneath my hand. I’ve lost that body like a forgotten science.   2. Still I see her light increased by love— below the stars and moon, with face aglow, her body burned as though it might catch fire until I cooled her limbs and she could sleep.   3. And still if she would come to me again with love-smeared eyes and breasts that bent thin shoulders with their weight, I’d drink her mouth— the bee, that connoisseur of nature, at a bud.   4. Still I bring her back, wearied so with love she couldn’t lift her body from the bed, black hair against her cheeks, her guilty arms wound round my neck and left their scent on me.   5. Still I remember glittering eyes that d...
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Dream Deferred  by Langston Hughes What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?
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THE LIPS THAT TOUCH LIQUOR SHALL NEVER TOUCH MINE

______________________________ The Demon of Rum is about in the land, His victims are falling on every hand, The wise and the simple, the brave and the fair, No station too high for his vengence to spare. O women, the sorrow and pain is with you, And so be the joy and the victory, too; With this for your motto, and succor divine, The lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine, The homes that were happy are ruined and gone. The hearts that were merry are wretched and lone, And lives full of promise of good things to come, Are ruined and wreck'd by the Demon of Rum. Wives, maidens and mothers, to you it is giv'n, To rescue the fallen and point them to heav'n. With us for your guides you shall win by this sign, The lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine. O mothers, whose sons tarry long at the bowl, Who love their good name as you love your own soul, O maidens with fathers, and brothers and beaux; Whose lives you would rescue from infinite woes, Let war be your watch...
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