A woman at my retirement center has published a poetry collection. In her interview about the book, she refers to an essay by Mark Flannagan, a writer for Kirkus Review, in which he tries to define poetry.  After a few attempts, he settles for one word: imagination. Well, yes, I say

Waiting for Gadot, a play about waiting and written by Samuel Beckett, had its one-night performance at San Quentin in 1957. When it ended, the inmates were reported to have given the production a standing ovation. Few know better about waiting than prisoners, their lives on hold, and

Less than 3 months ago I lost a dear friend to lung cancer. To think of it still feels like being stabbed through the heart with a rusty knife. I’d known him since he was a boy of seventeen, had watched him grow, marry and have a family.  Yet throughout those years I never knew he