“Be absolute for death: for either death or life shall be the sweeter” William Shakespeare
From Nelson Mandela’s autobiography, The Long Walk to Freedom
I was assigned a cell at the head of the corridor. It overlooked the courtyard and had a small eye-level window. I could walk the length of my cell in three paces. When I lay down, I could feel the wall with my feet and my head grazed the concrete at the other side. The width was about six feet, and the walls were at least two feet thick. Each cell had a white card posted on the outside of it with our name and our prison service number. Mine read, “N Mandela 466/64, which meant I was the 466th prisoner admitted to the island in 1964. I was forty-six years old, a political prisoner with a life sentence, and that small, cramped space was to be my home for I knew not how long.
And my companion piece, the following poem I wrote from my Covid-19 Vacation Country Club Prison. I am seventy-seven years old and this bunker with a view will be my home for I know not how long.
In My Cups
When I’m’ in my cups- communing with my dark side I tend to view history with a jaundiced eye Wasn’t there a time when Millard Taft and Howard Fillmore were made up names of dead presidents who for all practical purposes never really existed And when future folks come to ponder denizens of more recent power might they not be adding to the list Adolf Trump, President of the United States just before the lights went out and we were plunged into our watery graves and stripped of history altogether
The Bard of Appanoose
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