A Belated Lament for Robin Williams


I Mourn for Robin Williams,

Whose life was suffused in all his acting parts.

By contrast, as a writer,

I am the missing part in all my books,
Save two: my collection of Days of Awe

And Jeanie and the Gentle-Folk.

In those books I am searching for—



I am no Robin Williams,

For Whom Each Part is Him

Whether the Kind and Wise Teacher;

Or the Doctor Disguised as a Clown;

Or the Divorced Father Who Loves His Children;

Or the Criminal at the Photo Shoot;

Or the Liar who saved a Ghetto’s Hope;

Or the Demented Kiddie-Show Host.

All these parts to a man full of Life

Though the Illusion that he controlled

The Dark Within ended in Suicide.


No, I am somebody

Who the Truth hides from,

And I am always searching—

For something, I know not what.


My Unfinished Books,

The Days of Awe and

Jeanie and the Gentlefolk

Stretch back to childhood

but can’t find adulthood.


Though I cry for Robin Williams—

As I suppose every watcher of

Dead Poets’ Society did—

I wonder if I, too, am caught in the Dark.

Published by hadassahalderson

I am a professional author who lives in Wichita, KS. I went to Friends University and spent one year at Claremont Graduate University. My published work includes: The Bible According to Eve I-IV and Faust in Love.

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