Alven L. Robinson


Who Waits For Me? - Poem by Alven L. Robinson

Who waits for me? And why for me to wait?
The Gate swings a pearl door - the beckoning,
Perhaps a fate.
Alas, the ancient gods, the ghostly hands,
The heroines of cause, are gone -
The poet and the lyre, the martyrs dawn,
Are vanquished to the page;
Antigone, released unbound, her duty found no more,
Her eulogy of deeds, as graveyard dust,
Dark Hades walls to line,
Allegiance to the need that calls
A sacrifice to time.

Silence finally come, as to a sacred glade -
Altars abandoned, symbols seen, the seers,
The omen dreams, as darkened judgment made:
No other Gods - the desert son concealed,
Revealed as the One, the tragedy complete -
Truth turned to myth,
The steeple sinking deep,
Now done.

But then the jealousy - of what to ask?
And the sandals found upturned -
A ransom cast?
In vain a lesson taught, for the thoughts awry,
The dying of the Love - for Thee? -
The searching for a cry.
And what of the heart? - the compass of the voice,
Each secret with a choice, known to whom?
Known to You?

Come inside to see, the wares of Love -
The fleeing steps, the wandering paths
Cold wind swept;
And the clouds, and of Your youth - and Your wrath -
Art Thou awake? Or sleeping fast?
Art Thou listening - to me? First?
Or last?
Do You hear? And so do I -
The suffered fool, left to try - or only suffer,
Tortured well, tempted by the rule, left
Dead to dwell,
Alone, yet born to wish,
A mirror to see the home, astride the crypt,
A requiem now sown - waiting - silent for the glow,
Hands tied, lying to Thyself - at the gallows end,
Your friend.

Dare I to bend - the branches broken,
Sharply spoken Words - unheard,
The weaving of the loom, the sound,
The rest, the repose of quest? - before
Or after time?
Lost without a course, a hand without a torch,
How to see the cave, the doom -
How fare Thee at the well
Thy slave, so soon?

Freed to breathe, freed to be,
As snow to melt the light,
The Shroud as silk in flight
Beyond the faith - above Thy sake -
Absolved within the stream, moonlit
At the wake, the place, no longer to endure,
An hour's eternal Grace
Shimmering the Pure.


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Poem Submitted: Sunday, July 20, 2014



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