Chalice
Posted on Aug 16th, 2007
by 
kcidybom
kcidybom
A tribute to a friend on her 50th birthday, a day she approached with some trepidation. I wrote it two years ago and forgot I had it:
Drink From the Chalice
The twelfth of never, nineteen hundred and fifty-five.
A soul in the Guff freed itself for a merry go-round.
And the gods then remarked: “You ain't no jive.
Welcome tiny child. You're on camera, live.”
This fry, this mote, this babe, this jot, this dot,
This experience born of love was borne by love.
Our great Ark she peopled with herself, a solitary shot.
You'll not be the platitude multitude. It's all of you or not.
Then the question was asked, as Newton in his old world drove
Down the road a bit: Do you think you'd know my world or me yours?
Thus a great idea was born; look only askance and truth to you will hove.
And the treasure world, all of it, was added to your loving lovely trove.
Then, while waiting for some left to pass, you took a step through time,
Where golden threads of being were: too much, enough, not more.
And the past, all pasts, yours, mine, all, cried to you not to mime.
To be anything than what you are would be the greatest crime.
Years by grateful years your moon suffered and sang
And Worship at the Holy Temple grew.
As Dame Fontaine danced,
As Ginsburg howled,
As Chomsky knew,
As Buddha was,
As lessers lived,
As Dylan prayed,
As greatness died,
As John wrote Paul,
As Timothy dropped out,
As Norma killed her fame,
As lovers cried out your name,
As Janice learned her new game.
And Worship at the Holy Temple grew.
Through bliss'd years your sun beat down to rise you up as ever before.
Ancient beyond years the mountains beckoned you, to learn with fine strife.
To seek your full family; feel your true spirit, those with your way, those so real.
Here is your purpose, here is your home, you know it with sharpness, that of a knife.
Meaning: The gods say to you now, “Welcome, to the best decade of your life.”
A soul in the Guff freed itself for a merry go-round.
And the gods then remarked: “You ain't no jive.
Welcome tiny child. You're on camera, live.”
This fry, this mote, this babe, this jot, this dot,
This experience born of love was borne by love.
Our great Ark she peopled with herself, a solitary shot.
You'll not be the platitude multitude. It's all of you or not.
Then the question was asked, as Newton in his old world drove
Down the road a bit: Do you think you'd know my world or me yours?
Thus a great idea was born; look only askance and truth to you will hove.
And the treasure world, all of it, was added to your loving lovely trove.
Then, while waiting for some left to pass, you took a step through time,
Where golden threads of being were: too much, enough, not more.
And the past, all pasts, yours, mine, all, cried to you not to mime.
To be anything than what you are would be the greatest crime.
Years by grateful years your moon suffered and sang
And Worship at the Holy Temple grew.
As Dame Fontaine danced,
As Ginsburg howled,
As Chomsky knew,
As Buddha was,
As lessers lived,
As Dylan prayed,
As greatness died,
As John wrote Paul,
As Timothy dropped out,
As Norma killed her fame,
As lovers cried out your name,
As Janice learned her new game.
And Worship at the Holy Temple grew.
Through bliss'd years your sun beat down to rise you up as ever before.
Ancient beyond years the mountains beckoned you, to learn with fine strife.
To seek your full family; feel your true spirit, those with your way, those so real.
Here is your purpose, here is your home, you know it with sharpness, that of a knife.
Meaning: The gods say to you now, “Welcome, to the best decade of your life.”
Access: Public
birthday
July 2008 
Good God, I stand in awe. This is fabulous. Tell me, please, that it has been published somewhere!
I hope the whole world gets to see this; I bow to you, my friend. What art this is!
Shawn
Thank you so much Shawn.
This one hasn't been published. I mostly do poems for my own pleasure and that of my friends, but maybe someday I'll compile them. It's hard for me to break out of my “pissed-off teenager” mode when I write poetry, so most of it I don't end up liking, but I work at it.
Albert
your friend is blessed to have you take the time like that.
loved it too.
have your pissed off teenager call my pissed off teenager would ya?
thanks for putting this good stuff up here for us.
bobJuan.
Ha! I hear ya on the pissed-off teenager thing bobJuan. Any time bro!
And I'm happy that you liked it.
Thanks…..
Albert
Thank you for the birthday gift, Albert. This is fabulous. Pissed off teenagers need to be heard – some of the most dynamic voices are those who refuse to mind Mom and Dad. If the pissed off teenager isn't given voice, it comes out sideways later. Keep telling his story!
By the way – you should publish. This is genius!
Thank you Karen. I am humbled by your praise and you give superb advice on the pissed off teenager thing.
You are welcome, surely.
Albert
Albert,
This is beyond words, incredible really! Thank you for sharing it with me and for being such a wonderful alli on my journey. You have touched me deeply several times with your comments to my blogs…and this is certainly no exception. Fabulous work Albert…fabulous you!
I appreciate it Julia. May you have many happy birthdays!
Wonderful! Thank you.
Thank you Farland. What you say means so much to me.
Oh! A work of art… this is amazing, truly. To look at and to read. Made my day. Now just wait until I turn 50… not so many years now. I'll be reminding you ;-)
And YES to publishing it. Think of it as a gift for many people…
Love,
Sandra
Sandra - I'm blushing. Some day I may blog about this poem and the woman who inspired it. It's an interesting story about identity and self-knowledge - I promise…;-)
Thank you so much.