The Chalice of Tribute

fragment of jeanne's chalice

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A Coloring Sheet of the Chalice

To the Majesty and magic effort poured and spilt, sacrificed, caught up,
collected in the golden cup of human will. The jewelled chalice of human will
fulfilled with love to overflowing fluid. Euding are the lifedrops, oozing out viscous
tenaciously clinging to the brim, worldly and cosmic energy pulling at what
would dry into a crust of something crimson. Ifs and efforts rusting upon precious
metals and cherished stones. I am I, and you are you among the crimson rust, the glint
and glow, and glaring vibrant hues, God's glory. We are something wonderful from works
of worth and wisdom. To the Majesty and magic effort spent from father, mothers,
martyrs, and lovers. Our human souls are magic mirrors and windows, invisible and durable,
the likeness of transparent stones unseen amidst the glory; fabulously
radiant, between brilliant and blackness,
fused into the definite from the infinite
composed of somethingness and
no-thing-ness - GOD. Orishas, and
Angels made; stuff the divine
had gave.
We who are fit and also
those who are weak,
distressed and
strained, will benefit
from something the
majestic made.
A tribute to the
majesty and magic
of brothers, sisters,
cousins, and kinsmen.
A tribute to the
errant wind, and wishes
spinning within
and between the
ocean and cosmic seas,
and nature's spring, summer,
autumn, and winter
whispering into the ears
of our memories. A tribute to all offering and the magic of water,
darkness, heat, light, and cool. A tribute to the magic
might and majesty of all that's
right and orderly . . . streams and beams
and beacons of enlightenment. A tribute to the magic,
might, and majesty of the dusk and
of the dawn, and of madonnas,
monks, and eunuchs
We the poor and WE the rich will find the way to benefit from magic efforts pored, spilt, and spent. A tribute to the sacrifice caught up and collected in the golden cup of human will. The jewelled chalice of human will fulfilled to overflowing. A tribute to the majesty and magic that is love.

. . .
. . .

This poem was written six years ago, by a student I remember well. She was an African-American mature woman. And I don't need tell you of the passion with which she could express herself. Her poem does that, and I painted the chalice to go with it. But all these years later, I have forgotten and lost her name. I'll hunt for it, but I hope she'll see this and claim it, as the poem deserves. jeanne April 15, 2004.

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