"Book of Mammout"
A manuscript gave birth
With the Atlantic close in sight
Uncovered in an archeological dig
Astrologically clocked at 451 AM
The foundations of which were deep within a desert cave
Written in mortal time by an aesthetic
Who had, by the moment of the works arrival here in this remote place
By his hand, lost love
For the very last time
And, after a lifetime of searching
At the end of his journey ... found it again
In that which was his
Wholeness in being
Peace in the universe.
In a purifying down pour of waters
Flowing from the multitude of heavens
Drenching the sand in an improbable storm
And that which was ... at the moment of its conception
Surrounded by the fragrance of jasmine
And the mortal sense of that which comes from beyond
Dated in the spring of the year 1922
Under a whirling ceiling fan
A moment would come
The conception of a life
Like the opening of a peony ... a desert cactus flower
Inspired ... taken up
To move forward ... in a single drop of rain
The universe revealed itself to a man
Whose name is Mammout.
Wrinkled from the travails of worldly travels ... and age
Blistered in a rash from working with infertile camel dung
Making mud bricks in the hot sun ... with which to build
He constructed from the heart an erratic monologue
Through the night ...creating
That which reached the bottomless depth of human turmoil
In sadness ... in goodness
In that which he lost ... and would gain
From the works of body and mind ... teamed as one
His conscience was freed
From the receptacle of being all that lay behind
And was to lie before
The sun on one side ... the moon on the other
That which guided a man's life
Would set him free.
Page one hundred forty-three
In (this) life
One must learn contentment
To stop, when enough is enough
Which, is never
But, for those moments
When in retrospection, one looks back
Reflects, 'Ah, yes, this is mine'
The absolute perfection in the taking of ...
And giving back
Knowing that some things are
And others not
This loss ... being the tragedy
Remorse that men feel
With the separation brought by death.
What was the perfect ending
But a leaf ... golden in color ... crimson in nature
Breaking, ever-so-gently away
At the prick of a winter chill
Falling ... in the firm hold of a strong breeze
From a sturdy, life connecting branch
Gliding ... at full sail
Slowly ... gracefully, peacefully
Through the air of scented decline
In the season's finale
To settle on the ground
From which it will rise again
Hence the moment is now
Go forward, 'yes'
Never give up, 'yes'
Stand still ... inhale, exhale
And take that which is given
For it is enough ... and not
Life into death, death unto life
This is "The Book of Mammout."
No part of this material may be reproduced, stored in a retrival system,
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise,
witout the written permission of the author.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data