There is freedom in a quiet place
Lots of room for thoughts and space
To measure, plan, construct a frame
On clouds, to hang ideas mad or sane.
* * *
A lifter, a ball player, a father,
Cancer survivor, I ask �What inspires you?�
The answer, �Salon, my daughter.
Music, like
Beethoven�s �A Symphony in D Minor�.
And thoughts, like��
�Respect your neighbor. That�s all I ask,�
Squawks the Greyhound bus driver.
�Someone next to you is trying to sleep.�
Perchance to dream. Of past and future.
The running dream.
Of loves made and broken.
Our minds. Divine.
Thoughts. I think. What it is.
Knowing or feeling. Knowing beauty.
Feeling beautiful.
Design. Divine. Orientation.
Arrival. Departure. Continuum.
Yesterday. Tomorrow. Today.
Destiny. Destination. Attitude. Velocity.
All blood returns to the heart.
Potential.
The rock and I, under the same laws.
But I am a designer, a singer, a poet.
I am a �Machina ex Deus�,
Divinely wired to succeed. Primed to perform
Miracles. From inside me flow many rivers
Of what am I capable?
Engage the Divine in me.
What is �the image of God�?
Mind. Soul. Body. One.
In blue tranquility.
* * *
�Thank you for riding Greyhound,� says the driver,
�This is the city that never sleeps.
Do not sleep in New York City.
Oh and if it sounds too good to be true,
Then it�s not true.
Ask around.
Or you will get lost.�
(just S/W of the
Snow Hill city limits)...