• dreaming in barcelona

    by  • July 23, 2014 • poetry • 2 Comments

    I am dreaming these days,
    but not in a language I remember;
    I wake up with some sense
    of where I’ve been . . .
    of stories I’ve been told . . . .

    In the resonance of my
    ruminations, I feel at home
    riding strange trains with
    Schanuzers who now live
    only in my memory.

    My father has walked by,
    but across the room — I
    could only see his back;
    I don’t think he was
    expecting me.

    Sometimes I think I should
    make more effort to
    remember: keep a pen
    by the bed and write
    madly when I wake . . .

    No. For now I will wander,
    much like we did on the
    story-ed streets of Barcelona,
    soaking up snippets
    of Spanish I didn’t know —

    save the food words;
    I will wander and wait to
    be found by that one morsel
    of memory that keeps
    inviting me to taste and see.



    Blogging since December 2005


    2 Responses to dreaming in barcelona

    1. Julie
      July 23, 2014 at 10:41 am

      Hi Milton, I love your words. Evocative. Thank you.

    2. July 23, 2014 at 10:42 am

      Beautiful. Peaceful. Blessed.

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