"Good morning to you, Anna... I just wrote a poem in a dream! I'm posting the story now..." 2
The Dream3
There I was in Rota, Spain, at the Naval Base. I had just made my bed. I didn’t have to, it was voluntary; the room looked quite similar to my son’s messy college dorm, and the bed just like his bed that I had persuaded him make! My friends were there, an unlikely mix drawn from my childhood years through my adult life. We were not on duty that day so we decided to go to the local town. One friend showed me a cloth map of the area. I marveled at how much land the US Navy was leasing, an entire bay! I thought of all the beaches and resorts that could be built there, and how much oil there was floating in the water right now. I then marveled at how much desert there was in Spain and France, as they both were nearly 100% desert on this map! Where were the French vineyards in all that desert, I wondered. Then I saw the tiny seaside Spanish village we were headed to…4
I found myself in a mall, as if Spain had American-like malls! I sensed my feeling of being uncomfortable walking through the mall with my friends, as I was used to being a maverick and on my own- never did like to follow in or lead in a pack. One of my ever-astute childhood friends found a kiosk in a brightly sunlit corner that was giving away fabulous prizes, and he rushed over. We all followed. After a few friends unsuccessfully tried, I approached. The lady eyed me with a critical eye, I assumed because she was not going to let just anyone try, as it was a high-class operation. I looked like a country bumpkin in my hat and my plaid hunting shirt, but she perhaps saw something in me worthy of a trial. The task was to write a Haiku. She gave me a little clear plastic-wrapped granola-like health bar as an acceptance gift, and it smelled divine. I went to the lady at the next table. She was a plump elderly lady sitting there at the little round table in a colorful, flowery dress, and with the sweet demeanor of Edna Sweetlove. She handed me a tiny metallic pencil about a half an inch long with half-broken lead that could barely write, and that my hands could barely hang on to, and tiny piece of cardboard that the pencil could barely write on, much like a cheap pen on the cheap, waxy-paper of a cheap drugstore notebook. I jokingly asked the lady, “Ok, who is this to?” She replied in a serious, deep smoker’s voice, “Vial Lynn”. By her body language I sensed that it was her name. So I began to write this Haiku in my dream…5
Vial Lynn fled south… 6
(here my friends were joking, and scribbling things on the piece of cardboard. 7
I brushed them away, and concentrated, struggling with the tiny little pencil in my hand…)8
when her love’s heart iced over;9
frost is in her eyes.10
I handed the cardboard with the scrawled poem to the lady, and her lips, perhaps not having moved sideways much in the last few decades, slowly smiled. Not only did this country bumpkin write a proper Haiku, I could see in her eyes, but I had touched her heart just a tiny bit, I thought, with an unsuspected love poem...11
Then I awoke, as I am in the habit of grabbing a pen and notebook when a line or two strike, and I immediately realized I had just written this poem in a dream! 12
Adding your comment:
). But it works, and I even like it 
(it's called Classics, if I've happened to spark your interest).
Thanks so much for sharing and happy poetry-filled dreams to you 
Believe it or not, I woke up with some lines in my head this morning as well. And the first thing I did was jump out of the bed, grap a pen and notebook and writing them down in my bed (I had just got a nice cup of tea from my husband there) and then wrote the rest of the poem. We are funny people eh, the AP poets. lol. Next time you have to travel in your dream to The Netherlands... I am so curious what will happen there. 
Anna.
meooooowwwwwww
