Below is the poem I wrote as my ode to Spain, using Neruda’s voice as my co-pilot:
Barcelona
Nostrils fill with Sherry, sweet garlic, fresh cilantro and lime, its tapas time. The ocean breeze, the cobblestone streets, old set against new. My heart beats fast, the wind blows sultry heat, and I know this city is mine. The Mediterranean beckons me with its deep, rich blue. Miro, Gaudi, Picasso and Dali - footprints of talent, yes sublime. The toros are playing, the crowd cheers Ole’, and I know later restaurants will be serving stew. White, lattice chair sits below my cheeks; the sun warms my face as I sip Spanish wine. I write my thoughts next to a ancient church with its giant steps of stone and take in the view. Soon I will say, adeo to my city by the blue sea, because for now this place is only part-time -
It actually sounds better when translated into Espanol. 
Neve Black
Might I add a caveat: I’m not a poet. I have a deep respect for those that can twist words into gorgeous, non-prose and damn do I try, but let’s be honest here, I’m no Neruda…
but let’s be honest here, I’m no Neruda…
Nor should you try to be. I thoroughly enjoyed “Barcelona.” A very nice expression of the senses.
Thank you, Craig. That means a lot. It was almost more painful to put it out here for everyone and God to read than it was to write.
I hear you. Just go with the flow, Neve.
Thank you, Craig. I’m Ommming with the flow.
I found it lovely too, Neve! Thank you for sharing!
Oh Emerald, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss…thank you.