Pens and Pages

He says 'tis not poetry what you write. Where are the stories, where are the rhymes? Though we look into each other's eyes for hours From one sunset to another sunrise. He says 'tis not love if we await another day. Where are the words you and I didn't say? He says 'tis not about my daydreams. He says we don't hold hands very often. For the world is filled with contemporary poets, He says mine don't fit this world of substance. Where does the heart of your poem lie?, he asks. A poem's not a breeze, long, that doesn't last. A minute longer that doesn't stay, 'Tis not a poem, 'tis what your feelings say. A floating second on someone's news feed, No dearth of meanings for those who read, Not my stories but 'tis what I think, I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.

From the last two days I've seen no night, No darkness, no dusk, no rains, no blight. My orchard's flowers seem to shine bright. Birds chirp around and butterflies alight. Grandmother's woven the sweater, at last, of Brother's embroidered shirt's size. From the last two days I can hardly count The days of happiness I've lived in disguise. Summer ain't so hot nor have I seen Winter's chill. From the last two days, life doesn't seem so hard. No, don't bring me the stars from the sky, I'm planting sunshine in my backyard.