dead green leaves

green leaves with dead branches
trying to carry little life left in veins
in summer noon on dried grounds
an endurance to survive when source has died,

yellow leaves turning brown
falling one by one like a slow farewell 
gathering at last in the corner to mourn
a loss so excruciating to big banyan tree
on it’s root the graveyard of his leaves,

soon enough after thunderstorm
damp days arrived to rescue beings
those newly born robin and its friends nearby
who made abode on dead leaves
a silky bed to provide comfort
an occasion of joy  to swinging branches
proudly cheering  the leaves they departed.

to unknown places

unfurled in the green lush with open eyes
making sense to the faces who looked different
than the one I felt with my finger tips
whose softness smelled with colors
from high summer to cozy winter
wrapped in her chest all warmth of love
carried me to the chilling 
ocean breeze of  meadow
where I understood to define life
blitzed with paints an ordinary story
while heart longs to place unknown
a mighty desert with spiky cactus 
Oh shimmering western Texas. 

instinct has it all

threshold of severity when lived on the edge
survival was only instinct to thrive among wolves
under starry night and freezing wind
shiver gave when chills
to marching victory of tribe
once against each other in the battle ground
new enemies in the crowd to earn their mark
without the instinct to fight along
fathers and mother bid adieu
to their sons young and old
perseverance and endurance as their armour
risen the noble midst of sufferings
who stood strong and firm to their words
as the moment arrived
great were defied 
though crying sheep followed the instinct. 

the busy street

the busy street across my house
always occupied with young and old
winter or summer, rain and sun
some stop by for a chit chat
a weather gossip or just last purchase.

the busy street across my house
rich or poor they take same path
and all in rush 
to reach their homes.

the busy street across my house 
sometimes a theater, 
sometimes playground
offers it services without any rewards
a barren bed at night under starlights
becomes coffee lounge for shop nearby
the busy street across my house 
has just one name.

A programmer’s poem

wait, wake up, get ready
turn right, pause for minutes
let go after you
they say carpe diem
but it's just another hustle
of the mess created
celebrated from many as in retrospect
to cover those trail
leading to nowhere
an infinite loop 
running on the script 
programmed on Macintosh 
migrated with bug 
to my windows
where I am cleaning and rebooting
in an attempt to save
the dying body 
of silicon merged with intelligence
in a virtual world.