Wednesday, February 14, 2018

1

A mall
Closing down


A phone number
Forgotten long

Estranged siblings
Dead fathers
Houses sold to complete strangers

Cryptic longings for
Voyages afar

All things add up
And become this one bohemian bubble
One inept, giant bubble.

--

Anant Dhavale
Copyright @ Anant Dhavale

newagepoems.blogspot.com1

Monday, January 1, 2018

Selfies

Selfies of disillusionment

From gloomly lit bars
To the streets and nooks

Kind of sort of
Search for the self
Gone awry

Of languid disenchantment
Scattered across the walls

Selfies of question and doubt
Stuffed
Throughout the phone.

Un needed.


--
Anant Dhavale
Copyright @ Anant Dhavale

Saturday, December 16, 2017

Perplexed

Days I have wasted
In contemplating
Thinking it over
Making sense of

Algorithms laugh at me
I laugh at them back
Pikes
Trees, homes
A whole gamut of things. But I am
Not as perplexed as I was -
Let's say back in my twenties

Dewdrops of culture
And playful age
And abundance
Bounce around me
In a maze of,
Rather
A string of sub-cultures

Sub-terranean seas
A sub kind of a social
Paradigm
Underneath,
Beneath everything

It's not that laborious
To gauge
If you were to, and
Preposterous as it may sound
You are never too far from it

Homes are warm, away from the
Winterian wrath
Restaurants bubble with people
Colour floats around
Dark of the night
Darkening further
Things with colour
Touch and melt-
All around.

--

Anant Dhavale

Monday, October 30, 2017

Outsider

Once you become
an outsider
you remain one

there is a certain degree of
being an outsider by choice involved here
(or not)

going back is always an option
to the circles and
the cracking hinges of
culture
alleys of long held notions
held tight


pieces of your own
in the faded
scarlet yonder


often though
you choose not to;
a certain vehemence
keeps telling you
you were born
an outsider

and then it matters even less


--

Anant Dhavale

Monday, July 24, 2017

Insomnia



When you don’t sleep much
And work till long wee hours
They may say you have got Insomnia

Timid thing it is
This insomnia
As it makes you the lone wolf
devoid of a pack
Stark awake

Right now, all I can hear is
A refrigerator hum
And the silence

Bourbon has not brought me much comfort

May be the morning will.


Anant Dhavale

Monday, July 17, 2017

Restitution


These long walks – are partly the reason
Of my being sane
Kind of a restitution – you know, rebuilding
The bare, torn sinews

Tonight, I walk
Along a stony trail
Through the dark woods
I have heard it reaches a glorious mountain - distant, blue and green

Plaintive as I may sound,
believe me
this is my usual tone
and I am not necessarily sad

And the mountain,
It may just hold the
Panacea

.

Anant Dhavale

© Anant Dhavale





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