Short poem

stale

smells the

facetiousness

sounds and seems too

time 

catches up

years line-up

the horse

gallops 

ahead.

.Anant

delight

delight can be 

less-defined, even

formless and a little vague: 

something akin to a

damp rainy morning 

resembling the inner

world.

Anant

How

How I run 
From the thing 

That keeps me afloat 
Then return 

Like I never left
The careful self-sabotage

All too evident.

A song ?

this small town
Has the love

All the love I need 
You see

The folks here
They are not rich

But they have good hearts
They'll know if you're hurting

And they'll give you a comforting hug
And if nothing else

This old town is like a friend
A buddy you can always come back to
This old town

Oh
This old

Lovely
Little town

Residual

Meekly flows the 

Residual sense of enlightenment

Along the unremarkable reservoirs 

Of civilization

Lust drives much of it

The world of our perceptions

Money, power, sex

Disingenuity reigns

In cities and in mountains and on seas, it

Always has

Never was a time it didn't

Deeper conversations, a moot 

Reconciliation of virtue 

Desire and sin.

-

Anant Dhavale

Virtual Existence

 

There’s a virtual fraction of us 

out there. Living an entirely 

different life. 

In imaginary spaces,

Melting in the sulci and the 

gyri of some cold-hot server, 

a mere alpha-numeric tag.

We get lost in it more than 

we can ever imagine to impact this desolate desert. We can’t change it, 

it alters us.

Our machine-selves are akin to 

comets wandering in the virtual 

space, with no sense of direction 

and

Nowhere to reach.

..Anant

Decline

 Living in a haze 

Pretending

Coping

An individual’s decline is

A noise-less topple

An inconsequential change for the

World.

What stole your peace 

Where is your nirvana?

There’s always enough time on hand

To ponder. 

..Anant Dhavale

Denouements

Wakings have not changed, sleepings either.
Everything that runs unaffected and
moves and has moved ahead. The quiet

jazz of sleepy mornings hums and drools
then falls to nothing. Pity. The cold gurgle
flow of air whirrs momentarily.  Slippage of time

has a distinct sound to it, not a thud boom bang though. Unawares,

it runs in the backdrop. Beating hearts and buzzing neurons. You
hear it then you do not. The distant automobile grinding
and grunting through the streets makes nothing much in the way of an

argument. Vague denouements become vaguer. 

-

Anant