1

 Omar Khayyam taught us

not to burn our moments

mourning the dead

for they sleep peacefully 

in their cold graves.

Strange fellow, he was, Omar Khayyam

didn't think much of the world 

than an ungainly vessel of wine

the potter, he said

made it of his own hands

drink, drink, drink so ye shall understand.

++

Entropy is a trap

wholeness too

peel it 

scratch it

it remains. 

+

The mirth

- the mirth drowned them

but no one really cares

so long as they had fun.

+

Walking along the blossoms

red and white

I think a thousand songs

I dream a riot of colors

a commotion of the baffled - 

ruffled molecules.

+

Come, sit with me, breathe in 

this longgone epoch

this rancid tobacco of time.

-

Anant Dhavale

1

the tree knows

it has to grow

as tall as it can

-

Anant Dhavale

Some more Haikus

 1.

scattered is how 

is what has happened 

to the dewdrops 

2.

cold days of winter 

a thought remains frozen 

waiting for the thaw

3.

cold nights 

frozen amber skies

myths re-told

4.

what does the bird seek

ocean, fish, mates?

some unspoken truth? 

-

Anant Dhavale

Haiku Marathon- 3

 1.

a transition flows 

through out heart

autumn, winter, spring 

2.

but then again

time is a notion

akin to the faceless wind

3.

soon we will forget 

the blizzards, the frost 

such flows time

-

Anant Dhavale

Haiku Marathon 2

 1.

transition is what is 

and was and will be 

things end and resume

2.

imagination is 

a boat, weather- torn 

for- lorn and alone

3.

a tower emerges 

from the mist 

like a myth, a legend 

-

Anant Dhavale

Haiku Marathon 1

 I did a Haiku Marathon of sorts, and this is the outcome. Some of these may need work further but here’s for now -

1.

scattered beneath

the crescent blue moon 

a million stories 

2.

the slow patter 

of raindrops

a sonata of loneliness 

3.

driving in rain

on long blue nights 

quiet hum of time

-

Anant Dhavale

1

Now this calm, now this tumult

how we’ve closed these circles - a lapse,

a gossamer of things gone, things to be 

When old age strikes, and we wince and writhe in pain, what would these loves mean then? Broken statuettes of yore. Faded artifacts from another time.

Guilt hangs from the gilded gates - 

years recounted, faces rehashed 

This, here is how looking back looks like 

-

Anant Dhavale 

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