New Innings, Obsolete Things Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

Death and graveyards get uppermost in mind
Of one septuagenarian defined,
But my mind goes to those obsolete things
That played a memorable long innings.

And wind-up gramophone comes to my mind,
A cantankerous old type-writer next,
Music cassettes are not far too behind,
And records whose aura's long been bereft.

And who indeed can forget fountain pen?
Some of then leaking ink in utter pain,
Some flowing and flooding without restrain—
Yet, in time an ID of learned man!

Memories rush, a long list getting lined,
And I see dial-up telephones there—
A monster shiny black with haughty air,
Still, once a symbol of prestige unsigned!

Cool products all of an era bygone,
Take those ice-cream making wooden buckets
That would churn out a feast of cream your own,
Plus neighbours and sundry guests in brackets.

A legion of obsolete things sans clue
That grudgeless to graveyards go everyday—
The way pachyderms approaching death do,
Death beckons sure and life has little say.

And yet for products there's a saving grace—
Innovative marketing can them lift
Literally from oblivion of face,
And give them a new lease of life, a gift.

Small grace that antiques fetch a goodly price,
Whilst an old man has not a chance on earth,
Too bad, he can't be dusted off in trice,
Nor in long years be recycled as worth.

Death alone can give man a new innings,
Or else a curse— life of obsolete things!
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Reflections |03.10.15|