From nowhere strode the tattooed harbinger
Long black trailing coat flying at will
Straight through the crowd
Caught in his dark path
Slow raised long arm and bony finger
Pointing way ahead intently
Grim faced and pursuing his latest task
Is it me he’s looking for?
Or you?
Dark places are gone, I have seen the light
There have been many Reapers so far, no need for contrite
But ghosts have a Habit, of recurring so we’ll see
I hope the next that visits, will have a Habit “Fit” for me.
So glad you’ve seen the light
there’s no need to fear the night
LIfe is chock full of delights
Some are wrong, and some are right.
When you become a certain age
Hormones fade & do not rage
How good then it would be
INcreasing cerebral capacity.
for SPITFIRE
Two cackling witches - got me goat today …
High on their horses and smug in the fact,
They know what each other will say …
They point their crooked finger
At whoever gives them cheek …
Beware the cackling witches - if you ever dare to speak …:shock:
GREMLINS
Gremlins come and cause havoc on speck
They take yer things - when you least expect …
But they give them back - so what the heck :-p
RJ
Whether you bring us joy with yer words of mirth
Or make us ponder on mind and soul …
Or glimpse a life, we may not know of
There is one thing we can be sure of …
Your words are of you - and that will do … very nicely 
awwwwwwww shucks. ( blushes profusely)
Time to blush - some more …
http://www.smileyvault.com/albums/CBSA/smileyvault-cute-big-smiley-animated-018.gif
Some closet poets are coming out to play at last. Rob got competition .
WHERE !
let me at 'em !
Well Pats CG for one. I reckon she is just finding her feet. Flood gates will be open soon 
. Poems up the gazoo 
.
Na - not me - could never compare to RJ …
I dabble a bit is all …
a pic
this is a pic taken from my family tree
my son ,my dad and then thats me
shame you cant see it
a great time in my life
who’s taking the picture?
twas gillian my wife
Neat and sweet - quite a treat 
Not a poem, rather an extended excerpt from my recollections of an extended family (mine).
Tea with Maud
Maud was the only grandparent I can say I ever knew. My Dad’s parents died during the war and Grampy Bob hardly ever spoke. She was very special and would say her name was Maudina Selina Angelina Lusisa. This was pure fantasy of course, her real name was Maud Nelly Louise , one of eight children born to George and Frances Payne.
Tea with Maud was always a hit and miss affair. I have early memories of sitting round an open fire in her house in Aldermoor Avenue with bread being toasted on a long handled fork . We giggled a lot. Grampy sat in an old chair sipping tea from a saucer, pausing now and then to twirl his moustache. He was going to tell me how the camel got his hump, but somehow never did.
I used to drop in after school, from 1959 after Grampy died. I was always made welcome, the welcome being as fresh as the bread was stale. I guessed that she preferred it that way. The only way I could dispose of the bread was to ask to take it home with me and feed the geese on the way home . For a while I bought a fresh loaf at the Co-op, always remembering to quote her dividend number 11187.
Alas the Co-op bakery closed and we went back to stale bread, kindly given to her by her caring neighbours .Drat their kindness and generosity. I can see her now, sawing the brick hard loaf into thick slices, sloshing on dripping, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and finally giving her hand a deft second swipe on her pinny.
Having an insatiable curiosity landed her in trouble once when she climbed into the back of an ambulance in the High Street to see if there was anyone she knew on board. The returning medic commented,
" Your nose wont get rusty will it Missus". He may have been talking about her curiosity, and then again perhaps her running nose and hand wiped on his stretcher.
Mrs Dewey, her neighbour also had a dripping nose. Rather apt for someone with a name like Dewey. Mrs Dacey, another neighbour was a lovely friendly gushing lady with a wonderful smile, spoilt by a huge purple mole thing on her lower lip which made us youngsters wince as it popped in and out of her mouth when she ate Maud’s rock hard rock cakes.
I was reliably informed years later that she bit on it and bled to death.
Mrs Dewey became more and more oddly behaved, and adopting a full length rubber Mac, galoshes and sou’wester hat in all weathers, and walking from the road where she lived to the drain outside Maud’s where she emptied her tea pot every day.
The crunch came when she started guarding Maud from visitors , turning them away at the gate, including me. One day she stopped coming . Locked up we think.
Maud couldn’t settle anywhere for long and we last had tea at the rest home in 1992. We could safely resume drinking tea , knowing that the cups hadn’t been used to soak her teeth in overnight anymore.
Virtually deaf and almost blind she managed one last sweep of her hand to one ear, one eye and her nose.
“Ear Eye Nose You” she pointed at me and giggled.
Lovely read Robert. Enjoyed reading about Maud and her neighbours, they sound right characters. 
Another day another dollar
this weather makes for hot under collar
I prefer it to be more cool
some may think that I’m a fool
For moaning about, warmth of the sun
but I find it devoid of fun
My brainwaves rack up my body warming
THen I’m boiling without a warning
THis may all seem a pointless tome
but I have some fans at home
aimed at me to provide me with air
THen its almost fine to bear
STrangely I have grown a fashion
for orange juice, and fruit named passion
I cant see any problems though
my face is now a bright orange glow
We are a pair - For I too despair
When the hot weather kicks in ya see…
I like it cool - nothing else will do
So its Spring an Autumn for me …
RJ - I so enjoyed your story of Maud and others, I remember well the drinking from the saucer, Gran and Nan did that. As well as a pinch of snuff, of which I sometimes did partake at the age of 5 an 6 an 7…
THanks PatCG Sipping tea from a saucer reminded me of this episode, which I may have posted before.
PART ONE
TO MANY JOURNALISTS
Too many Journalists …
I left school aged 16 in 1964 and had no idea what sort of job I might do. The school careers master, bumbling Mr Newton looked at me and scratched his head and sighed loudly when I arrived at his office for guidance. For all I know he still there, scratching his head, for he never progressed from shaking his head and muttering to himself.
A few days passed and I found myself with Mr Ahier ,the Youth Employment Officer in his office at the bottom of Shirley High street. He must have spoken to Mr Newton, because was sighing, scratching and muttering all at once. Typical civil servant doing things in triplicate.
“Well boy what are your ambitions, what do you want to achieve in life?"
My mind wandered off somewhere distant.
“What sort of work do you want to do?" Mr Ahier persisted, despite my floundering.
I had no ambitions and no idea what I wanted to do.
“I want to be a journalist!" I suddenly blurted out. I don’t know why, it suddenly popped into my head.
“ Journalists PAH. Too many journalists “ slurped Mr. Ahier supping tea from his saucer, an old fashioned thing to do even in those days
I ventured that I had worked in a pet shop on Saturdays and was promptly packed off to Mayes department store by the Bargate in the town centre for an inter view with the formidable Miss Jossaume, personnel manager.
Yes , she was formidable, a word which could have been created specifically for Miss Elisabeth Jossaume .
With her tight permed hair, stiff neck. pebble glasses and thick bright fuchsia lipstick she radiated menace. She sighed, crossed her legs and folded her arms. I noticed she was wearing tartan socks and brogue shoes .
“Well boy what are your ambitions. What do you want to achieve in life?"
Looking up I expected to see Mr Ahier, but it was still Miss Jossaume, already showing body language indicating the interview was already drawing to a close. Without waiting for answer she continued by asking me how well I had done with my GCE exams. I answered honestly, possibly modestly and in due course actually accurately.
TOO MAny journalists
PART TWO
“I think I failed all 5 exams" .
The door was shown to me without delay , with Miss Jossaume sending me on my way with ,
“You are clearly NOT the sort of person we are looking for.
“
Mr Ahier wasn’t too bothered and sent me the following day to Tyrrell and Green department store, Imagine my dismay to find myself face to face with Miss Jossaume.
She had changed jobs that week and now sat before me once more. The interview was an action replay
of the one before, with one difference. It was obvious to me that I hadn’t been recognised by Miss pebble glasses, and to her all spotty youths looked alike.
My confidence grew.
“I am confident I have passed ALL my exams" I informed her.
This time she walked me to the door, patted my arm and cooed
“You are clearly JUST the sort of person we are looking for”.
In 1976, some 12 years later, whilst manager of MONOMART DIY store I met Nigel Bird, another frustrated journalist, given the same advice by Mr Ahier, I believe he went into catering. I hope not.
In July 2001 I was at a Barbecue with the church and I entered into idle conversation with the vicar about all the press cover concerning the NHS.
At that time the Daily Echo was running a particularly aggressive pot-boiler about how the NHS was finally on its last legs.
Then he turned history full circle by delivering boldly.
" Too many journalists “ Could Mr Ahier really have been correct all those years ago when he launched those words at me.
There is a nice post script added to this account of events, for after the passing of 43 years in 2007 I was beginning to imagine that these events of my youth and my honing and embellishing the facts into an entertaining yarn on my part, I made the acquaintance of a friend of a friend while on holiday in Jersey.
This dear lady’s face lit up and she exclaimed.
“ Mr Ahier ? , what a coincidence, that was my uncle Vivian”.
Much enjoyed RJ !
PHIL GARLICKE
Who can fathom what spurs men on
When the thin veneer of PC has gone
The gloves are off, pretend no more
The anchors adrift, now distant the shore
What steers a man into trouble and strife
If it’s not an empty unhappy life
By knocking others simple lives down
He is assuring himself of a permanent frown