The beautiful Mount Bromo,
Is actually an active volcano,
And it sits on a vast piece of land,
That is known as The Sea of Sand.
This is not the very tallest peak,
But its beauty makes it quite unique,
And it’s linked to the annual Kasada Feast,
And local legend at the very least.
Every feast day, local folk climb to the top,
And toss in the absolute cream of their crop,
Vegetables, meat and money too,
To thank the gods for the crater because it imbued
Their king and queen with numerous kids*,
The royal family of Majapahit.

*25 to be precise

Oh no! Yet another “leaf on the line”,
Which means that we won’t get home in time,
It’s some railway manual paradigm,
That means the trains aren’t running.

We’ve been sitting in this siding here,
For reasons not entirely clear,
Waiting for a miracle to appear,
Because the trains aren’t running.

We’ve been stuck here now for half an hour,
And all my passengers are feeling sour,
I, myself, am feeling somewhat dour,
Because the train ain’t running.

This spot’s from “Whistle Stop Cafe”,
At least the weather is fine today,
Until we discover what’s caused the delay,
To make the trains stop running.

You’d better sit back and close your eyes,
Another hour here’d be no surprise,
So just wrap up warm and acclimatize,
Because the trains aren’t running.

It seems the train infront has caught on fire,
Quite how it happened, I don’t like to enquire,
But my train’s now caught in the resulting crossfire,
Because none of the trains are running.

How do I tell my passengers now,
That they have to climb down from the train somehow,
And a bus will take them onward, this I vow,
Because the trains aren’t running.

I’m disgruntled myself, this I do confess,
I will have to phone my wife I guess,
And tell her I’m stuck here, with no sign of progress,
Because the trains aren’t running.

Just when I’ll get home, I haven’t a clue,
When it comes to that, I’m at the back of the queue,
I’d quite like to be travelling to Timbuktu,
Than on a train that isn’t running!

Another Seth Johnson photo in his “Your Story” series in which he invites his readers to write some text to go with his photo. [http://www.sethsnap.com]

I love to sit in cafés,
And watch the world go by,
With my cup of coffee,
Which is not in short supply.
I imagine small scenarios,
For people going past,
Painter, mother, district nurse,
The odd iconoclast.
Over there, a little boy,
Has something in his shoe,
And is trying to dislodge it,
Jumping like a kangaroo.
There’s a tall guy in a pinstripe,
Newspaper tightly furled,
He’s an air of determination,
As if he’s challenging the world.
And there are two young mothers,
Peering in the butcher’s shop,
Deciding what to eat tonight,
A sausage or a chop.
There’s a girl who’s trying to canvass,
For council membership,
But people see the clipboard,
And all give her the sideslip.
A charity fundraiser,
From Mencap or some such,
Rattles his plastic bucket,
And people give – even if it isn’t much.
I think that those two over there,
With their heads together,
Are planning what to do in case
Of ghastly, rubbish weather.
There’s an old guy in his Sunday best,
Pinhole in his button,
Off to meet some favoured belle,
Who’s clearly lamb not mutton*!
And over on the wooden bench,
There’s a guy with his guitar,
Singing songs of broken hearts,
A rather gloomy repertoire.
It’s a tad intoxicating,
This world of observation,
As I try to guess the content of
Some fervent conversation!
Yes, there’s something quite seductive,
About a coffee or a tea,
And an open book in which to write
Other’s lives vicariously.

*”A mutton dressed as lamb” is a rather unkind expression to describe people of a certain age who present themselves or dress in clothes that are more appropriate to someone much younger.

Go and put the kettle on,
Pull down a mug or three,
Get that lovely teapot out,
Let’s have a cuppa tea!

Pour some water in the pot,
To make it nice and hot,
Then put those lovely tea leaves in,
The ones I like a lot.

I’ve had a simply dreadful day,
I need to settle and recoup,
And get a dose of TLC,
From that delicious brew!

There’s a watch on my left wrist,
That helps me mark the time,
It keeps me to a schedule,
It makes me toe the line.
There’s a box upon its face,
So I recall the date,
And a second hand sweeps round,
Should I procrastinate….

This boat is how we make our living,

For us it is bountiful, generous, giving,

Today it is silent, in a sea of calm,

That’s bound to bewitch, enchant and charm.

A sky that’s azure, an inlet of blue,

A rolling coastline, a stunning view.

Port Royal is where this boat is moored,

And all our life resides onboard……

With thanks to Alessa Bertoluzzi and Tammie Merrill of http://www.http.carolinaheartstrings.com, from whom I borrowed this beautiful picture.

Pete Laberge has shared many great things – songs, texts, websites – with me, so this is my gift to him, because he suggested I write it…

Augustine of Hippo,

Born in 354,

A man for whom God

Was well worth fighting for.

Augustine of Hippo,

An extraordinary man,

Who made his observations

With style and élan.

Augustine of Hippo,

Believed in original sin,

Preached predestination,

Later spouted by one John Calvin.

Augustine of Hippo,

Taught of salvation and divine grace,

And that the concept of the Trinity

Also had a place.

Augustine of Hippo,

Is known as “the Blessed”,

He’s a saint and church doctor,

So Boniface professed.

Augustine of Hippo,

Best known for the odd quote,

I suggest you read them,

They are all of note.

Pain,
Unbelievable pain.
Impossible to quantify,
Because it is pain unlike any other.
Hips adjusting,
Semi-dislocating,
In order to accommodate.
Breath ragged,
Unfocused, instinctive,
Providing percussion
For the next push.
And then with the last breath
Accomplishment!
The miracle of childbirth.
And the greatest miracle?
This tiny life that is placed on your chest,
And which your arms
Immediately embrace.
And an overwhelming love,
A flood of joy,
And the wonder,
That this amazing person
Is partly you.

 

You have to ask what logic applied,

To make Jonestown commit mass suicide?

The community, founded by one Jim Jones,

Was a ramshackle place of broken homes,

Of medical problems,  of disrepair,

Of mass food shortage, profound despair.

It was founded on a utopian dream,

But ended up with actions this extreme.

Leo Ryan* tried to visit in ’78,

But ended up dead at the airport gate.

As a result Jones called together the people he led,

And just hours later, 909 were dead…

300 were children, from cyanide,

A shot to the temple is how Jim Jones died.

 

*A congressman shot by Jones’ Red Brigade.

 

This incident in Guyana ranks among the largest mass suicides in history, though most likely it involved forced suicide and/or murder, and was the single greatest loss of American civilian life in a deliberate act until the air strikes on the World Trade Centre twin towers in New York of September 11, 2001.

Hiroo Onoda waged a guerrilla campaign,
That lasted 30 years.
I think, quite frankly he was insane,
Or else paranoid about his fears.
He thought Japan was still at war,
When the war was already won,
But old Onoda was sure about what he was fighting for,
And he considered the battle just begun.
Casualties reduced his unit to four,
And he was begged repeatedly to desist,
They told him to do so till ’74,
But he thought the allies were forcing him to persist.
He continued until there was just him alone,
And his superior officer was found,
To tell him that he was one deluded drone,
And to run the idiot to ground.