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 Aug 14
Marshal Gebbie
My team out of Buttercup were carting hay for old Scruffy Turner.
Scruffy was sick so we offered to clear the airstrip hay for him.
Toward the end of the day someone drove up and told me they were letting a herd of black pol beef cattle out on to Taurewa strip ,up near the Chateau road.
I had my little Cherokee parked on the Taurewa strip. Black cattle have a propensity to rub themselves up against the fuselage of a parked aircraft....really does a lot of expensive damage, very quickly...
So I asked Scruffy to drop me onto the Taurewa strip to pick up the Cherokee. He obliged with his Cessna 172.

I found myself bare chested, clad in shorts and workboots, hay in my hair getting into the little Cherokee and going through my preflight checks.

Scruff took off and circled, I followed him off Taurewa.
At 80 ft above the treetops we levelled off and headed for the National Park strip, now clear of haybales.
Scruff, his wife, Anne and I were communicating, chatting on 121.3 megahertz when my aircraft's engine abruptly stopped!

There is something comical about sudden silence when airborne!

I set about checking fuel and ignition and attempted to restart the engine...several times. ....SILENCE!

Funny the things that race through your mind in an emergency.

Several week before this I had attended the funeral and the wake of an old chairlift company mate of mine, Marcus Leecher.
At the wake over a couple of good sized Scotch whiskeys I bumped into old Jimmy Johns, an engineer from neighboring Stratford, who used to own and operate the National Downhill ski operation on Mt Ruapehu,

Jimmy said to me, "They tell me you're a pilot now, Gebbie?"
"Yeah", I said. "Well, if ever you get into difficulty over big forest trees or a large expanse of water, THIS IS WHAT YOU DO!"

Jimmy's instruction exploded into my head like a time bomb!

Here I was, now 50 ft above a continuous forest of huge native trees, I had a dead engine and nowhere to put the aircraft down.
I gave Scruffy a quick mayday call....and of course, he panicked!
He started flying around in huge circles and promptly lost sight of my aircraft.

I went through my drills, fuel off, killed ignition, trim for glide, grab a knotch of flap, minimize airspeed........Look for a location to ditch.

Old Jimmy John's message came through loud and clear......
So I executed his instructions to the letter.

1. Located two ****** big rimu trees with sturdy vertical trunks.
2..Tree trunks separated by a gap large enough to fit the fuselage in between.
3. Brought the aircraft around in an arc so that I was lined up exactly with the gap.....Then dived the aircraft vertically downward.
Swept the foliage below with my wheels... then, with the momentum gained by the dive, climbed straight up into the sky.
4, Stalled the aircraft, actually stopped the aircraft in a vertical position....then aimed it at the gap as it fell out of the sky.
5 I took the impact with the wings, it actually sheared the left wing off the aircraft, broke the chord.....BUT IT SAVED THE FUSELAGE
6. Braced myself for the absolute unknown....hung on tight!!

The aircraft almost stayed up in the higher branches, then it crashed down through the foliage to the hard baked earth, 30 ft below.....BANG!

Momentarily, I took stock, no fire, airframe right way up, body wracked but OK. Aircraft wrecked!

I disentangled myself from the seat belts, sprung open the door and exited the aircraft at haste.

Located approximate position of Scruffy overhead and launched a parachute flare skyward to let him know I had survived. The flare almost hit his aircraft, it zoomed past him and continued skyward, he never ever got to see that flare....but all the skiers on the adjacent Whakapapa skifields did!

I fashioned a big arrow out of logs pointing in the direction of my intended exit....then walked 10 km out of the forest.

The very next day I purchase old Jimmy Johns a very special bottle of the best Irish whisky I could find and shook his hand hard....as a Brother aviator!

M@Foxglove,Taranaki.NZ
15 August 2025
People say to me:
“I’m so sorry you’re heartbroken.
I hope you heal soon.”

But what they don’t understand is,
I am grateful to have loved so deeply
that even heartbreak
doesn’t taste bitter,
and that even sorrow
has a sweetness to it.

Great loss can only come
from losing something truly great.
So I welcome the weight,
because I know
I once held the rarest,
most exquisite form of love.

I am privileged to have known it,
to have understood
what I was given.

And yes, sometimes it hurts.
But sometimes,
the memory of your smile
lights up the darkest corners of my soul.

I still feel our love
swirling in the quiet spaces between thoughts,
like a steady, unspoken truth.

Sacred love accepts the pain.
It does not twist it
into anger or resentment.

It carries it
as witness
to the heaven
we once lived.
Follow me on instagram @incurable_poet
 Aug 13
Thomas W Case
We lived for the
next drink; the elixir to
erase the memories of
a thousand cruel dawns.
It took work when we
were broken and bedraggled.
Creativity and thirst drove
us through the day.

"Do you have anything to pawn?"

"Hey, why don't we stop by the
old carnival guy's place, he's
always good for a belt."

"Big Brenda will you give you a
10 spot to go down on her,
are you
up for it?"

The **** we did to stay liquid smooth.
We redeemed cans for nickels, It took
hundreds to get a bottle.
In and out of dumpsters filled with
the most vile trash imaginable.
Me and those aluminum cowboys,
knee-deep in the filth just to
get a drink.

Winter was bad, frostbitten hands and
hearts, but summer was worse.
Something about the way the sun
cooked the trash had a hellish putrid
effect on the soul.
That smell was the seed of my
sobriety.
Here is a link to my YouTube channel where I post poetry readings from my latest books, Sleep Always Calls, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse and, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, they are all available on Amazon.
 Aug 13
Terry O'Leary
The sinking sun is now undone,
                       the sky is fading red
and shadows prowl neath cloak and cowl
                       for midnight lies ahead.

Beyond the heap, the honchos sleep
                       with bloated bellies fed;
for, yes indeed, no one's in need,
                       at least, that's what they've said.

Amongst the ones that hunger shuns,
                       in day's retreating tread,
are spiders black ensnaring snacks
                       while spinning silken thread.

But as it stands, in conquered lands
                       a famine reigns instead -
and kids at noon, collapse and swoon
                       on stones they call a bed.

With aching eyes they fantasize
                       and dream of gingerbread,
and after while, they wake and smile,
                       now dining with the dead.
I wrote this poem 13 years ago. It seems to be even more relevant now than then, so I'm posting it again.
 Aug 12
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
We sense it because it comes inexorably,
this is the beginning  of good-bye.
Her eyes avert his, a touch with no
feeling, a caress more cautious than
caring, a kiss when lips do not meet,
this the beginning of good-bye.
A perfunctory placement of the hand,
a conversation moribund, sipping
scotch and sodas in silence, a call that
never comes, memories that have grown opaque,
this is the beginning of good-bye.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
 Aug 12
guy scutellaro
I've walked your floor

sat beside you in candlelight
looking at photos
scattered across the floor.

you remembering names
and people and prayers
I had long forgotten.

you are the dancer
who glides this loner
through sorrows and the stars,
across the mist of moments
most treasured

where in the stillness between kisses
promises are kept
and the warmth of your hand on my cheek
felt in places to real to touch.

your love asks for nothing
and when you smile your quiet gift to me

tender one, every breath I take is loving you.
 Aug 11
Agnes de Lods
My thoughts strike from within.
Anger, helplessness, then tenderness
crash against an invisible wall.
The helmsman has set a course
for unsteadiness—
in an hour, maybe two,
another wave of doubt will come.

The sum of scenarios
weighs more than yesterday,
tattooing my soul from within.
I’m waiting,
freezing my tired mind.
Forget?
I can't anymore –
The anchor sank deep.
His voice rests in my depths.

I don't want to sail alone,
even though words of assurance
sound like a childish game.

I divide my loneliness into two,
adding up the “what ifs” –
I forgot the order of operations,
still remembering that my heart
beats slower, then faster.

I take a calm breath.
An invisible pin
pierces the back of my head.
It hurts—physically hurts—
But I won't back down.

I don't want to sleep.
I'm waiting for dawn,
for the solution to the equation
of my life,
with two unknowns.

I'm waiting
for those hands,
for that gaze,
for that smile,
for that warmth.
 Aug 10
selma
In honor of getting older,
wiser, sillier and bolder -
I have decided to take the shackles off.
They keep me safe, but curse me soft.
As my life has flashed before my eyes,
Suddenly, I have come to realize -
   I haven’t lived enough
      I haven’t loved enough
         I haven’t danced,
            nor laughed hard enough.
fear has consumed me since birth.
it cannot consume my thirties.
 Aug 10
CJ Sutherland
Yesterday
while walking my dog
At the park
I saw a tall drink of water
A Winsome man who put us at ease
He’s saying his music to the air in trees
A genuine cowboy
From head to toe,

A cowboy hat, boots,Wrangler jeans
a rodeo belt buckle
Gave me a chuckle he sat
in a chair under a yonder, shade tree,
I saw him before he saw me

I mention if he sat there long enough,
He just might see
Eagles, hawks and a vultures or two
His slow reply
“ all I’ve seen so far
is a dog I once knew”

Lean back in his chair,
relaxing there contemplating
the morning view 7:42 am
By the time we finish our walk,
he was gone his melody, his song
still linger from the tips of his fingers

Today, sitting on a picnic table
The cowboy young and able
guitar in hand singing his music, he took a stand
(sundown by Gordon Lightfoot 1974)
“Strumming my face with his fingers
Singing in my whole life with this song”
like he was part of a country band

The minute we got out of the car he stopped,
Pulled his guitar down
I smiled when I spoke half in a joke
I had hoped  for a serenader or two
He looked up
Tipped his hat with a gleam in his eye
You were were you
as we walked by

Halfway down the trail,
I can hear him
strumming his guitar had much to say
Not singing just playing away

The soothing country, music,
gracefully in the air
birds, squirrels,  deer
Far and near
animals big and small everywhere paused
Ears went up twitching animals in awe
for a moment
to take in the one man band
As more people arrived for their daily walkabout

Simply honest, not to deceive
The cowboy quietly got up to leave
A Solitary man


Inspired song

1)Solitary man  (April 1966)
By Neil Diamond

2)Killing me softly 1973
By Roberta Flack

BLT Webster’s Word of the day challenge
Winsome  8-8-25
Windsome describes people and things that are cheerful, pleasant, and appealing
I started this poem  July 7 2025
It sat in my draft mode until tonight‘s word of the day challenge

There are all types of people at this park. It’s tucked away and just away out of the main thoroughfare with a forest of trees surrounding the grassy knoll, a large soccer field has a pathway around it for dogs and people to stretch their legs.
 Aug 10
guy scutellaro
the cracked mirror
splits my face down the center.

one eye opened wide.
the other eye heavy.

one shard shows me young,
the child with dreams
filled with wonder.

the other sharp edge, old,
etched like tree bark in winter

(cuts deeper than jagged mirror glass.)

waxing moon, waning moon,
ashes and the flower blooms.

one eye looks back.
the other eye forward.

morning light, midnight,
all in the blink of an eye.

the mirror---no lies here.
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