This poem speaks to me. I remember primarily men I was married to, or boyfriends from college days, who I loved. At first, they loved me too. Then, their hearts would change, or they were attracted to someone else, or whatever reason they could tell themselves so they could leave...they would leave. Being discarded, rejected, left behind is painful. Then, trusting someone again is hard. Now, they have a new term for it. "I was ghosted." It's true, they were never FULLY PRESENT. Now, I seek joy from nature more often, and don't think as often about relationships.
This feels less like a poem about loss and more like one about how remembrance itself becomes a landscape we have to keep walking through. What’s haunting isn’t the ghosts.... it’s the fact that memory is what keeps them alive.
The wrecked planes once had working engines, moved on wings, carried the ghosts. Now that they are grounded, they still carry the essence of their flight in memory. Thank you, Sherman. You've made me see I am still in the memory of the ones I loved, even as a seat that once held me but is now empty.
Powerful and true. I have a son, my only child, who hasn't spoken to me in almost 19 years, even though all our time together he called me his best friend and a great Mom. I look at that wreck, at the bottom of heart and wonder if any of the so called love expressed was real.
Just like your poem expresses, its a burden to carry and ponder, is it just a ghost?
Beautiful and oh so true. Like after you catch your breath and return. View from outside the wreckage where you see all that you have survived. Thank you.
I seem to be suffering a bit of dysfunctional brain today. But it takes two willing people to build a strong relationship. She and me. We Both have strong points of character to give each other. . . The giving and receiving isn’t always balanced, sometimes the arguments happen. I have left users and takers. And I have been left also. Maybe that is what your poem is about. The wreckage. The leaving and the being left. Transactional. If we are talking of life partners there always is a bit of that. I’m supported financially by my wife as she still works. But yet she really works for herself and makes enough to pay a lot of our bills. My SSI is less than hers. But neither of us consider that to be conditional. At home I work for us and so does she at a hair salon and has many clients. At older age we both have problems but if we can’t walk any more my sons will build the wheel chair ramp. Ho Ho.
This poem speaks to me. I remember primarily men I was married to, or boyfriends from college days, who I loved. At first, they loved me too. Then, their hearts would change, or they were attracted to someone else, or whatever reason they could tell themselves so they could leave...they would leave. Being discarded, rejected, left behind is painful. Then, trusting someone again is hard. Now, they have a new term for it. "I was ghosted." It's true, they were never FULLY PRESENT. Now, I seek joy from nature more often, and don't think as often about relationships.
This feels less like a poem about loss and more like one about how remembrance itself becomes a landscape we have to keep walking through. What’s haunting isn’t the ghosts.... it’s the fact that memory is what keeps them alive.
The wrecked planes once had working engines, moved on wings, carried the ghosts. Now that they are grounded, they still carry the essence of their flight in memory. Thank you, Sherman. You've made me see I am still in the memory of the ones I loved, even as a seat that once held me but is now empty.
Oh, wow! I'm floored.
Wonderful as always. Sherman one question for you teach and sorry one more I don't think I am Substack in the correct manner. Peace Claire
♥️
You nailed it!
I sent this to my husband; we have experienced a painful ghosting recently. Your poem resonates so strongly and beautifully. Thank you.
Powerful and true. I have a son, my only child, who hasn't spoken to me in almost 19 years, even though all our time together he called me his best friend and a great Mom. I look at that wreck, at the bottom of heart and wonder if any of the so called love expressed was real.
Just like your poem expresses, its a burden to carry and ponder, is it just a ghost?
Beautiful and oh so true. Like after you catch your breath and return. View from outside the wreckage where you see all that you have survived. Thank you.
Love - for some that word, its meaning, comes with conditions as long as we meet those it’s reciprocal -
Yes I saw Gwen Harold’s post. I hope mine is never opened. Everyday is a new day.
I seem to be suffering a bit of dysfunctional brain today. But it takes two willing people to build a strong relationship. She and me. We Both have strong points of character to give each other. . . The giving and receiving isn’t always balanced, sometimes the arguments happen. I have left users and takers. And I have been left also. Maybe that is what your poem is about. The wreckage. The leaving and the being left. Transactional. If we are talking of life partners there always is a bit of that. I’m supported financially by my wife as she still works. But yet she really works for herself and makes enough to pay a lot of our bills. My SSI is less than hers. But neither of us consider that to be conditional. At home I work for us and so does she at a hair salon and has many clients. At older age we both have problems but if we can’t walk any more my sons will build the wheel chair ramp. Ho Ho.
Or maybe you won’t ❤️
The submerged metaphor is powerful for me. I will explain later in my substack Tinker's Damn.
Love this. Heartbreaking. Thank you