Strange Weeds Poem by Patti Masterman

We grow large like strange fatal weeds
growing alone down here
birthed from what we may never know,
blown near or far the tidal ponds of life’s beginning-
though in every language
the first word is always 'mama' or 'papa'.

Not one remembers the moment of birth,
bright shock of arrival
the undeserved blows
bringing in the ocean of breathing.

Someone's always hitting us-
hopeless leaves swirling in a tempest,
hot clay climbing the inside of jars.

Touching through thick ropes of charred roots
too sensitive to permit contact
brutal to be human, always so much loss.

Words are the what,
words are the all,
that we have down here
we that close our ears from long acquaintance,
impoverished with familiarity and contempt-
the edgy twin-brothers.

while the brain fattens on old memories-
and we’re grown tired of myths-
where are we to put all the new things;
why no one seems to care?

Can you hear all the echoes
of these words in my mind, friend-
or are we already too far gone,
we who lose more every day
in this cancerous poverty of the spirit-
don’t let the expectations kill you.