I’d like to introduce everyone to Woodsy, an urban poet of wonderful talent and a true friend. I highly recommend taking some time out from this world to explore Woodsy’s poetic place. The most excellent piece below he supplied in reply to my request for a ‘poem to attach to a space probe’. More on this project and more guests to come…
That one last silence in my clouds
All those twists and turns and tangles –
and stumbles –
looking for a road,
a trip not taken
to a place all roads now seem to lead:
to a car with no engine,
waiting for midnight
and me –
skimming the windscreen
of a long-lost world…
wanting to touch something different but real…
distant but close…
trying to wear a face that doesn’t fit –
and weep it
and breathe the thing free
because this heavy,
is deeper than any I have known before –
billowy pillows for a ghost.
Year after year,
I find my way back here,
to an open bedside in the sky,
hoping the Universe will help me get up,
wash my tears and
share my pain
and bleed my spirit clean.
she told me,
no-one on earth more loved than you.
If only you knew, son…
if only you knew…
how precious it is to be soft like you are…
and to touch
with your presence
the way that you do.
When I heard these words,
the sobs would come,
the stars would drop
and clouds would shiver like a lifeless weight,
frozen inside my sky…
caught in the fragile stillness of her gaze.
I told myself,
this weight will lift
and I will float free
to join my friends in the sky:
vast and billowy,
swift like a shoal of cotton-bud sky fish
or shiny like moon-lit angels,
were my ticket to new shores,
to the miracles
that dripped unseen behind every fresh-painted sunset.
I would whisper my heartache to them
as the tide rolled out,
and they would smile back,
whispering soft promises
to the rhythm of the surf
drifting off into the night…
and taking the sunsets with them.
And one day indeed,
a new cloud did come,
swooping into my heart
with a brand new set of wings…
like a night-painted manta ray,
swimming me home across the stars
and changing my perspective
out of endless, haunting eyes,
from thinly-sketched faces at the bus stop,
like a whipped thing
through the strumming
of a subway guitar.
Sometimes I believe what I feel in its weave.
Sometimes, the billow will shatter –
will burn and break
and free the those half-sobbed echoes from my throat.
these high things are more than enough –
these clouds that stop to say hello…
carrying the tears of a lonely Universe
to their deepest,
beneath the world’s wonky RADAR.
I’m just a dead weight…
standing in a shabby little,
wordless little place
that feels like it’s never gonna let me go –
I can catch people’s breath with my stories
and fill a room with the silence of clouds.