Kenneth Godoy: The Gentle Art of Breaking Sheep

To fall is to understand,
because falling entails death
or worse, severe pain,
dependent, of course, on how far you
have plunged from the grace
of clinging.

Imagine then, climbing a white painted steeple
towards the morning sun.
There, beneath the shadows of the church,
lie the grey sheep, content,
only troubled by tiny silent storms
that break upon their souls as they graze the dew.

And when you have climbed too far and your hand
does not grasp as it should have
or your foot fumbles beneath you,

And thus you fall in a sudden manner,
your hair and limbs screaming
in the fray,
back down to the ground
that bears death
in her bosom of stone.


a mere half breath before
the supple earth
should crush your spine
and spirit,

in some providential and oddly
cruel interjection,
you light upon a ewe instead;
and storms shall break upon
her soul no more.


Christ is like that sheep.
And you grunt and roll off his crushed and broken body,
surprised that death was not present to understand your falling with you.

So you grunt and dust your hips
and wonder, and understand
the gentle art of breaking sheep.

IMG_20170622_211918Of his writing, Kenneth Godoy says, “Poetry is bound to my soul.”

Videography by Kenneth Godoy

Conrad Fisher: Sleep Well

You said someday you’d ride a long white Cadillac and
Roll into town dressed up to kill.
But I just laughed and said we’ll never get that far,
But sure enough, it turns out you will.

And you used to dream about a place up on the hillside,
A little spot to call your own.
I can’t believe the way your dreams are coming true now that
You’re six feet down and all alone.

But I hope you
Sleep well my friend.
May the angels lead you in.
May you be safe in heaven’s arms
Before the devil knows you’re dead.
Sleep well my friend.

The preacher said, “Thank God! You’re in a better place now!”
I said you liked it here just fine.
And he said, “Let’s sing, Hallelujah! You had found a friend in Jesus.”
But I told them all you were a friend of mine.

They laid you down, sang you a song, and tucked you in, Lord they
Put you away like a paper doll.
But I think you’d laugh at all these flowers on your grave because
It’s just not much like you at all.

You can see more of Conrad’s work on his YouTube channel.

conrad_fisherConrad writes: I am an artist/songwriter who grew up in Lancaster County. My earliest influences were accapella groups like The Garments of Praise, Cathedrals, The Miller Four, and Keith Lancaster. In the past several years, I have been focusing on honing my lyrical abilities by studying the work of John Prine, Tom Waits, Jason Isbell, Merle Haggard, as well as by reading poetry of the classical poets. Although I consider Pennsylvania home, I currently reside in Brentwood, TN and work part time as a musician, and part time as an undertaker’s assistant in a funeral home.

Kenneth Godoy: A Miracle on Tuesday

A Miracle on Tuesday
by Kenneth Godoy

These fingers don’t write enough poems that plead for God.

Though indebted to a world that can magically heal its wounds I am still too ungrateful.
The fool has said in his heart there is no need for thankfulness:
God isn’t who he says he is.

And, there are two kinds of Jobs:
The one who endures hardness like a man;
And the Job who curses God for even one dead sheep.

I know the Job I am
If I never experienced a full destruction or the boils or the ashes
Except in my dreams;
Where I am tossed to and from the jaw of one devouring dream to another.

Yet, I wake this morning to a world sculpted in silver dust,
The whole earth is wrapped in a new skin covering the black oaks The evergreens, the shrubs, cascading through every spearhead of grass.
The wind bears down and breaks fine grit whirlwind spume from the snows surface,
Hurls it in my face then roars at the trees and they bend in mockery.
And while wading this blue white deluvion.
I suddenly remember what I lost;
By epiphany, I recognize who I am,
By faith; I know and am known.
And I weep without weeping.
And I weep in gratefulness.

And the sun still shines despite me,
Because of me, perhaps.
Granting one day more to this rebellious child.
Mercy is a beautiful word
Beautiful is a merciful word:
Though this winter slay me;
Yet will I rise.
Though my flesh is weak
Yet my lips pray to God;
With tongue and hands made alive from the dead.

Spoken, recorded, and edited by Kenneth Godoy.

kennyOf his writing, Kenneth Godoy says, “Poetry is bound to my soul.”