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

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.”