POETRY OF WILLIAM CLAIR GODFREY

SONNETS TO SOMA

2009-02-16T00:34:00.000-08:00

ANNE HILDENBRAND

Me thinks that there is nothing known more grand
In all the vast expance of time and space
In all things known to the Human Race
Than a sonnet by Anne Hildenbrand.
The Petrarchan form that issueth from her hand
Reveals the truth through furls of faded lace,
The youthful girl beneath her ancient face;
And yet it doth confound to understand
Why her stuff is so God awful bad;
And, yet contains such lofty thoughts,
Prfound vocabulary worthy of Bryn Mawr.
Oh, Woe to know her lines don't flow. 'Tis sad
To think that we shall linger in their sound
Long after our dear Anne hath crossed the Bar.

LAST THOUGHT AT TIME OF DEATH

2009-02-15T09:12:00.001-08:00

LAST THOUGHT AT TIME OF DEATH

Q. "Maharishi, What determins what we come back as in our next lifetime?"
Ans. "Last thought at time of death."

Retort of machine gun fire. Perrettttttt!
"I DUGHWANNA DIE IN A DITCH!
SON OF A BITCH!
THIS IS IT!
SHIT!"

Retort of machine gun fire. Perrettttttt!
"Dying in a ditch I lie.
Earth and sky, Good bye, Good bye.
My Lord,
My Lord,
My Lord."

SO SAY THE WISE

2009-02-11T20:42:00.000-08:00

SO SAY THE WISE

The caterpillar chews his way

Among the leaves and twigs each day.

Sniffing whiffing as he goes

Following his wiggly nose.

West to east and south to north

He scrunches up to sally forth.

Upon the branch on which he creeps

The oak within the acorn sleeps.

"So, it is", so say the wise, "

There's more to you than meets the eyes"

Along the limb and up the tree,

Where can this fuzzy fellow be?

He will climb upon your hand,

And clown around to beat the band.

He'll whirl and twirl and swirl and crawl

And curl himself into a ball.

He chews the leaves to gooey soup,

Then leaves the leaves as bright green poop.

Hunching munching through the trees

In the balmy summer breeze

He does not worry that he may

Be breakfast for a baby jay. "

That is why", the wise men say,

"We go on our appointed way."

When raindrops fall from out the sky

He finds a tent to keep him dry.

Towards the middle of July

He gets the sudden urge to fly.

In the fissures of the bark

He finds a place that's safe and dark

To exude his snug cocoon,

By the light of the moon.

For a while he rests therein.

He toils not neither does he spin.

As the summer sunshine warms

Deep in sleep his form transforms.

He gets an urge to emerge.

While his guardian angel sings

He forces out his wondrous wings.

No more nibbling leaves for you.

It's sipping nectar drinking dew.

His solitary lifestyle ends

To fly away and play with friends

"That is why", so say the wise,

"We must be like butterflies."