Two Poems by Joseph R. Goodall
Grant Park in Midwinter
Together we share a light moment
a reprieve, like a reverie
walking down these windswept roads
still awaiting diagnosis and treatment
just trying to enjoy the afternoon
amid a roiling world and our addled brains.
Ahead, a luminous willow forces a bend in the path
marking a refreshed corner of the park.
I feel my thoughts enliven, my curiosity piqued
inviting me down into a rock-lined rain garden.
The low afternoon sun splits the natural features
into foreground and background
not illuminated from above but from afar
cast into a glorious, momentary diorama.
This was once the center of a Civil War battle
a redoubt, a retreat, a fortification
nestled among old oaks stripped bare by cannon fire.
Young men in drab gray uniforms
mound earth and stack stones
constructing an unnamed shelter
waiting for fresh supplies on the rail line
for bellicose passions to subside
for flushes of foolish thinking to dispel
for a sane argument to take hold
for brothers to stop killing brothers
for the constant downward spiral to end
for leaders to stop and think.
Oh, how perilous and lonely it would have been
to stand up and march across those fields
toward the advancing blue suits on the horizon
to write a letter of regret and rejoin the Union
to overhaul an economic system of oppression and complicity
to liberate families and tribes and kingdoms once torn apart
to speak with kind language of unfathomable peace
all while the summer sun blazed and the cotton field fluttered.
A few decades later an immigrant walked this land
in search of a fresh perspective
on this war-torn and rebounding city.
He climbed into a basket, ascended into the sky
lifted by hot air swirling in a balloon.
Below stretched avenues and boulevards, carved through bushy treetops
hills and streams activating his imagination
resulting in an angled aerial drawing.
I wonder, did the surveyor feel affection? Disillusionment?
Any notion of the concrete and steel structures
which would one day rise from the ground?
Stacked high and swaying, their foundations burrowed
far deeper than any military trench
more extensive a network than a company of teenage soldiers could dig
yet teetering and fragile under the force of pandemics and biases
their doors so often shut in the name of progress and profit.
There is a moment on my walk
when I am loosed from my anxiety and simply see you
standing, resplendent, safe
the sunlight striking the bare branches
the sparkling stone steps in the rain garden
the cypress knees poking up from the wetland
the browned ferns curled in the corner of a plant bed.
I wonder if all this history in the soil
is destined to rise up, reanimated
if the trenches will open again like chasms
driven by the tectonic plates of our apathy and mistrust
or if there is still a chance to walk together
rather than digging our heels and slinging stones.
Oh, how illuminating and beautiful it would be
for those who feel trapped and used
by our present, harried systems
to rise overhead and look down
pointing out the places where we went wrong.
a reprieve, like a reverie
walking down these windswept roads
still awaiting diagnosis and treatment
just trying to enjoy the afternoon
amid a roiling world and our addled brains.
Ahead, a luminous willow forces a bend in the path
marking a refreshed corner of the park.
I feel my thoughts enliven, my curiosity piqued
inviting me down into a rock-lined rain garden.
The low afternoon sun splits the natural features
into foreground and background
not illuminated from above but from afar
cast into a glorious, momentary diorama.
This was once the center of a Civil War battle
a redoubt, a retreat, a fortification
nestled among old oaks stripped bare by cannon fire.
Young men in drab gray uniforms
mound earth and stack stones
constructing an unnamed shelter
waiting for fresh supplies on the rail line
for bellicose passions to subside
for flushes of foolish thinking to dispel
for a sane argument to take hold
for brothers to stop killing brothers
for the constant downward spiral to end
for leaders to stop and think.
Oh, how perilous and lonely it would have been
to stand up and march across those fields
toward the advancing blue suits on the horizon
to write a letter of regret and rejoin the Union
to overhaul an economic system of oppression and complicity
to liberate families and tribes and kingdoms once torn apart
to speak with kind language of unfathomable peace
all while the summer sun blazed and the cotton field fluttered.
A few decades later an immigrant walked this land
in search of a fresh perspective
on this war-torn and rebounding city.
He climbed into a basket, ascended into the sky
lifted by hot air swirling in a balloon.
Below stretched avenues and boulevards, carved through bushy treetops
hills and streams activating his imagination
resulting in an angled aerial drawing.
I wonder, did the surveyor feel affection? Disillusionment?
Any notion of the concrete and steel structures
which would one day rise from the ground?
Stacked high and swaying, their foundations burrowed
far deeper than any military trench
more extensive a network than a company of teenage soldiers could dig
yet teetering and fragile under the force of pandemics and biases
their doors so often shut in the name of progress and profit.
There is a moment on my walk
when I am loosed from my anxiety and simply see you
standing, resplendent, safe
the sunlight striking the bare branches
the sparkling stone steps in the rain garden
the cypress knees poking up from the wetland
the browned ferns curled in the corner of a plant bed.
I wonder if all this history in the soil
is destined to rise up, reanimated
if the trenches will open again like chasms
driven by the tectonic plates of our apathy and mistrust
or if there is still a chance to walk together
rather than digging our heels and slinging stones.
Oh, how illuminating and beautiful it would be
for those who feel trapped and used
by our present, harried systems
to rise overhead and look down
pointing out the places where we went wrong.
Rottenwood Creek
A heavy storm recently swelled this waterway
into a barreling chaos, churning and toxic
submerging the tag-along paved trail
carving notches and shortcuts into red clay
leaving behind plastic bags, snapped trees and
the remains of what we use to fulfill our schemes.
Earth-tone apartments stand like castles
above the rocky slopes flanking the stream
guarded only by a row of air conditioning units
perched precariously at the top of bank
their rattles masking the advancing surge
trying to ignore the deepening ravine.
Quiet visitors pass by occasionally
human cyclists, runners and walkers in pairs
scurrying squirrels and darting songbirds
moving ever onward like the water below
until one stops and leans over the edge, fighting
against the momentum of gravity and time.
Long ago water was divided from earth
in some mysterious way no creature witnessed
while in the near future, everything we’ve made
will be rejoined with the unbiased soil
and the water will continue its course
slowing only to fill the voids between shape-shifting sand.
into a barreling chaos, churning and toxic
submerging the tag-along paved trail
carving notches and shortcuts into red clay
leaving behind plastic bags, snapped trees and
the remains of what we use to fulfill our schemes.
Earth-tone apartments stand like castles
above the rocky slopes flanking the stream
guarded only by a row of air conditioning units
perched precariously at the top of bank
their rattles masking the advancing surge
trying to ignore the deepening ravine.
Quiet visitors pass by occasionally
human cyclists, runners and walkers in pairs
scurrying squirrels and darting songbirds
moving ever onward like the water below
until one stops and leans over the edge, fighting
against the momentum of gravity and time.
Long ago water was divided from earth
in some mysterious way no creature witnessed
while in the near future, everything we’ve made
will be rejoined with the unbiased soil
and the water will continue its course
slowing only to fill the voids between shape-shifting sand.
About the Author
Joseph R. Goodall is a writer and civil engineer whose fiction, essays, and poetry explore the
intersection of human communities and natural landscapes. His short story collection, What the
Bird Sees in Flight, examines the unraveling and reunion of a strong-willed farming family. Born
in New Zealand and now based in Atlanta, he draws inspiration from watersheds, local history
and a diverse range of storytellers. His work has appeared in publications such as Flora Fiction,
Litro USA, and Lostintheletters.
intersection of human communities and natural landscapes. His short story collection, What the
Bird Sees in Flight, examines the unraveling and reunion of a strong-willed farming family. Born
in New Zealand and now based in Atlanta, he draws inspiration from watersheds, local history
and a diverse range of storytellers. His work has appeared in publications such as Flora Fiction,
Litro USA, and Lostintheletters.
