‘Bunhill Field’, ‘Dinosaur Footprints’, & ‘Only the Forest Remembers’
Artist- John L Gronbeck-Tedesco
Bunhill Field
Early spring in Islington,
hyacinths poking through,
daffodils in bloom,
even the magnolia trees
exploding.
Walking three blocks
to Bunhill Field
through London sun
and crowded sidewalks.
Bunhill Field,
eternal home of Daniel Defoe,
John Bunyan.
The grounds where Isaac Watts
forever sings “Joy to the World.”
And behind the hedgerow,
William Blake watches his city
rise around him.
Romantic prophet,
forging the reign of Urizen
who watches and waits.
Urizen watches and builds
the walls of his
chartered metropolis.
Urizen builds walls
and hammers mighty chains
to keep his people in check.
And there lies William Blake,
visionary with crown of light
and trees full of angels.
South in Peckham Rye,
those angelic trees
glowed and pulsed,
sending letters of love
and rebellion to the dungeons
of the Tower of London.
Wordsworth called him a madman,
and mad he was, but those visions,
from the heart of Islington,
awaken the grand city
and guide us toward tomorrow’s
fantastical sleep.
Dinosaur Footprints
Aqua-marine spray paint
on weathered ply-wood:
“DINOSAUR FOOTPRINTS, NEXT LEFT.”
Not knowing what to expect,
we signaled, pulled into the gravel lot,
and stepped out to the blast furnace
of June in northern Arizona.
Under an awning,
folding tables filled
with turquoise rings,
necklaces, bracelets, all for sale.
Local mothers keeping
food on the table
and love in their hearts:
“You guys want a tour?”
a young woman asked.
There was a crumpled five
in my pocket,
I handed it to her, and we set out
across hardened Jurassic mud.
“Here, dilophosaurus,
they probably didn’t actually spit venom
like in the movie,
and there, our state dinosaur, sonorasaurus.
You can tell its giant gate
by measuring one print to the next.”
As we walked back in time,
200 million years to when
that shallow sea covered the Moenkopi flats,
as we stepped back in time to witness
the pinnacle of 19th Century
Navajo freedom,
we sipped our bottled water
and munched week-old trail mix
from out our shiny new REI backpack.
“And here,” she said,
spilling water at our feet
to highlight the indentations,
“you’re standing in the print of a T. Rex.”
70 million years of wind, rain, erosion,
and there we stood.
We thanked her, wished her luck,
and headed out.
We had to make Kayenta
for those 1:00 PM fry bread tacos
and our lunch date at
JoD’s laundromat.
Only the Forest Remembers
Only the forest remembers
and us.
The sturdy, low boughs
held us in our youth
as we climbed.
The upper twigs swayed
and bent in the wind.
From the tops,
through leaves and clouds,
the sailboats shined
on silver waters.
Waters running from
Chicago to Alpena,
Detroit to Montreal.
The waters follow that highway
of sorrow and forgetfulness,
Mackinac to Mobile,
Timbuktu to Shangri-La.
Only the forest remembers
the broken shale.
Knee deep shards
lined the gulch
carved by ancient ice and snow.
When the glaciers receded
and the Pleiades fell
to sandy shoreline solitude,
when sumac burned crimson,
vermillion, jasper before
November’s gale,
before Friday nights at Curtis Field,
water and wind worked their magic
and the Devonian hexagons
bleached in the drought
of August.
Only the forest remembers
and those warm midnight stars.
We found Sagittarius
in the eastern sky
and The Dipper’s double glow.
Ptolemy knew the archer
was thirsty.
Ptolemy knew when
the hunt was lost.
And with that J. C. Penny telescope,
we knew the lunar mountains.
Shadows cast ‘cross craters
and ‘cross benighted minds
of childhood’s fancy.
With astral projection,
we never looked back.
Only the forest remembers
those long days
spent as mountain men, trappers,
and Allied soldiers
slinking across enemy lines
to blow ammo dumps
and liberate France.
Each broken branch a Winchester
or an M1 Garand.
Each of us, Lee Marvin or John Wayne.
“Say your prayers,
you Nazi bastards!”
we called wading through trout lilies
and barberry thorns.
“We have you in
our sights!”
Only the forest remembers
and us.
Those long, lazy afternoons
biking through the trees.
Catching air off exposed roots,
we soared like harriers.
Rounding embankments
with no hands.
“Look ma!” we called to no avail.
Parents weren’t watching.
Our summers remained
unsupervised, remained free.
They’d call us for dinner;
we’d run home for tacos
or hamburgs and hotdids
before returning to the woods
to live out grandiose lives
until bedtime called
us home again.
Andre F. Peltier (he/him) is a Pushcart and two time Best of the Net nominated poet and a Lecturer III at Eastern Michigan University where he teaches literature and writing. He lives in Ypsilanti, MI, with his wife and children. His poetry has recently appeared in various publications both online and in print. His poetry collections Poplandia and Ambassador Bridge are available from Alien Buddha. He has another collection forthcoming in 2024: Petoskey Stones from Finishing Line Press.
