This poem was commissioned by the The Peoria Area Track and Field Club who organized the most amazing Halloween celebration, a race through the cemetery that ends at midnight! You could run a marathon, a 5K race, or walk two miles. There was live music, ghost stories from yours truly, and then this poem, inspired by the Aboriginal tradition of the journey tale. The idea is that the story helps you find your way in the outback; this poem is filled with visual clues to help you find your way geographically and historically, through space and time. Enjoy!
Treading with Trepidation
The Screaming Pumpkin Poem by Brian “Fox” Ellis
October 30, 2009
Tread Swiftly,
as you launch this race
through the sacred ground
made hallow by Peoria’s proud past.
Tread Lightly,
as you race through the history of our great city
following the path of Pimiteoui
a trading route for the ancient ones
whose spirits still inhabit the earth upon which you tread.
Tread Boldly,
as you follow the creek carved by glaciers
whose melting waters pump vigorously
through your beating red heart,
flowing freely from the time of wooly mammoths
and saber-toothed cats,
through the ancient aquifers that flow under your feet
to water our town.
Tread Bravely,
through the gates,
past the tumbled down shack of the caretakers cottage.
Do not cross the bridge, but bear left along the creek
where this morning’s showers flood to freshet
washing soil to the sea.
Tread gracefully,
past the tomb of Newton, whiskey baron and wife,
whose wild parties gave birth to vaudeville in Peoria
where you now play.
Tread carefully,
to cross the white bridge
after passing the grave of Erastus Willcox,
father of the free public library,
killed by a streetcar,
(though some say it was a curse from Mary Gray).
Bear left along this same creek, once dammed,
to form a reflective pool,
pause to ponder the ghosts
of seven sweet souls
whose murdered bodies
were dumped in this ravine.
But fear not as you climb the hill
towards the mausoleum
where the prosecutor rests his case
convicting Peoria’s first serial killer.
Tread reverently,
past the graves of children
buried on this hill
set aside for the meekest
little lambs of God.
Tread proudly,
past the recently erected monument
to Steel Arm Johnson
hero of the Negro League
whose unmarked grave was finally conferred with a tombstone with funds raised by his fans.
Do you dare to enter the tunnel,
under the Memorial Highway
dedicated to the soldiers
whose blood stained the stars and stripes
as they struggled against the tyrants of Europe,
fought in the trenches of France and Germany,
gassed by their enemy,
but they rose victoriously
preserving the freedoms
for which we stand.
Circle the ancient oak,
older than our city,
whose deep roots turn bone and tendon
into leaf and tendril.
Quicken your pace as you retrace your footsteps,
under the highway,
past the mausoleum,
filled with the tombs of politicians and priests,
prohibitionists and purveyors of fine spirits,
newspaper publishers and poets.
Tread gallopingly,
back down the hill
past the pet cemetery,
eternal resting place of Boomer the Lion.
May kittens, puppies and playmates also rest in peace.
Do not re-cross the white bridge,
but bear left along the bottom of the hill
where Zotz the German newspaper publisher
still rues the day he berated Lincoln in his press.
Pass the obelisk of the Rowdy Rouse Sisters,
whose father built the first Peoria Vaudeville house,
where Edwin Booth, brother to the assassin, once played.
Now following the other side of the creek,
pass the grave of Thomas Ford,
Governor during the Mormon crises,
who vowed to safeguard the revered Joseph Smith,
but shortly after Ford left Nauvoo,
Smith swung from a rope, hung on a tree
by a racist mob, and the Mormons fled to the West.
Tread with trepidation,
past the marble steps and two weeping angels
who watch over the graves of Bastow and Petherbridge.
Bastow died mysteriously in Detroit
with a pocket full of diamonds.
He bequeathed a mummy’s hand to his sister,
who kept it in a glass case for guests to admire.
In a museum in Egypt, the mummy is still missing its hand,
some say it was the hand that diapered Moses,
but now it crawls through the darkest dreams of Peoria.
Tread with fear past the tomb of poor Mary Gray,
whose old house was stolen by her wayward son
and lost in a gambler’s debt.
She cursed the land, where the library now stands,
and three librarians died mysteriously…
some still say in fright you hear her walk the stacks at night…
Tread with rapidity,
as you leave the cemetery
and return by the path that brought you here.
Leave your fear and return to the glen,
pass the high school named for a colorful man,
Woodruff, mayor during Peoria’s wildest days.
Race on for the end is near!
Scream if you cross the finish line,
For you have survived a night in the cemetery.
