Stonehenge Won't Talk

Some say I grew
from fingertips of gods -
pillars of their might. 
Might be I sprang
from beneath Salisbury plain 
beckoned by magnetic impulse,
or an extraterrestrial coax. 

Others hold that I 
am the mountain that man made,
with strong arms 
and lengths of rope,
drawing down the moon,
heaving determination
upon approximation of the sun's
sanguine smile
just to sacrifice sobbing
slabs of guiltless flesh
for Spring rain. 

I am the last mystery,
holding close
the chiseled stories 
of my own creation,
the stony regrets 
of my ubiquitous duration - 
and I
will never tell. 

The Grand Canyon is Tired

I remember when the Earth ripped apart. 
It smelled like the beginning of the end, 
but then we began our dance again. 

My core
carved from stratified ash
by a raging river past -
reduced to a trickle,
ruled by that silver siren in the sky
and her magic pull on all that moves,
and moves, 
and makes me curve 
into a dusty cradle -
tired
of hosting wonder. 

Once, I held the songs of whales, 
vibrations of their sorrow
rang deep in my marrow, 
next to fading echoes of stampedes, 
reptilian screams,
buffalo hordes with malted hides
before they sighed upon grateful spears
of hungry men 
who bellow into my belly
disturbing decrepit slumber
for photo op awe
that I'll stash away in gorges,
until the day I can finally pay 
the moon for my freedom. 

Hanging Gardens of Babylon Lament

Fable me this
old Nebuchadnezzar,
were you gripped 
by an unrelenting
heart swell, or
was it the swell
of a man who knows
to please a Queen:
you must grow
a garden in the desert. 

Babylon shrouds
my body in earthquake
rubble, beneath
the dusty dialect
of Berossus
and Siculus
are my tumbled
terraced walls
that kiss the edge
of the Euphrates
with mud brick -
scraping the inside 
of the poet's eye, 
refusing to just die. 

What Yellowstone Knows

Nobody trusts me.
The moon says I smell 
and I can't disagree
sulfur rots within me
like dead cabbage steam. 
But still you hitch camp 
to the dirt on my back,
but don't forget - 
I'm a commitment,
I'm the hot breath 
in your face daring you
to be better, 
so be better. 

Share my life
with your phone
its cryptic call
speaking codes in the sky
while I lay love to the mantle
coddling plumes
crusted in basalt
ripped from rocks
making room for molten
honey oozing through my body
tasting just like the earth's core. 

In the Grove of Redwood Titans

I am a giant,
remember that
while you ant crawl
beneath my crown. 

They call me
the Lost Monarch,
but really
I am the Mother 
of trees
that I feed
through my underbelly;
tubular knots
sucking from the clouds
then breathing out
lung and blood. 

You could never
rival me,
with your thin skin
and milk;
I supply pleas 
echoing within streams
making us thrive,
fighting to survive,
this buzzing world. 

The Dead Sea is Offended

How dare you call me dead -
haven't you read Aristotle?
I have held the crowns 
of Kings in my salty arms, 
Cleopatra sang of secret 
beauty locked in the crest
of my waves that move
with the breath of the moon
into the lowest rift
of this bleeding Earth. 

I don't have room for
life to teem in my bowels. 
I am a palace of magnesium, 
bromide and sodium - 
I can suck sadness 
from your soul and scrape
scabs from your skin
just to roll it all out
in pearly halite pebbles
you can take home again. 

Broken In

Your benign fist 
hovers,
but never
hits, never 
needs to
when serrated words 
are fit to rip me
while your toxic lips
suck me shriveled, 
identity crippled,
until I fumble
into my hollow,
searching for 
my spine.
You wore me down. 
You rode me through
             like a saddle.
To mount. 
To reign from.