Ivory Soap

Ivory Soap

I have tried to find the rolling hills
where the hares and the horses run free
Where the only smoke
is fog
and the only sound
is birdsong

But I return to the slap of soles
on city sidewalks
Where jarring sirens
captivate the spirit with their fear.

When will they come for me?

Blessed haystacks
with scent fresh as
wind-blown honeysuckle.
Two story farm homes
with kitchen tables filled with talk
and memories of new born calfs,
songs of generations
played at every meal.

Am I seeking the dead dream?

Sattelite dishes serve up the violence
where once blessed silence
reigned
and meditation
had no name, only substance.

Purity died with Ivory Soap,
floated down the drains
where once there was certainty,
now only hope remains.