Iowa (The 29th State, 1846)

In an era that has long passed,

this land was covered in tall grass,

where bison ranged, both west to east

while grazing on that tasty feast.

Farming is the state’s tradition—

some have made it their religion:

in faith they plow and sow each field,

and hope to gain the highest yield.

There are miles of corn and many hogs

but no oil wells and few great logs!

As place to live, you won’t ask more—

but touring here might be a bore!

Hawkeye greats are hardly flawless—

take Hoover and old Henry Wallace—

though they flopped they still weren’t crooks—

they did not cheat or rig the books,

and thus, they heeded Iowa’s rule—

that being honest is most cool!

  

London, England

Along the Thames there was a town

where Roman Legions bedded down;

and later in this lovely city,

King Henry showed Anne little pity!

Let’s not forget that Will Shakespeare

wrote his greatest stuff right here;

and later, bards like Mr. Keats

were crafting new poetic feats.

If you would like a spire and such,

Big Ben will please you very much,

or for some Gothic that’s not shabby,

take a tour around the Abbey!

To get a view of royal power,

you will want to see the Tower,

and if at noon you need some grub,

you just seek out a friendly pub,

but should you yearn to view the Queen--

I’m sorry-- she is rarely seen!

  

The Suicide (Knox College, 1965)

We knew of Hegel and Marx,

had heard of Kierkegaard,

but he had read their books,

and dismissed our meanderings  

through theodicy and First Causes,

pouring out a fine scorn,

a contempt for unfinished thought.

As we joyfully shed our devotions,

he shunned our eager doubts,

and our easy agnosticism,

embracing the risk of knowledge,

and demanded we make choices.

We wilted from such scrutiny,

conscious of our nakedness

in the probing of his lights,

scrambling for the shadows

during frenzied late nights

spent with angels and eternities.

He spread out his conclusions

in the clearest of detail:

no one seemed more confident

of the geography of truth,

but behind that mask of certainty

were the terrors of an abyss—

artfully concealed, never confessed—

and there were no footprints  

left from his walk to the last place,

its downed curtain and broken glass.

Dumbly, we survivors—

numbed by his willfulness  

and neither brilliant nor informed—

did the duties of the living,

trooped off to his funeral in the town

where he had never been at home,

neither with room for the other;

found no comfort in the solemnities,

and said the wrong things

to a distraught mother and a silent father.
Returning home to beer and History 301,

the last papers and final exams,

so young and still so far

from the words and means

to finish a grieving,

we waited for the end of May

when we could close a door

and leave this world behind,    

make our escape into summer.