In the three years since founding netpoets.com, I've largely managed to avoid using this web site as a platform for my personal views. Passions is a place not for preaching, but for sharing. This poem, I hope, is no different.

Yesterday was September 11, 2001.

When I was 13, I lived through the televised death of John Kennedy. Later, I lived through the atrocities of Vietnam, through Kent State, through mass murders and natural catastrophes. I've watched space shuttles explode on CNN and listened in horror as children killed other children in American schools. All of those appalling events of an imperfect world live with me, shaping the person I have become. But perhaps no other day in history has touched my heart in the same way as did yesterday.

Television stations in this country are calling it the "Attack on America," characterizing this senseless violence as a second Pearl Harbor, as a declaration of war. Maybe they're right. Yet, what I've seen in the past twenty-four hours within our own pipTalk forums convinces me they are, at best, only partially right. September 11 was an attack not just against America, but against the world.

If you don't believe me, ask Titia or Munda, poets from the Netherlands. Ask Melissa or Kit, from Canada, or Dee or Maree from Australia. Ask Kamla from New Zealand. Voices have been raised in England, in India, in Ireland, in Korea, and in dozens more nations across the planet. Our poetry is international, and so too is the compassion and outrage expressed by our poets. I am both humbled and incredibly proud of the people whom comprise Passions. They give me hope.

As September 11 dawned in 2002, it seemed like everyone and his brother wanted to use the notoriety of the day to further their own agenda. I'm sure each felt their cause was just, their platform important, their arguments appropriate. Some, I'm sure, were even right. But they were still wrong, in my opinion, to use that first anniversary of the deaths of thousands for their own personal political or social leverage. Those who died that day were more than just symbols. They were people, and I think they should be honored as people.

The pipTalk Forums are more politically bent than many, and last year, after reading thread after thread on all we hadn't done, all we had done wrong, and all we still had yet to do, I wrote this as my metaphoric answer to all the soap box ministries. As the second anniversary of that sad day approaches, I would like to again caution our world to guard against the exploitation of this tragedy, however well intentioned.

Some anniversaries should be always remembered, but never celebrated.

In an age of blockbuster disaster movies, sometimes real tragedy seems unreal.

Watching the terrorist acts against our country, I flipped from channel to channel on my TV. This was our way of getting information. The more I saw, the more I wanted to deny that this could happen... that this was happening. This poem was written in an attempt to show that sometimes, we just can't comprehend the evil that men do.

When such tragic events occur such as the recent terroristic attack with such an incredible and unexpected loss of life, we are reminded to be thankful for every minute we have and for the blessings that have been bestowed on us.

Our Lady has seen many things; the poor, the oppressed, the "huddled masses yearning to breathe free." Now she has seen another sight … the desecration of her borders by evil.

How would she feel if she were real?

Words can never describe my feelings on this tragedy. I can only hope these few words may give someone - somewhere- a little comfort.

Sometimes we can't do more than to close our eyes and reach out for heaven. Prayers are always sent above, but in time of need they are united in our cry.

In these terrible hours we were overwhelmed by so much pain, destroying, tears, fears - over and over by television. Even though I don't live in the States, my heart ached for you all. I read a lot of poems, and I was moved by many… as most show love and desire for peace.

The situation exposes the villainy of the puppeteer, who is far more exposed then he thought and portrays the shame, guilt and hopefully isolation and fear of what his actions will ultimately bring him.

I wrote this poem on the train in to work on 13/09/01. The dawn was breaking beautifully and seemed at odds with the terror of the past few days.

The words just came and seemed appropiate as I looked out of the window at the sunrise that couldn't be tainted by man.

This poem is for all the people of America and for all sane and humane people in the world in the midst of this madness.