This poem was the result of two things. A guitar I was determined to learn to play (and never did). And a growing feeling in my life that there had to be more than the daily struggle to survive.

Had this ever been set to music, the tempo would have been upbeat and the tenor glad. But if you read the words carefully, you'll discover the optimism exists only on the surface. Beneath the lively rhymes and the snappy patter, a maelstrom of frustration lay that was the reflection of my life.

Perhaps the most telling point about this poem is the fact it never was set to music as intended.

Cliches become cliches often because they contain a Truth. "Honesty is the best policy" is a cliche, but the Truth it holds is not the one most readily grasped by most. As the words to this poem attest.

I wrote these words for a specific person, for a specific reason. It was only later I realized I had found an Important Thing that would guide my life for decades. If you find this poem too cynical, I suspect its unspoken conclusion may be far worse.

One of the greatest things about Modern Life and society is the increased presence of easily obtainable information. Television. Movies, Books. And, yes, the Internet. Modern media gives us a perspective on people and Life we could not readily obtain in a single life-time.

But when modern media lies to the public, and gives us an untruthful image of Life, it does us the greastest disservice possible. There are, unfortunately, many such lies. This poem is about one of them, maybe the most dangerous lie of all.

When we fail to realize how rare a thing is, we too often tend to neglect its importance.

After twenty years in California, I was poorly prepared for the winter blizzard that savaged the Midwest during the first week of January, 1999. Living on a dirt road in the country, miles from the nearest small village, tens of miles from a larger town, I found myself isolated and alone.

At some point during the three days I was trapped in my home, I realized it was more than snow and ice that kept me so. After all, I was born and raised in this climate, and many times as a boy I had braved worse weather with little concern. The young fear very little. And I found myself sadly missing a time when a blizzard would have been just another adventure to be met.

This poem isn't about eagles, but rather is about the imperfection of Life when we must face it alone. The eagle in this story learns that she cannot fly with only a single wing. She cannot be what an eagle should be, what all eagles must be. We, too, are like an eagle's wings. Alone, we cannot be all that we should be. All that we must be.

Be not too sad for our eagle, though. Her wing is broken, and she has lost much, but time heals even broken flight. If she's lucky, if she's given time, our eagle friend may yet soar again. Just as we need not forever be alone.

The Winter of 1998 was the first time in over two decades that I found myself immobilized by heavy snow of Michigan. For three very long days. One result of that enforced isolation was a poem called Winter's Threads.

Not being one to repeat past mistakes (I much prefer the excitement of making new ones), I packed my motor home the day after Christmas, 1999, with the intention of spending winter in California. I made it only as far as Louisiana, where I stopped to visit family (and instead became involved with family). Nonetheless, I stayed warm, renewed some familial bonds, and learned I'm really not very well suited to the travelling life.

Eight weeks later, with warm weather breaking in Michigan, I again headed North. While on the road, with little else to occupy my mind, I penned this sequel to Winter's Threads. And like its precursor, the poem is less about Winter and more about the choices we make in life.

(With apologies to Robert Frost, who also wrote of choices, in a very similar format - and did it much, much better.)

This poem was written for the CEO of the company I work for. He was a big ASU football fan and when he retired, I wrote this for him.

In 1829, the wonderful and nearly mythic Edgar Allan Poe penned a poem describing his feelings of uniqueness and aloneness. He knew, early on in life, that he was different from others, created and shaped in a different mold. History, of course, proved he was right.

Over a century and half later, Michael Anderson read those words. He recognized a Golden Truth in Poe's poem, 'Alone,' and it lit a deep-felt sense of comradeship ironically based on shared aloneness. It also provoked a response, the elegantly simple, sweetly flowing words you are about to read.

Poe and Anderson are gifted writers. Using words and rhythms, and uniquely universal imagery, they are able to conveny both meaning and feeling. In this, perhaps, they are unusual. Even alone. But the Truth they share with their talents is far less unique. Poe was different, and history remembers him for his differences. Maybe, a hundred and fifty from now, Anderson will be similarly remembered. But each of us, even if unremembered by history, is nonetheless equally unique. Each of us is born and shaped in a 'world not the same,' and each of us is unable and maybe unwilling to bring our passions 'from a common spring.'

Each of us, in the end, is Alone.

I was walking by a school playground when I stopped to write this piece. I was taken aback by children at play who had no idea unemployment was up, no idea the country was about to go to war, and no concept of the cold realities that lie ahead in their very near future. I felt many emotions witnessing them at play, most of all envy.

Depression can be a dreadful thing. It overwhelms your emotions, your moods, the way you think, act, and respond to everyday life. The worst of it is depression is an invisible enemy; most never even see it coming.

Still, fighting depression can seem even more dreadful at times. How can one muster strength from weakness. How can one derive hope from despair. Sometimes it seems you're weaponless, taking stand against a raging "beast".

I don't claim to know the answers, I only know this is the battle I fight every day of my life. More often than not, just getting through to tomorrow is a gallant victory.

Thank you, PoetDeVine, for caring enough to see the signs. This one is dedicated to you.