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.)

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.

I wrote this poem for two friends I've never met, who at the time had not met each other either. And still, they loved. I've met many others since then who fell in love on the Internet, but these two were the first for me. Two people in love. Two people who had never seen each other's face.

They were separated by a real-world ocean, but brought together by a cyber sea.

Those of you who spend much time at Passions know I often capitalize the word "Truth," and treat it as if it really existed. It doesn't, you know.

If you read this as a science fiction story, you will walk away with one Truth. If, on the other hand, you read it as mainstream fiction, you will find an entirely different version of the Truth. Is one more valid than the other? Or is Truth something that exists only within the human mind?