Poetry may be likened to a window through which may be seen the soul of humanity. It is also the key to living and mother of accomplishment. Above all, it is a bridge constructed with bricks of verse, stone of imagery, and mortar of eloquence -- a bridge permitting access into parallel worlds of adventure, romance, reverie, and inspiration. Worlds in which there is truly something of value for all who travel across.

But, let us imagine for a moment that our bridge had never been conceived or constructed due to a critical absence of builders. If this were true, we would now be unaware of such notable poets as Homer, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Burns, Keats, Byron, Kipling, Longfellow, Wordsworth, Poe, Dickinson, or Frost.

I have frequently attempted to contribute my own labors to the perpetuation of this bridge. However, lest my limited talents prove inadequate to excite the senses or inflame the passions, let me caution travelers that my bricks are new, my stones uncertain, and my mortar experimental.