The cold within

    Every once and a while a book, article or poem crosses my path and attracts my attention. What I have come to appreciate since becoming part of the journalistic world is how difficult it sometimes can be to put thoughts down on paper and have them make sense to the reader. I know what I want to say, but the challenge becomes selecting the words so others understand my thoughts. It is easy to come up with words. Our vocabulary has too many of them. It is more difficult to choose the ones that express the emotion and passion I wish to share.

   I have come to admire those writers who make the art of writing seem so effortless. Whether it is a news story or one of these crazy columns, it has sharpened my writing skills and given me a new understanding of how difficult it can be to express oneself in written words.

   I am always on the lookout for something that causes me to pause, ponder the message and challenge my thinking. It is somewhat of an test for my personal grounding and values.

   Several years ago I came across a poem. I had all but forgotten about it until I found packed away in a folder with some meaningless piece of paper as I cleaned and straighten up the garage. So much for my appreciation of literature, right?

   As I read it again for the first time in many years, I was struck by its message, simple, yet a revelation about people and human behavior. A cold chill ran up and down my spine ,along with that “aha” moment, as I thought about the sticks of wood that I often hold in my hand.

   I do not remember how the poem came into my possession or anything about the writer other than his name. I believe I was told it was written by a high school student.  Whether that is true or not, I don't know. But regardless of his age, the message is insightful and packed with some powerful life lessons.

   So for your reading pleasure..............

The Cold Within

Six humans trapped by happenstance, in bleak and bitter cold,

Each one possessed a stick of wood, or so the story's told.

Their dying fire in need of logs, the first man held his back,

For of the faces 'round the fire, he noticed one was black.

The next man looking cross the way, saw one not from his church,

And couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.

The third one sat in tattered clothes, he gave his coat a hitch,

Why should his log be put to use to warm the idle rich.

The rich man just sat back and thought of the wealth he had in store,

And how to keep what he had earned from lazy\, shiftless poor.

The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from sight,

For all he saw in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white.

The last man of this forlorn group did naught except for gain,

Giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.

Their logs held tight in death's still hand was proof of human sin,

They didn't die from the cold outside, they died from the the cold within.

Jay Patrick Kinney