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 a
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
