The Cold Within

Six humans trapped by happenstance
In dark 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 woman held hers back.
For on the faces around the fire
She noticed one was black.

The next man looking cross the way
Saw one not of 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 the lazy, worthless 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 to gain;
Giving only to those who gave
Was how he played the game.

The logs held tight in death’s still hands
Was proof of human sin.
They didn’t die from the cold without,
They did from the cold within.

- by James Patrick Kinney

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Mr.Keropok's Thoughts:

I'm don't usually read not get caught up with poems. But this particular one caught my attention today as I was doing some web surfing. And how true it speaks of our human nature. I confess that at times I too have been selfish and only concerned for my own safety, survival, needs, wants, desires....etc.

As I reflected upon these words written, it is a timely reminder for me daily to "not grip hold of my stick" - But when I learn to give (in actions, words, attitude, time...etc), not only do the recipients benefit, but I too have grown.