I Can't Find Out Who The Author Is Of This Poem (6)
Restless_BelleMinneapolis, Minnesota USA2 Threads 28 PostsThe poem is as follows: "Six men 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 man held his back, for on the faces around the fire, he 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 man 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, shiftless poor. The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passes from sight, for all he saw in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white. The last man in this forlorn group did naught except for 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 died from the cold within." I ran across this when I was in Baltimore, Maryland trying to get city officials to help the homeless and it has stuck with me all this time. I "tip my hat" to the author of this poem whomever he or she may be.
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The Cold Within
Six humans trapped by happenstance
In dark and bitter cold
Each possessed a stick of wood--
Or so the story's told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
But the first one held hers back,
For, of the faces around the fire,
She noticed one was black.
The next one looked cross the way
Saw one not of his church,
And could not 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 wealth he had in store,
And keeping all that he had earned
From the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge
As the fire passed from his sight,
For he saw in his stick of wood
A chance to spite the white.
And the last man of this forlorn group
Did nought except for gain,
Giving just to those who gave
Was how he played the game,
Their sticks held tight in death's stilled hands
Was proof enough of sin;
They did not die from cold without--
They died from cold within.
-- James Patrick Kinney
This one?
~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1248.html
Six humans trapped by happenstance
In dark and bitter cold
Each possessed a stick of wood--
Or so the story's told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
But the first one held hers back,
For, of the faces around the fire,
She noticed one was black.
The next one looked cross the way
Saw one not of his church,
And could not 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 wealth he had in store,
And keeping all that he had earned
From the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge
As the fire passed from his sight,
For he saw in his stick of wood
A chance to spite the white.
And the last man of this forlorn group
Did nought except for gain,
Giving just to those who gave
Was how he played the game,
Their sticks held tight in death's stilled hands
Was proof enough of sin;
They did not die from cold without--
They died from cold within.
-- James Patrick Kinney
This one?
~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1248.html
------ This thread is Archived ------
Restless_Belle: The poem is as follows: "Six men 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 man held his back, for on the faces around the fire, he 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 man 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, shiftless poor. The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passes from sight, for all he saw in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white. The last man in this forlorn group did naught except for 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 died from the cold within." I ran across this when I was in Baltimore, Maryland trying to get city officials to help the homeless and it has stuck with me all this time. I "tip my hat" to the author of this poem whomever he or she may be.
James Patrick Kinney is the author.
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this is why God created ...Google!!
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Conrad73: The Cold Within
Six humans trapped by happenstance
In dark and bitter cold
Each possessed a stick of wood--
Or so the story's told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
But the first one held hers back,
For, of the faces around the fire,
She noticed one was black.
The next one looked cross the way
Saw one not of his church,
And could not 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 wealth he had in store,
And keeping all that he had earned
From the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge
As the fire passed from his sight,
For he saw in his stick of wood
A chance to spite the white.
And the last man of this forlorn group
Did nought except for gain,
Giving just to those who gave
Was how he played the game,
Their sticks held tight in death's stilled hands
Was proof enough of sin;
They did not die from cold without--
They died from cold within.
-- James Patrick KinneyThis one?
~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1248.html
Six humans trapped by happenstance
In dark and bitter cold
Each possessed a stick of wood--
Or so the story's told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
But the first one held hers back,
For, of the faces around the fire,
She noticed one was black.
The next one looked cross the way
Saw one not of his church,
And could not 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 wealth he had in store,
And keeping all that he had earned
From the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge
As the fire passed from his sight,
For he saw in his stick of wood
A chance to spite the white.
And the last man of this forlorn group
Did nought except for gain,
Giving just to those who gave
Was how he played the game,
Their sticks held tight in death's stilled hands
Was proof enough of sin;
They did not die from cold without--
They died from cold within.
-- James Patrick KinneyThis one?
~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1248.html
Other sites claim "Author Unknown".Another ascribes it to Hurricane Carter .
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Awesome poem. 
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