MY SOUL-MY SPIRIT


MY SOUL-MY SPIRIT

JAMIE LEE

THE COLD WITHIN

Six humans trapped in 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 one of the faces around the fire
She noticed one was black.

The next man looking across the way
Saw no one from his church.

And couldn’t bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch.

The third one sat in tattered cloths
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 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.

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!

JAMIE LEE’S POEM

In a world of barbs and insults,
where hurt lives with its pain.

There comes a time for healing,
to talk and laugh again.

Words were sent to harm you,
from lands with no control.

But now it’s time for closure,
to let the flowers grow.

Deep down it’s all a pattern,
repeating all the same.

Reflections to each other,
in make up and in name.

When nature’s highs are highest,
with no where else to go.

They drop down to the lowest,
to let the flowers grow.

In life there are always chances,
to do the best that’s right.

With each beside each other,
to receive what’s in the light.

Give thanks to peace that’s given,
Learn all there is to know.

And walk carefully through the garden,
to let the flowers grow.

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