Personal Stories of Hope

JAMIELEE-TEACHING DIVERSITY

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’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.

HOW I FEEL

If I would let myself tell you

 Where I’ve come and gone

 If I would let myself tell you

 How far I have run

 If I would let myself tell you

 Where I now stand

 Then maybe you could help me

 And tell me you understand

If I would let myself tell you

 About my hidden, darkened fears

 If I would let myself tell you

 Of my struggles through the years

 If I would let myself tell you

 My joy of breaking through

 Then maybe you could help me

 Continue what I do

If I would let myself tell you

 Of the battles in my heart

 If I would let myself tell you

 What shatters me apart

 If I would let myself tell you

 How fragile I can be

 Then maybe you could help me

 Escape and just be free

If I would let myself tell you

 Why I struggle with each word

 If I would let myself tell you

 How I’m scared of being heard

 If I would let myself tell you

 That I wish I could let go

 Then maybe you could help me

 Because then you would know

If I would let myself tell you

 Then all this could disappear

 If I would let myself tell you

 Then you’d see me crystal clear

 If I would let myself tell you

 Then at least my tears would flow

 Just maybe, maybe now

 I’ll allow you to know

By Devorah Zolotarev

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