It’s December

Before the sun rises:
The ice hardens
As the wind
Sheds a throw 
Of deep snow.
	It’s December.

Before the sun rises:
The smoke stiffens
As it lifts
From the stack 
That is black.
	It’s December.

Before the sun rises:
The air shivers
As the branch
Filled with flakes
Finally breaks.
	It’s December.

Before the sun rises:
The moon glistens
In the blue
Like a tear
On the cheek
Of the day
That is new.
	It’s December.

Before the sun rises:
The elk watches
As the bliss
Of the dawn
Gives the frost
On the trees
A pink kiss.
	It’s December.

And while the sun rises:
The earth listens
As the dark
Finally flees
From the trees,
And the sun
Jumps the hill’s
Windowsills,
And strikes light
That is bright
On the waves
Of the drifts
That are white.
	It’s December.


COPYRIGHT 2021 BROOKLYN K. BIEGEL

I’ve Heard Tell

I’ve heard tell of wander-lust
And men and boys beside
Who sought out nature’s gold-dust
And left their fireside
With youthful lustre in their eyes—
No thought for hearts their passions crushed—
Their lips and arms gave feigned goodbyes
They did not feel, nor cared they rushed.

I’ve heard tell of wander-lust
And women and girls beside
Who dab on fashion’s eye-dust
And flee their husband’s side
With not a care of home’s demise—
Or thought for how he feels the thrust—
She shuns her role and her children’s cries
To find her fame in the world’s eyes.

I’ve heard tell of wander-lust
And children and youths beside
Who grew up never life-rushed
And loved the ocean tide
Of life’s sweet calm, no compromise
That steered to things that rust;
Moth-eaten dreams their eyes never cried—
For a child's heart has a child's trust.

And I’ve heard tell of wander-lust
And a handful I’ve known beside
Who hate this world’s gold-dust
And choose a road not wide;
They maybe have no envious eyes
Of man or name fixed on their private ways,
But God’s hand gives them restful days
That hold the peace of the Only-Wise.

COPYRIGHT 2021 BROOKLYN K. BIEGEL

A Mary’s Prayer

Wash my eyes, Master, unstop my ears, remove the veil from thy word;
Save this soul from these drowning tears, and gird this mind 'gainst self's dread cord! 

Let these eyes with brightness shine, denoting peace and hope within
That comes from thy strength so divine and slays the lying tongue of sin.

Be thy promise all my heart requires to wait on thee and watch with perfect calm;
Be thy presence all my soul desires when tender waiting seems to last too long.

Let me hear Rabboni call my name; teach this heart to walk the kingdom's way; 
Let thy living law in me proclaim the faith that rests and hears thy voice today.

Show me I am nothing on my own - and help me see that I'm your child!
Judge me at thy judgment throne - still draw me though the storms blow wild!

Jesus, friend and Saviour, here I bow,
Willing that thy voice in trial will increase…

“Thy faith hath made thee whole now,
My child, I am with thee; go in peace.”


COPYRIGHT 2021 BROOKLYNK.BIEGEL

ALL SCRIPTURE REFERENCES IN THE KING JAMES VERSION (PUBLIC DOMAIN):
John 9:6-7
Isaiah 35:5
Hebrews 6:19-20
Psalm 27:14
John 20:16 (Rabboni translated "Master")
Luke 17:20-21
Hebrews 3:7-19 (Psalm 95:7-11)
Jeremiah 31:33-34 (Hebrews 8:8-12 & Hebrews 10:15-22)
Psalm 26:1
John 12:3
Luke 7:37-50
Jeremiah 1:8
Mark 5:34

My Daddy’s Hands

Dedicated to my Dad, Robert (Bob) Charles Biegel, who was born again in Jesus this day; October 18, 1989, at 9:00AM

My daddy's hands are big and strong,
His heart is good - they do no wrong;
And when my heart sinks in the sand
I reach out quick for Daddy's hand.

My daddy's hands are always warm,
They held me close when I was born;
When mine were cold before violin
He'd cup mine tight - say, "Bless Brooklyn!"

My daddy's hands work very hard,
He never sees that they are scared;
Yeshua's hands were scared-up, too,
With scars He took for me and you.

My daddy's hands - they always give
Much more to others so they can live
In comfort, plenty, and lesser strife
And see the hope of eternal life.

My daddy's hands are tough but kind,
They seem to tell of a quiet mind;
I do not know how they impart
Such love, except through the Saviour's heart.

My daddy's hands are the only ones
That touch with a care that overruns
The brim of a soul and mind so true -
It's the work of God in a heart made new.

COPYRIGHT 2021 BROOKLYN K. BIEGEL

To A Sunflower

A tiny seed you were in early May;
You drank in dewy moisture by the day
And tried to reach your sprouts along the way
And shove your tender stalk up through the clay.

One morning sunlight filtered through the gloom
Of dirty clods that made your lonely room
And with the dream in sun to one day loom
You thrust your smiling face out of the tomb!

Ah! there you are, sweet laughing flower, shy!
Now tilt your head upwards to face the sky!
You’re tall and strong now—see the bees that fly
And sip the nectar from your honied eye!

May I come, too? Your face is soft and brown—
I’ll brush my face along your sugared down
Of cushioned cheek that never knows a frown
And kiss the silken sunshine of your gown.

It’s autumn now. The west wind chill that blows
Across the painted landscape somehow knows
Your countless seeds on fertile ground he sows…
And waits for blooms to wake with melting snows.

COPYRIGHT 2021 BROOKLYN K. BIEGEL

Golden Wheatfields

In loving memory of my Grandpa, John Robert Biegel (May 21, 1927 – December 2, 2018);

And to my Dad, Robert Charles Biegel, and my brothers, Charles Stewart and Simon Robert,

who are the inspiration as they continue the life and legacy passed down to them.

Based on a true story. 





He straightened up tall as the sun beat down on the rich dark soil behind him;

He drew his rough hand ‘cross his sweaty brow and gazed o’er the field before him.

“I see it son, now ain’t it nice – that big field of ripe golden wheat?”

The curly-haired lad, he squinted and frowned, “No Dad, all’s I see’s a black sheet.”

“In time, my son… in time you will know,” said the man to the sunburnt youth,

“Them seeds we planted today’ll be golden wheatfields–sure as truth.”





Summer rains went, and summer suns came, and warm winds danced in the grasses;

The father and son watched the seed sprout and grow, and walked through the tall golden masses.

Harvest time came; the scythes were thrust in to reap the ripe harvest in time;

“Treat the land well,” said the man to his son, “and you’ll see that it yields a goldmine.”

Sorrows and joys came and went; Time and Care wrought with the years

Much change in the face of the farmer as happiness mingled with tears.

But the youth never lost the bright vision his father had set in his heart;

Respect for the land and faith in God’s plan, though simple, became his life’s art.





Then one day the farmer grew ill, and sensing his time would soon come,

Lay on his bed while his son stood beside him, clasping his hand in his own.

“Them wheatfields, Dad, you remember?” said the son with a tender smile,

“Them days in the fields–I loved ‘em, and that waving wheat stretchin’ for miles.”

“Ah, son, them were good days–full of bounty, hard work, sun and rain.

“Keep ‘em alive, in your heart and your home, for it’s your turn to do it again.”

The farmer lay back on his pillow, closed his eyes with a look oh so sweet;

“I see it son, now ain’t it nice? It’s God’s Field of ripe Golden Wheat.” 

COPYRIGHT 2021 BROOKLYN K. BIEGEL

Hope

Hope, just like some gleaming star shines forth
To bid us through the grey of this short life,
As some pure form of goodness and of truth
We see it clear—God’s tempered grace through strife.
As when on stormy nights the furious wave bequeaths
To stones the cold and breaking from within 
It’s shivering foam, we see—along the gulf,
And dirt and grime washed up from the past din—
A glistening pearl! between the oyster’s lips!
And just beyond the gloom we see a glow
That’s coming with the ebbing of the tide,
And with all faith we trust and pray and know
The morn has come to be our ship’s true guide…
And when on land with wearying feet we tread
The dry and beaten road now paved with dust,
Our bleared but upturned vision looks ahead
As through a world of glass and not of rust
T’ward ruddy skies to see it shining there—
The sapphire throne!—where Mercy sits enthroned!
You see the star of hope beyond that crystal stair?—
You see where Christ, with chastening Shepherd’s rod,
He stoops to help our need?
And here we know the woes we fear don’t stay,
Nor quite destroy the passion of our will
To do what’s right, and trust our souls to God
When Choice will see beyond, and never stray
Where poisoning falsehood awaits the final kill.
You know, O watchful heart, how parched this living shell
Wherein with shivering souls we crowd and press;
Can not you hear the tolling of the knell
That sounds if we’re to faint but to redress
The wrongs we have, the fainting minds we know?
Ah see—there’s time! yet time! for us to raise our strength
And be ourselves a pearl of glistening truth
Amid those tempests wild that will decay
To mist, and help along life’s gulf
That wandering child, that faltering man,
To where sweet Hope lies in its oyster shell.

COPYRIGHT 2021 BROOKLYN K. BIEGEL