The Dew of the Morning.JPG

Brook's Nook

A little corner for some of life's poetry & Prose 

The Dew of the Morning.JPG

selected poems



Brooklyn K. Biegel


Dedicated to my Grandpa, John Robert Biegel (May 21, 1927 - December 2, 2018), whose life and legacy are the inspiration. 


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.” 

written November 2018; unpublished



Brooklyn K. Biegel


A contented breeze down the harvest slope is wandering

Piping sweetly an airy tune through wood and dale,

Chanting of golden years, of young days pondering –

Ah! These last lingering days in a misty veil.

The frenzy of Spring is past,

And the flush of Summer is cast

To the wind, and blows away

As a dream or the minstrel’s lay.


Behold! The graceful aspens gold are turning,

The sunshine glens are brimming with melodies fervid,

As ancient maples richly are crimson burning,

And through this forest-haze and scarfing blue they're vivid.

Oh! The musty smell of half-rot leaves

Fallen by Wind’s unseen thieves

Scatter ‘cross this forest floor

By some amber phantom bore!


As these mellow days in graceful harmony wane,

The fervour of life is languishing in passive calm,

The days grow short, and through all the vast domain

Of Autumns’s blessed abode, there drifts a dulcet balm.

The Pied Piper of old did sing,

For the children did his chant ring

Through the world – as such a ray

Shall this Old Year flit away!

published in Rural Roots quarterly, Fall 2012



Brooklyn K. Biegel 


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,

The 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, with wearying feet we slowly 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 coal

T’ward ruddy skies to see it shining there—

The sapphire throne!—where Mercy sits enthroned!

For see, my friend, 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

Where Choice will see beyond, and never stray

Where poisoning falsehood awaits the final kill.

Behold, 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 straying child, that wandering man,

To where sweet Hope lies in its oyster shell.


written May 2010 and July 2021; unpublished

FREEDOM BATTLE; In Remembrance of Our Troops


Brooklyn K. Biegel


Dedicated to my dear neighbour and friend, Mr. Roy Wingfield, WWII Veteran


The wind is cold and bitter is the blast

That bows across these desolate plains,

Where the Grim Reaper in gloom o’er passed

The bodies which fell on the Battle’s domain.

But the weary wind through the pine boughs blowing

Is weeping with tears never hollow nor dearth,

It glides as a phantom and speaks with the earth,

Saying “This is the place where their blood was flowing.


“Fearest thou death? O stranger come hither,

And behold with thine eye – tremble not!

Canst thou not hear through the echoing years

The combats loud din, see the dreadful feud fought?

Hark ye the cry of the stout, bold and brave,

Canada’s troops who stepped forward to save,

‘For country, for sovereignty - cut through the fray!

For pride of dominion – though death be our pay!’


Charged they fearless to the battlefield,

Forward! Forward! They gallantly strode!

Though a bloody fight for them was sealed,

Though for some certain death was the ill forebode.

Now they lay silent, poppies shelter their grave,

These warriors fought for us – stout, bold and brave!

They suffered, they died, in the tumult of war,

The friend and the foe sided by side in the gore.”


Tarnish not worth as Time duly passes

O’er their bodies and memories,

For still the wind blows through the fading grasses

In murmurs subdued to reverence their stories.

“They died in their glory, for honour and fame,

Their brave-hearted will I shall ever proclaim;

Forget not their blood, the crimson turf staining,

And remember their lives, in silence remaining.”

published in WISDOM Family magazine, November 2012



Brooklyn K. Biegel


Dedicated to my cousin and his beautiful bride, on your wedding day


I heard the words as like a carol clearly

Chanted through the echos of years early

When the lips of youth were speaking holy

    The vow that lasts forever.

“This day give I thine hand the key

Of my own heart and love to thee,

Our hearts are wed, will ever be

    Forever and forever.


With every word swelled new emotion clear,

And year by year the lovers grew more dear,

When seeing visions of their youth appear

    Reflections in the river.

No hands more tender, no hearts more fully true,

Than the faithful two whose lover ran ever new

As did the rushing river running blue

    Forever and forever.


The course was staid, the three-strand cord

Grew stronger though cares pressed them hard,

For both had Sorrow’s mem’ry shared

    With courage, waning never.

And passing through the sphere of Life’s pace,

To each spake they with Heaven’s holy grace,

Words that e’en Time cannot erase,

    “Forever, love--forever.”


Though tempest blew the course ran steadily

Of those who trod the path along the sea

Of this life’s trials—they whispered readily,

    “Forever we’re together.”

And never moved by Time’s impending sway,

Nor letting evil tongues bear them away

They sang again the Master’s perfect way:

    “Forever and forever!”


And so with these poor words, my friend, I pray

That this such truthful love will stay

Your own two hearts, now one united way,

    Thus faithful, happy-ever.

May our Creator’s wisdom now impart

A portion of His love in each young heart—

What God hath joined let no man part,

    Forever and forever.


written July 10, 2010; unpublished

Our Slipper Lady

Brooklyn K. Biegel


Dedicated to our dear family friend and brave WWII Hollander, Jenny Cook, age 92

In a sunny southern corner of the world,

With two slender needles and a nimble hook,

There lives a precious white-haired little lady,

Whom we know and love as dear friend Jenny Cook.


In her care-worn hands she holds the nimble hook,

In her heart she breaths a blessing warm and bright,

As on and on she weaves inside her nook,

Ne’er wearying as she works into the night.


This little lady’s lamp does not go out;

Her ceaseless care and love does not recede,

As like some gentle angel from Heav’n sent,

She faithfully prays that God will fill a need.


Each slipper woven with a prayer so sweet;

Each colour chosen with a tender style;

She says the work of God is to bless the feet

Of those who travel many a long, long mile.


“Why, dear Jenny, are you so full of life,

When years have passed their shadow o’er your brow?

How can your words be void of humanity’s strife,

If four lover’s deaths fast followed your wedding vow?”


We gazed with awe upon her gentle face;

She smiled and said, “No common force can paint

What Christ’s redeeming blood can fill with grace,

Or cause the young and old to ne’er faint.”


With special speed her nimble fingers flew 

’Twixt yarn and thumb as on and on she pearled;

Her keen young mind fast weaving love anew,

As she worked to bless her loved ones in the world.


Inside her soul burns on the dauntless Flame;

As by her fragrant prayer the Heav’n comes down; 

No laurel wreath may deck her head with fame,

But well she knows that Life will be her Crown.


With hearts filled full of gratefulness and love,

We wish to extend a blessing and a thanks,

To our Father YHVH who sent from Heav’n above

This little lady to join the Angel’s ranks.

Her prayers are priceless, her thoughts are pure,

Her every word is seasoned with a spice

That lifts our spirits with faith so strong and sure,

And helps us see that God’s grace will suffice.


“Jenny, the warmth of each slipper you design, 

Delights our hearts on the chilly winter night;

Those countless hours that spin the gauze of Time,

Are not wasted when you spend them for the Light!


“By your tokens of friendly kindnesses,

We’re inspired to go forward in the Fight;

Because you’re faithful prayers do not regress,

We see in you God’s Light that burns so bright!”


Knit on, dear white-haired lady of the south,

In your sunny corner with your nimble hook!

We’re blessed by every prayer that leaves your mouth -

Forever we will love you, dear sweet Jenny Cook!

written 2015; unpublished



Brooklyn K. Biegel


It filters through the casement high

Casting light, benevolent shadows

Betwixt deeper ones where they once brooded

In the recesses of old tree hollows.


It shines into the children’s room,

Into where they play so merry,

To touch upon brows innocent

The hand of a sunlight fairy.


The flighty step alights within,

And between this forest weaves,

The gloom away from graceful boughs,

Turns to golden sheen its somber leaves.


It floods in glow the vales deep,

Dancing cheerfully with flowers;

In the pond is smiling sprightly

As it brings us sunny bowers.


Sweet beams of joy in brilliance!

So soft you come to warm and cheer

Us all in the despondent times;

To melt away each doleful tear.


So when the rain of life should come,

Woeful times to grieve has given,

We know that there is sunlight still,

If we lift our hearts to Heaven!

published in WISDOM Family magazine, September 2012

Brooklyn K. Biegel

Brooklyn's poetry, non-fiction, and fiction have been published in numerous magazines and newsletters, and her historical fiction has been both placed and shortlisted through writing contests in Canada. Her stage plays have been repeatedly performed for large audiences in the Peace Country, raising significant funds for pro-life charities. She holds an Associate Diploma in Violin Performance (ARCT) from the Royal Conservatory of Music and maintains a thriving violin studio at her country home in rural Northern Alberta where she also enjoys participating in permaculture and regenerative agriculture, animal husbandry, artisan cheesemaking, sewing, and herbalism.