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A shadow cast upon the floor,

scratch marks on a broken door.

Shattered windows with no pane,

filthy rugs hide dried blood stains.

A mattress strewn upon the ground,

no sheets upon it can be found.

Amidst the sloven home is seen,

a child though this should not have been.

No where else has he ever known,

chaos and violence is all he’s shown.

No one there to dry his tears,

to hold him close and calm his fears.

Who will take him from this place?

this rotting dungeon of a space.

By: Beverly Beekmans (2010)

There are so many children in this world who are made to suffer, who have never known an ounce of care and love. It truly breaks my heart to imagine the horrors some kids face.


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Flying FreeSing a new song,

with clear and vibrant voice.

Serenade the one you love,

we all need to rejoice.

Alert the world around you,

of the God we serve above.

Fight the scheming enemy,

in the victory of His love.

Behold a new creation,

born pure by His blood.

Cleansed of wicked sin,

washed spotless of worldly mud.

Sing a new song,

with a voice renewed and strong.

By: Beverly Beekmans (2010)

This poem is an expression of the excitement often felt by new or renewed Christians.

Take time to smell the roses,

take time to feel the sun.

Knowing that tomorrow,

or the next day might not come.

Spend the day with family,

telling those you love that you care.

Don’t go to sleep in anger,

find healing when you share.

Forgive the ones who hurt you,

do not hold it in your heart.

Hold on to the good times,

you never know when you will part.

Accept the gift God has given,

His son upon the cross.

When you lose someone you are close to,

know that He has shared Your loss.

Take time to smell the roses,

take time to know the Son.

by: Beverly Beekmans (2010)

Summer always held a fascination for me. It was that time of year when you got up really too early and played all day, barely eating a meal since you were thoroughly distracted.

My family would always make our way to this beautiful place where we would camp every year. Sometimes we would sleep in a tent, sometimes we were in a cottage. I still remember those cottages, different colored doors, red, blue or purple. Each had three rooms with a bed and small dresser, there was a kitchen, dining table and a small washroom. My parents took one room which left two, sometimes it would be my sister and I in one room and my brother in the last. Sometimes though my grandmother would come and so I ended up sharing a room with my brother, which is one thing I try and forget, that and the daddy long leg spiders that seemed to live with us in the cottage.

Just out back of the cottage was the lake, it called to me. My parents tell a story of how as a small child they couldn’t keep me out of the water and had to watch me every moment. Apparently I once wadded into the water, the cold water, with all my clothes on. It was later on that I learned to wear a bathing suit.

Beyond the lake was what brought us to this beautiful place, the sand dunes. Massive hills of golden sand reaching toward the sky. We spent our days playing in the park, swimming in the lake and roaming around those dunes. By night-time we would be tired and waterlogged, my mother would get us into our track suits, mine was gray with pink cuffs and a picture of smurfette on it, and my father would try to make a fire. Eventually he would get it going and we would sit around it roasting marshmallows, having previously found the roasting sticks in one of our hunts for the perfect stick contests. We would laugh and sing until it was almost time to sleep. Next, us kids would gather on the couch next to our mother as she read us a story, then it was time to sleep. The next day we would wake up really early to start all over again.

Every year my dad would rent one of those small aluminium boats with the tiny motor on the back. He would get us all ready and we would spend the day out on the lake fishing. My sister and I were a bit squeamish of the worms, which always came in a small styrofoam bowl topped with a plastic lid sporting tiny air holes. My father would bait our hooks and we would cast our small rods, with the bobbers and wait for a nibble. We would wait and wait, then someone would feel something, my father would rush to their side to help, careful not to tip the boat, and the fish would be reeled in. My father never ate fish which passed down to my sister and I, thus our house never saw fish as a meal. It now occurs to me that fact makes fishing a bit senseless, since we only did the catch and release thing, but before releasing it the proud fisherman who had caught it would hold it up high and with a wide grin have their picture taken with the fish. Our family albums are littered with toothless grins holding up tiny sunfish, but we had fun and that is what had mattered.

One negative aspect to those summers was that we often made friends with girls who were camping there, but after a week or two they would leave, never to be seen again. This is a traumatic event for a six year old and I remember my parents trying to comfort me, telling me there would be other friends next year. I was, of course, skeptical, but the next year would arrive and sure enough new friends were found. The times we had in that special place are ones I will remember for a life time. The walks over hot sand dunes, the endless days of swimming in the pristine land and the family outings we would embark upon.

Over the years the sand dunes have become more overgrown with vegetation, the water has become polluted and the trailer park has been taken over as a public beach. My parents still have a trailer on the lake, and we still visit, but it will never be the same again. Though all the vegetation and pollution can never wipe away the memories we have of those summers, they are ours to keep and treasure.

By: Beverly Beekmans (April, 2001)

I have always had trouble reading novels that are told in the first person narrative, it always seems very awkward to me.

The other day I picked up a book and began to read it and almost put it down right away because it was FPN, but as I continued to read I found that it wasn’t as bad as I had remembered and in fact the author had done a good job telling the story this way.

I found myself at work this morning constructing the beginnings of a story using the first person and I may even attempt to write a short story in this form but I am not altogether confident in my ability to pull it off, nor am I too sure if it would work well in a short story.

Did you hear me when I called to you?

through the wind and whipping rain?

Did you hear me when I cried

and shouted out your name?

Did you hear me when my heart was breaking?

when my soul was bare and aching?

Did you hear me when my voice was small?

darkness surrounding me like an impenetrable wall?

Did you hear me when I fell so far?

blinking out like a falling star?

Did you hear me when I asked how?

and do you hear me now?

By: Beverly Beekmans (April 2010)

I have always wanted to write a novel, I enjoy writing poems and short stories but there is something to be said about the accomplishment of writing a novel.

I have started many, many a novel and quite enjoy the process of coming up with an idea, building characters and setting out a plot. I write it all down and get myself familiar with my characters and their surroundings etc.

Then time comes to begin, I write a great opening and a few pages and then….WHAM it is like hitting a brick wall. How do I evolve my protagonist? What tense should I use? (I am terrible at mixing my tenses) How do I stop from just cramming my story into a few chapters?

I just can never seem to get past a certain point. I have a lot of respect and admiration for those who can write a novel, especially a really good one. I have not attempted a novel in a while and will probably wait some time before I do again, since I just got back into writing recently. I know I will one day try again and I hope that the next time I can get past my hurdles and just carry on. If no one ever reads my novel, I would like to have written one, just to know that I did, that I could.

The Beggar

She passed her sitting on the street,

a cry for help upon a sign.

Affixed to her feet the girl could see,

old paper bags tied up with twine.

She quickly turned her face away,

not sure what she felt inside.

Before the girl could say a thing,

“I have no change” she simply lied.

Once inside her cozy home,

upon the girl she thought no more.

Until the very next morning,

when the daily paper hit the door.

A few pages from the very back,

she spied an ignominious line,

“Beggar dead upon the street”,

“latest victim number nine”.

She sat and stared in disbelief,

unable to shake her sudden fright.

Could it really be she thought,

the girl she had seen last night?

She gathered up a pile of clothes,

and headed out the door.

She made her way down the street,

around the corner to the store.

From the shelves she chose with care,

things she thought would be alright.

She headed downtown once more,

to where the girl had been that night.

The corner loomed up ahead,

she could see there was no one there.

She slowed her pace and then stood still,

the street was cold and bare.

Was the girl somewhere else today?

or had she been the one to die?

Sighing deep within herself,

she felt like she could cry.

She passed her by with little thought,

couldn’t even look her in the eye.

With her warm coat around her,

she had quickly raced on by.

She turned her back and bowed her head,

wiped a tear into the air.

“I’m sorry” she whispered with a sob,

“I had more then change to spare”.

By: Beverly Beekmans  (April 3, 2001)

I want to say that the title of this poem is not a reflection of how I view people who are in a situation that places them on the street, it was simply a way to express how others view street persons.

When I read this poem that I wrote a while back now, it still touches me, I know that I have certainly rushed past or tried to avoid those seeking change or food etc. I think we all need to remember that these are God’s children, just as we are.

Do you ever sit down and have this wonderful idea for a story or poem, load up your computer or get your pad of paper ready and then..poof…nothing.

This happened to me the other day, I had this idea and I sat to write about it and nothing came out, I just sat staring at the screen and wondering what it was I had planned to write in the first place. I then sort of remembered and typed a few words but they sounded awkward and just simply wrong. I restarted four or five times but nothing was coming of it. At this point what do you do? abandon your idea? take a break?

Well I abandoned it, I simply shut it down and went to do something else. I get very frustrated when  the right words just won’t come and I start to feel inadequate. I believe this type of thing happens to everyone, even the most seasoned of writers and I would be interested to know how others deal with it. How does one get through this block? Hmmm that is definitely something I would like to know.

Kid For A Day

I want to jump upon a horse,

and gallop wild and free.

To climb way up high,

among the branches of a tree.

I want to play with a skipping rope,

draw with chalk upon the ground.

To climb into a fast go cart,

driving circles round and round.

I want to build a magical castle,

with sand and bits of rock.

To cast my line into the lake,

as I sit upon the dock.

I want to run forever,

with speed so lightning fast.

To reclaim so many things,

I have forgotten from my past.

We grow up and become adults,

not much time to frolic and play.

Perhaps I shall reclaim it all,

by playing kid for a day.

By: Beverly Beekmans (April 2010)

Don’t we all sometimes miss being a child? Not all of us had the nicest childhoods, but I hope everyone has experienced at least one moment of the freedom and innocence that only a child can feel.