by Brian G. Daigle

The form of love in feminine frame
Beheld and given a glorious name. 
My love she beckons, her love she gives, 
My love she ignites, invigorates, and tames. 

The sight of you in silhoutte lines,
A grace to eyes and heart and man's mind. 
My gaze she holds,
My heart she molds,
Our love she informs, enfolds, and entwines.

by Brian G. Daigle

What are bright? Sunrises and smiles.
What are busy? Bees and ant piles.
What are happy? Children and flowers.
What are gifts? Friends and hours.

by Brian G. Daigle

There sits a light upon a hill which shines from east to west.
It wasn't there more recently, but now it gives its best.
It shines upon the old and new, it pours forth heat and light.
It brings what's hidden to my eyes; it gives a hopeful sight.

A companion for a traveling soul, and feet that wish for home,
A beacon from some peaceful town, with the likeness of my Rome,
This light inflamed by greater Light, was made apart from me,
And if I covered heart or face, a fool I'd prove to be.

I cannot help, though lights I've known, to see the value here,
To pause my tracks and gaze up toward, until my feet draw near.
But burdens rest on traveled backs, and fires made ash before.
And yet the pureness of Lucy's heart does heal and does restore.

​I will love this light so long as it's here and brightens all I see.
I will wait upon that greater Light to know if this light is for me.
And yet whatever comes beyond, if this light passes sure,
I'll wish each light in front of me to have a love so pure.

by Brian G. Daigle

Angelic grace with Eve's own form,
A message come down to earth,
A word of hope to end a storm,
Transcending for love's new birth.

The fullness of friendship never so clear
And never have graces so spread 
Than in her eyes and from her lips
And flowing like gold from her head. 

The purest of joys I find within 
And a treasury far beyond this.
Home in a face, a touch, a grin,
And light from the gift of a kiss. 

Her nearness a honey, a rose, a river. 
Her presence a sweetness, a beauty, a guide. 
If ever Love's hand did mercy deliver
It's surely each time she's here by my side. 

Mercy delivered and always on time,
Never to tarry or dampen its voice.
If ever Love's hand did with flesh make a rhyme,
It's verses are you. Your virtues, Love's choice.

Let Solomon or Coesus bring forth greater goods 
Than what mercy has here delivered. 
No storehouse contains nor palace could hold
Your beauty, a liberation and tether. 

by Brian G. Daigle

Present appearing in beauty's form 
Blanketed over life's close storms. 

Present but no shadow or shade,
With sun above to guide what's been made.

A closeness wished, and vulnerable songs, 
Though previous clouds have drenched with deep wrongs. 

Present indeed, and courage for here,
The courage for now, for love to appear. 

More stories to tell, more stories to make,
With paths now merged, more pathways to take. 

But a present will be when her presence is near, 
And with every new present, new joys to see clear. 

by Brian G. Daigle 
​
I saw her there on canvas stretched 
With strokes and pigments ever etched. 

I beheld her once on mountain peak,
Those Sawtooths reaching heaven's seat. 

I felt her dimly by the light 
That love burns when two loves unite. 

I stood within her cathedral walls
Where bread rebuilds and rebels fall.

I feared her still with raging waves
Which crashed upon far Roach's cove.

I viewed her in that father's care
When War did bind and fear ensnared. 

I kissed her, never calm nor tame,
Her power tempered not by name.  

I held her in my child's delight 
When fatherly affection did ignite.

I cried for her when broken hearts 
Still loved and shared what love imparts. 

I heard her hum from cello's deep,
From violin strings my soul did leap. 

I read her once in Homer's verse,
And by Chesterton's pen my faith she nursed. 

I counted her deep in Augustine's stream, 
When mercy crept like ivy green. 

I watched her born, I knew it true
Where daughter vacated mother's womb.

I smelled and tasted her at dusk
When mother's table I learned to trust.  

I heard her in each story told,
By Payne Street's flames, both young and old. 

I saw her too when rampart men,
First laid their eyes upon Helen. 

But never was she more terribly seen 
Than when divine blood death did ripen. 

 by Brian G. Daigle

Love is an island where all surrounding 
Mercy crashes on our shores. 

Breezes of laughter, sunrays of passion,
Contained and protected for our self-contained vitality. 

If anyone enters by sea or by air
On non-native ground they stumble. 

Immediately foreign to them is our language,
Unknown to them is our friendship's topography.  

The cities built from years of labor,
The native plants grown from soil more native,

These rocks of love formed by volcanic depth,
Ancient yet new, once fluid now stable. 

Upon this island where love knows no bounds,
These innumerable grains lapped by grace's unending wash. 

Foreigners, all, who come from without; 
exiles, we, who from within flee.

 by Brian G. Daigle

There is a field I stumbled upon when dusk had newly passed. 
My feet did tiredly trod and slide along that starward path. 

The moonlit silhouettes did tell of something grand but veiled. 
And so through the night I stayed awake till dawn through dark prevailed. 

Atop this hill which I had climbed, which took but every breath 
There stood erect a cottage tall, which memory had kept. 

The mind's eye did not see because I had known her here.
It was the image my soul had built as love passed through the years. 

It was the country house before me that GKC once told
was written for him...which he has never seen; but built in the shape of his soul.

Here it stood patient and steadfast strong, though for her I did not choose this path. 
I began along this starward road through life's uncanny wrath.

But now knee-deep in pools of blue and orchads streaming green. 
I remember deep this house unknown and assuredly never seen. 

The stones beneath my tired feet did easily bid me glide. 
I reached her door, the windows closed, to see what waits inside. 

The view upclose was beauty untold and what was marvelous more
There was a nest of songbird chirps in the ivy about her door.

by Brian G. Daigle 
​
Amidst the ashes, rubble deep,
There bloomed a peony.
Atop the blackest night of death 
Its bloom spread forth to me. 

How it was planted then and there
Never shall we know,
But unmistakable to all who passed
Is how its beauty shone. 

Its vibrancy, resilient life,
It beckons me to gaze,
To stumble forth with tired legs 
To set my heart ablaze. 

A blaze it was that burned this land, 
And blaze the peony sends.
The first destructive, pain to bear, 
The second, a light without end. 

A hope, a future, the birth of life,
Where death so close had been,
But light to conquer all the dark
And breath pour forth again. 

A physician, this flower, just like her name,
To heal an achy heart. 
Tis light to the eyes,
Tis sun to the skin,
Tis health for every part. 

by Brian G. Daigle

I have been looking for
A wildflower with the heart of a rose. 
A live oak with magnolia blooms. 
A snowcapped mountain with desert rains. 
A songbird with eagles' wings. 
A poet with sturdy hands. 
A mother with an angel's smile. 
A friend with depth beyond compare. 
A smile with grace and conviction. 
A touch which gives and receives. 
An ivy green garden whose vines are sturdy, whose soil is rich, and whose walking paths are clear. 
A song whose melody resounds. 
A wife who is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. 
A love with light and thunder.