Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

In the cradle of dusk, where shadows entwine,
Love blooms like roses with thorns so divine.
A heartbeat, a whisper, a sigh in the night,
Yet wrapped in the velvet of a lingering fright.

Oh sweet serenade of the heart's soft refrain,
Each note is a marvel, yet laced with a stain.
For every caress brings a flicker of flame,
And passion ignites what we never can tame.

We dance through the fields, where dreams trace the skies,
Yet fear stalks our steps, wearing truth in disguise.
With laughter like petals that fall in the breeze,
We cradle the laughter, but what of the grief?

For love is a river with currents unseen,
That carries the echoes of what might have been.
Promises slip through like sand in our hands,
Building castles of hope on unsteady strands.

In moments of bliss, our spirits align,
But the sorrow of longing, that bittersweet vine,
Wraps tighter around, chokes the breath of our joy,
As echoes of silence thwart hope to destroy.

Yet still, we believe in the power of pain,
In the lessons of hearts that take shelter from rain.
For love, in its grasp, may break us apart,
But with every fracture, it molds us a heart.

So let us embrace the anguish we bear,
In the tapestry woven of love and despair.
For each tear that glistens holds beauty untold,
In the bittersweet story of hearts brave and bold.

There are moments when the throat becomes a glass--
too thin to hold the shape of a thought,
too clear for the tongue to frame a single syllable.
A silence like winter settles behind the ribs,
and words, like migratory birds, swoon and pass the horizon.

The heart keeps speaking in a language of knocks,
each beat a small drum calling maps into being,
but the mouth is a sealed bay where ships cannot anchor.
Eyes pick up the slack--harvest light, gather the tilt of a smile--
and hands begin to speak in the slow grammar of touch.

Speechless is not empty; it is a room hung with echoes,
a laundry of moments drying on the line of breath.
It holds what cannot be caught by consonants:
the tilt of astonishment, the bruise of grief,
the hush between two people where forever is negotiated.

Sometimes speechlessness is awe--an old tree opening its arms,
a sky so full of color the tongue forgets its work.
Sometimes it is fear, a mouth barricaded by frozen rain.
Sometimes it is love so vast the map of names unravels.

Listen: the silence speaks in the small currencies--
the press of a palm, the tilt of a head, a laugh let loose like birds.
If you learn that language, you will find whole oceans
where the world had promised only deserts.
Speechless, then, becomes a poem that needs no spoken rhyme.

They call it silence, but it is not empty --
it hums like a hidden loom where meaning is woven.
A single lamp trims the room into a small sky,
and dust motes are galaxies being born and dying
inside the slow orbit of my hands.

Outside the street shouts and the city breathes loud,
but here I learn the language of careful motions:
the soft knuckle of a pencil against paper,
the patient stitch that holds a seam together,
the low arithmetic of decisions turned to habit.

Silence is not a void but a kind of listening --
it opens like a window when the world closes its doors.
My breath keeps time; my heart is the metronome.
Every small task becomes a constellation:
seeming fragments that, in this hush, are named and guided.

I work as if something is waiting just beyond sound,
a truth that needs the slow polishing of attention.
When the day finally leans back and the lamp goes out,
I carry away the work like a quiet harvest --
fruit that tastes of dusk and a steady, wordless faith.

I pack nothing but a pocket of sky,
a ticket folded into the palm of midnight,
and the small, stubborn ache that says
there is more than the room I wake in.

The city hum unhooks from my wrists--
neon fingers loosen, the elevator sighs,
and I step into the throat of a road
that swallows maps and spits out stars.

Mountains arrange themselves like questions,
the sea opens like an honest wound.
Each mile is a slow unbuttoning
of habits, names, calendars that cling.

I pass houses with porchlight confessions,
fields where the wind weeds out lies.
Time thins, becomes a single drawn breath,
and in that breath I remember my own name.

Somewhere between the last traffic light
and the first honest sunrise,
I trade the loudness of others for the music
of my own untidy, human heart.

To get away is not only to leave,
but to arrive--bare, unarmed, forgiven--
to meet the raw map of what's left over:
the child, the weathered hand, the stubborn want.

I learn that distance can be a gentle teacher,
that silence keeps the languages of loss,
that coming back is not the same as returned--
I will bring home new questions, softer hands.

There is no grand reveal, only the simple fact:
the world is large enough for falling and for flight,
and in the quiet between departures
we gather the courage to call it "home" again.

A hand can move a shadow
without touching the light,
turning truth to folded paper,
day to counterfeit night.

A whisper dressed as thunder
can rattle every door,
while careful eyes keep smiling
and ask for something more.

The mirror learns to flatter,
the chain pretends to shine;
a choice becomes a corridor
with walls that call it mine.

But even buried instincts
remember how to rise--
the heart can name the pressure,
the mouth can unlearn lies.

So let the strings fall silent,
let borrowed masks descend;
what bends beneath manipulation
can break--and still transcend.

In the neon glow where fortunes dance,
Beneath the glitter of a reckless chance,
There roams a creature, sleek and sly,
With dreams as vast as the midnight sky.

He prowls the canyons of greed and gold,
Where whispers of wealth grow brazenly bold,
Each heartbeat echoes a siren's song,
In the jungle of numbers, where the bold belong.

A master of hustle, a king of the game,
He wears ambition like a cloak of flame,
With laughter that ripples through walls of glass,
In a world where dreams are bought in a flash.

But shadows lurk in the glint of the coin,
As innocence dulled and ethics are torn,
For beneath the howl of the wolf in delight,
Are shadows of lives lost to the night.

The high-flying parties, the glittered excess,
Mask whispers of sorrow, of dreams in distress,
As the dollar signs dance, hearts beat in haste,
Pushed by the rush of a reckless embrace.

Oh, beast of the markets, sharp-toothed, unbound,
What price do you pay for the throne you have found?
The laughter grows hollow, as echoes unwind,
In pursuit of the beast, what treasures we blind.

For wealth is but fleeting, a flicker, a flash,
Yet the scars of the chase? They linger and clash,
In the silence that follows the fervor of heat,
Lies a truth that the wolf will never defeat.

So howl if you must, let your spirit take flight,
But remember the cost of the revelry's night,
In the bright-shining world of ambition and might,
Not all that is golden can survive the light.

In twilight's cloak, where whispers sigh,
A promise forged 'neath an azure sky.
Two souls entwined, hearts laid bare,
Yet shadows danced in the perfumed air.

A tapestry woven with laughter and dreams,
Unraveled by silence, by deceit's cruel seams.
In the garden of trust, a serpent did bloom,
Its venomous kiss heralded doom.

Once hand in hand, we weathered the storm,
Our hearts a refuge, our love kept warm.
Yet secrets, like moths, found their way to the light,
And shattered the bond with a merciless bite.

A glance, a betrayal, like daggers in night,
The trust we had built took flight from our sight.
Words carved in anger, like ice on the sea,
Stilled every whisper of what we could be.

Now shadows linger where sunlight should play,
And echoes of laughter grow distant, decay.
I gather the pieces, each shard like a tear,
As ghosts of the past pull my heart ever near.

Forgiveness, a river, flows slow in the dark,
Yet bitterness dances, a cruel, ghostly spark.
I stand by the threshold, between love and despair,
A heart weighed by longing, still tethered in air.

So here in this moment, I choose to let go,
To release the sweet anguish, the friend turned to foe.
For betrayal's cold grip will wither and fade,
And in its wake, a new path shall be made.

In the shadowed halls where silence dwells,
A parchment rests, spellbound in its spells,
Its ink a whisper of fate's cold decree,
A silent breath caught in time's tapestry.

A death warrant, etched by fate's cruel hand,
A savage tale in a desolate land,
Where hopes once flourished, now wither and fade,
In the heart of the strong, a dimming cascade.

The clock ticks louder in the hushed, dark room,
Each second a shudder, heralding doom,
Stars flicker uncertain in the vast, distant night,
As dreams slip away, swallowed by the blight.

Yet, in this saying of sorrow and dread,
Lives the spirit unbroken, refusing the thread,
For each life is a sonnet, composed with pure grace,
A fleeting ballad that time can't erase.

So gather ye roses, while still they abound,
And dance with your shadows on this hallowed ground,
Embrace every heartbeat, each laugh and each tear,
For life's deepest meaning dwells not in fear.

In the echo of darkness, let love be your light,
For even in death, there's a shimmer of bright.
Embrace every moment, let passion ignite,
For the story's not over; the soul takes to flight.

In the quiet depths of night, I ponder why,
Why the stars twinkle in the vast sky,
Why the ocean waves kiss the shore,
Why the wind whispers forevermore.
I wonder why the seasons change,
Why love can heal and also estrange,
Why time slips through our grasp,
Why we hold onto memories that last.
I wonder why dreams take flight,
Why some battles we must fight,
Why laughter can chase away the tears,
Why music can calm our deepest fears.
I wonder why we search for meaning,
Why we find solace in our dreaming,
Why the answers elude our grasp,
Why we must journey through this fast.
In the mystery of the unknown,
In the seeds of truth we've sown,
In the wonder that fills our soul,
I find a beauty that makes me whole.