Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

You close the door on yesterday's noise --
the clatter of shoulds, the static of doubt.
A small ritual: a kettle's breath, a pen's sharp tip,
the screen soft as a horizon. You breathe in the room
as if it were a living thing waiting to be spoken to.

At first the world crowds the edges -- emails, chores,
the future's impatient knocking. Then one sound thins:
the steadying of your own pulse, like a metronome
beneath a lighthouse. The margins shrink.
Attention becomes a lens and the lens grows hot.

Time pulls inward: minutes fold into one long seam.
Hands remember what the mind no longer needs
to remind them of. Errors fall away like loose stones;
only the path you are carving remains. Thought
isn't thought now but a river your will steps into.
You move with its current, not against it.

Outside, clocks count. Inside, sentences, stitches, beats
arrive as if delivered from another room.
There is a strange generosity to this place:
it trades loneliness for belonging, panic for craft.
Joy comes quiet, not triumphant but complete,
a small bell rung inside the ribs.

When you surface, light is different, familiar and new.
You hold something between your palms -- a sentence cured,
a chord that rings, a shape finally true. Your hands remember
the way home, and your heart keeps the map.
For a while you were both cartographer and sea,
and the ache afterward is only proof you went deep.

The board stands still beneath the light,
a quiet dare of grain and pine;
I raise my hand, prepare to fight
the fear that says the strength is mine.

One breath, one shout, one sudden crack--
the world divides beneath the blow.
The splinters never strike me back,
but pain has ways a board won't know.

For wood is kind: it breaks, it yields,
it keeps no score, it bears no scars.
The hardest battles wait in fields
where hearts can answer who we are.

So train the fist, but guard the heart;
let courage learn what force can't prove.
A board may break beneath your art--
the living do not have to move.

Not in the trumpet's brazen cry,
Nor crowns that catch the noon,
But in the hand held out to lift
A stranger through the gloom.

It lives where quiet courage keeps
Its promise, step by step;
Where kindness asks for no applause,
And grief is gently met.

The years may dim the marble names,
The banners fade from view;
But what we give to one another
Endures, and carries through.

Imagine how crazy life can have no ending
Like a relationship that you can't say that it's pending
Every little step you take
It is based on what future you want it to make
Determination is key to not only being yourself
But it also makes you feel like you have found yourself
Loving life like crazy is always a good thing
That is why singers love to sing
Understand that even the struggles are a plus
It takes heart to build on the must
So if you stop pretending
And the Crazy Life Has No Ending

In shadows deep, beneath the moon's pale glow,

A teenage heart beats with a primal flow,

Through windswept nights and forests wild and free,

A transformation stirs within, a mystery.

The beast within begins to rise and roar,

A teenage werewolf, craving something more,

With hungry eyes and feral instincts keen,

A world of darkness, waiting to be seen.

The moonlight dances on his fur, alight,

A teenage werewolf howls into the night,

In wilderness untamed, he finds his place,

A creature bound by neither time nor space.

Beneath the skin, a battle rages on,

A teenage soul, a beast to be upon,

Yet in this clash of selves, a truth is found,

A teenage werewolf, wild and unbound.

So let the night embrace his savage grace,

A teenage werewolf running in the chase,

For in his howl, a soul that longs to be,

Wild and fierce, forever wild and free.

We meet in the small porch of a screen,
where sentences arrive like evening light --
soft, immediate, folding into the lap
of whatever day we carry home.

Your laugh is a kettle I can hear boiling
across the distance; my silence a warm shawl
you drape without asking. Names and weather
turn into meaning: a shared slice of sky.

There is no grand reveal, only the slow work
of two hands drafting a bridge from ordinary words.
We patch the loneliness with small kindnesses --
a recipe, a memory, a condolence sent like bread.

Sometimes the chat is a river: quick, bright,
skipping stones of gossip and dreams.
Sometimes it is a hearth, low and patient,
where we roast our fears until they're tender.

No prophecy here, only presence -- the steady light
that makes the margins of our days readable.
A friendly chat: a light left on in the window,
an invitation that says, Come as you are.

Take the fist of your breath and strike the sky --
let your voice become an avalanche of light.
Stamp the metronome of your heart into the pavement,
so even sleeping cities wake and count their scars.

We are the hammer against the quiet glass,
the drumbeat that dares the mountains to move.
Sing until the rails bend like willow strings,
and the old maps fold into new constellations.

Let your laughter be a tectonic line:
where doubts once split, let wonder rise.
Plant your stubborn feet on the tongues of clocks --
time is a board we can tilt and make swim.

Rock the world not just with thunder but with seed:
small hands that feed the hungry hours,
soft hands that stitch the torn days together.
Meet the dark with a stubborn, luminous song.

When fear gathers like fog, become the wind.
When sorrow presses like stone, be the stream.
Shake the world awake -- not to break, but to build,
so every quiet corner learns to sing again.

In the hush of twilight's gentle sigh,

Where shadows linger, and dreams dare to fly,

Whispers of valor weave through the air,

Tales of the unyielding, cloaked in despair.

Beneath the stars, in the depths of night,

Heroes awaken, igniting the fight.

With every heartbeat etched bold on the skin,

They carry the burdens where hope has been thin.

Through valleys of sorrow, where anguish has roamed,

In the face of the tempest, their spirits have combed,

They rise like the dawn, fierce and unbroken,

Voices that tremble with words left unspoken.

From rocky encampments where spirits may stray,

To cities adorned with memories frayed,

Each echo tells stories of courage and grace,

Of hands that have lifted the fallen from grace.

In the flicker of flame, their shadows appear,

Guardians of spirit, the brave and the dear.

Every struggle a testament carved into time,

Their legacy hums, a resounding rhyme.

For in the heart of the storm, when the world seems to fade,

The unyielding stand firm, unbowed and displayed.

They write with their actions, in blood, sweat, and tears,

Crafting a saga that conquers our fears.

So listen, dear soul, to the echoes that call,

In unity's strength, let us rise and not fall.

For the tales of the steadfast, in whispers or shouts,

Remind us of courage, of what life's about.

Let valor's embrace be our guiding light,

As we march through the shadows, unyielding, in sight.

For the echoes of valor, forever will soar,

A tapestry woven where spirits restore.

At the edge of the field, the grasses  lean outward, listening  for footsteps that never arrive.

A fence holds the evening  in a trembling line--  wood, wire, shadow, sky.

Inside, the house gathers its windows,  each one a small, bright thought  refusing to wander.

Outside, the dark keeps moving,  measuring the world  with its patient, soundless hand.

I walk the boundary slowly,  touching each post  as if counting what remains.

Beyond the last stone,  there is no map--  only distance becoming night.

And still the circle widens,  not by breaking,  but by learning where to end.

Everybody dance now --
not as escape but as answer,
feet translating grief into rhythm,
shoulders learning how to hold light.

We gather like scattered sparks
along cracked sidewalks and subway turns,
ancient and newborn moves colliding
until the pavement remembers how to sing.
A child teaches a weathered pair of hands
a step that melts the years away;
an old dancer shows a shy body
how to let its edges blur.

Hands split the air into constellations,
hips become small rebellions,
and laughter, sudden and furious,
wakes the corners that had given up hope.
The city exhales in syncopated breaths;
lamplight taps a steady beat on wet asphalt.
Neighbors inch closer, then closer still,
and language shrinks to the size of a smile.

Every stumble is forgiven by the music of feet,
every breath a tiny revolution.
We are a hundred different kinds of brave
learning, mid-spin, how to begin again.
So move -- wildly, gently, anything true --
until sorrow folds like paper and becomes warmth.
Everybody dance now:
let the world forget for one perfect song
that it was ever anything but this communal pulse.