Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

There is a humility in the size of things:
a cup cradled in two hands, steam
that remembers the shape of your palms.
Think small, and the world fits --
a porch light, a book opened at midnight,
the slow exactness of a single, ordinary day.

To think small is to learn the grain
of wood, the contour of your own patience.
It is noticing the way rain scolds the windows
and then forgives them. It is keeping a map
of the streets that lead to your mother's kitchen,
memorizing the sound of laughter in one room.

But small thinking can be a fence, too --
a line that narrows horizons into neat, safe boxes.
It trims the wild edges until only the comfortable remains,
tethers wonder to routine and calls it wisdom.
When fear lives in small thinking, it shrinks the moon,
makes risk an expensive superstition.

Still, there is courage in choosing small:
to plant one tomato and watch it learn sunlight,
to hold one hand through one long conversation,
to refuse the constant roar that promises more.
Living small can be a radical act of focus,
an economy of love, a devotion to depth over display.

So let your smallness be generous:
pamper detail with attention, let tenderness grow,
allow the tiny things to teach you scale.
Keep room for sudden expansion -- a kindness that widens,
a door left open to the sky. Think small to sharpen sight,
live small to feel everything close and true.

On the skin of a curve I lay a single silver thread,
not to trespass the arc, but to learn its breath.
I touch once--no more than that--and the world tilts,
a precise, soft geometry: the slope of wanting.

It fits the moment like a whispered definition,
a straightness that understands the curve's secret bend.
We are maps in motion--one line that leans, one line that leans away--
a punctuation of contact where infinity feels finite.

This is not ownership but recognition:
to meet and mirror the tangent's angle for an instant,
to read the derivative of a life and know the direction
without swallowing its compass of possibility.

The curve keeps its becoming; the line keeps its clarity.
Between them, a tiny miracle: a single shared point,
a language of touch so exact it could be called faith.
Here, approximation becomes intimacy.

How tender to be allowed such a perfect glimpse--
to count the slope and carry it like a secret home.
For lovers, for moments, for truths that refuse to loop,
we are always learning to be that straight, that brief, that true.

The tangent leaves as it came: straight, honest, inevitable.
But the touch--oh, the touch--bends us toward new horizons.

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.

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.

We are all meant to become a part of God's Love
It doesn't matter how many times you have been pushed and shoved
God said he will never leave you
Which means praying for things is nothing new
Some may ask for money, some may ask for Success
But they all may not realize that they are already Blessed
Everything that you touch is a Blessing
It is like having more flavor to a salad with dressing
Everything that you feel is a Blessing
Being positive is what you should be best in
Everything that you love is a Blessing
Your love builds on other people's lessons
Your Success is depending upon hard work Yes
but it only takes one blessing to become a progress
Take one step at a time towards your success
but Every Success Starts with Being Blessed

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 the realm of dreams, where destinies reside,
A poet's pen glides, seeking to confide.
A symphony of words, whispers in the night,
Chasing shadows of doubt, embracing the light.

Oh, soul wandering on an untrodden path,
Hear my verse, heed their melodious wrath.
For destiny, dear soul, is a waltz to embrace,
Not just a whisper, but a dance to be chased.

Do not submit to the whims of blind fate,
Inscribe your name, let it resonate.
For the world is but canvas, blank and vast,
Paint your dreams, make them eternal and steadfast.

Through tempests and trials, hold fast your voice,
Inscribe your desires, make your own choice.
Weave the tapestry of life, thread by thread,
Control your destiny, where others may dread.

Forge your own path, beyond the beaten way,
Command the winds, let them follow and obey.
Though storms may assail, with fury and might,
Keep your compass true, let no darkness smite.

For in the depths of your soul, a fire burns,
Unleash the poet within, let it yearn.
Your destiny awaits, a masterpiece untold,
Compose your symphony before your story is sold.

So, writer of words, poet profound,
Break free from the chains that keep you bound.
Embrace the power that's burning inside,
And soar on the winds of destiny, unbridled.

In frost-kissed air, a choir's voice soars,
Enchanting hearts, as joy adorns the shores.
A silent night, where wonder softly gleams,
Embracing dreams and weaving timeless themes.

Amidst the carols, echoing through the night,
Warmth kindles, a candle's flickering light.
Whispers of hope, like snowflakes in flight,
Dance with delight, casting shadows so bright.

Within this season's tapestry we find,
A hallowed longing, a love so kind.
A starry path to the manger's humble stall,
Where heaven meets earth, embracing all.

A gentle hush descends upon the land,
As love's sweet essence slips through every hand.
Tears of grace, like icicles slowly thaw,
Binding souls together, mending each flaw.

The twinkle of lights, like newfound faith,
Guides us home across life's winding strait.
Gifts, wrapped in care, speak of love's embrace,
As they remind us of a child's humble grace.

In winter's embrace, where darkness may dwell,
Christmas ignites a flame, dispelling what fell.
A tapestry of blessings, woven in rhyme,
Restoring hope, one verse at a time.

So let us gather, in harmony's embrace,
And let the spirit of Christmas leave its trace.
Through poetry's song, let souls come alive,
Inhaling the beauty Christmas does strive.

In the dance of life, we find our song

A melody that lingers, pure and strong

Through trials and triumphs, we carry on

For in the rhythm of time, life goes on

In the quiet moments of solitude

We ponder dreams, both old and new

Embracing change, both swift and slow

For in the ebb and flow, life continues to grow

Through joys and sorrows, we find our way

Navigating the twists and turns of each day

Bridging the past with the future ahead

For in the tapestry of life, we are all beautifully thread

So let us cherish each moment we're given

Embrace the journey, both humble and driven

For in the poetry of life, our stories are spun

In the endless cycle, the beauty of life goes on

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.