Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

Midnight breathes like a softened bell --
a hush of smoke and hopeful glass raised to the sky.
We fold the year into the palm of memory,
watching old mistakes turn to ash that glows
a little warmer than we expected.

Streetlight confetti, socks of laughter,
someone's tired song made bright by strangers' voices.
We count backwards and then forward, a small miracle:
seconds unhooked from regret,
seconds rewired to possibility.

There are pockets of grief we tuck beneath our coats,
buttons sewn over cracks -- not to hide but to keep warm.
Resolutions arrive as quiet visitors,
bearing simple gifts: a promise to be kinder,
a vow to listen to the soft things first.

A child unfurls the future like a paper boat,
and in the steam of hot coffee, futures steam too --
some will sing, some will stumble, some will arrive
with maps of scars that read like constellations.
New cheer is not the absence of pain;
it is the courage to light a match anyway.

So we step across midnight's thin line,
carrying last year's lessons like careful luggage,
and release what refuses to bend.
The sky fills with tiny suns of laughter,
and for a brief, shaking moment we believe
in beginnings as if they were prayers answered.

Hold this cheer like an ember in your palm:
tend it with truth, feed it with small acts.
By morning, the city will be ordinary again,
but something in us will remain brightened --
a single room lit from within,
ready to meet the quieter miracles of the year.

We stoke them like small rebellions -- palms cupped
around sparrows of ember, feeding breath until
the hush refuses to stay. Night bends closer,
curious as a cat, and the first sparks remember
their names: longing, ruin, tenderness.

They do not burn politely. They roar
through the corridors of ordinary days,
igniting the curtains of routine, leaving
maps of light on the floorboards. We walk them
like pilgrims, barefoot on coals that glow
with old maps of what we swore we'd become.

Sometimes the blaze scours us clean -- a bright
surgery that leaves scent of cedar and salt.
Sometimes it devours the furniture of habit,
leaving only ash and a single, stubborn ember
that glows like a promise we forgot to keep.

Love is not a candle: it is a wildfire that learns
to read our faces, to chase the syllables of our laughter,
to tender the bones that feared to be touched.
It feeds on the moon's reflection in your coffee,
on the silence after a storm. It is both anthem and warning.

So we hold each other like flint and tinder,
knowing that to strike is to change forever:
to walk out incandescent, to walk home rebuilt,
to carry, beneath our ribs, a geography of light --
hearts on fire, not to consume us, but to show us what will still burn.

Not when the sky is perfect,
not when fear has folded,
but in the half-light of trembling hands
you strike the first small sound.
A single nail into the wall
holds up a future--quiet, stubborn--
and the room remembers how to echo.

Make it happen: whisper it to the marrow,
to the hollow places that learned to stay small.
Feed it with plain tools: coffee at dawn,
a list, two breaths, the courage to begin again.
Build like someone who knows how to heal--
one careful stitch, one stubborn seam,
until the garment fits your living skin.

There will be storms that practice drowning,
voices that map the route of retreat.
Let them pass like weather. Plant your feet
in the soil you've chosen; let roots answer the rain.
Remember the river does not wait for permission;
its insistence carves mountains into maps.

Make it happen not by grandness alone
but by the patient geometry of doing:
small acts, fierce as sunlight through blinds,
pieces gathered until a shape is formed.
Call your fear by name and set it to work;
teach your doubt to carry stones.

When the night asks if you are tired,
say yes--and then say still--go on.
Because making is a kind of mercy:
to yourself, to the people who will warm themselves
at the fire you started with trembling hands.
Make it happen. Let your life be proof
that a single, certain step can become a road.

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.

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 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, a father's betrayal lies,

Like a tempest brewing in a stormy sky.

Once a beacon of strength and guiding light,

Now a figure shrouded in deceit and blight.

A daughter's heart, once warmed by his embrace,

Now aches with the wounds of his disgrace.

Words once spoken with love and care,

Now twisted into daggers of despair.

The bond they shared, now torn asunder,

By the cruel hands of betrayal and thunder.

The pain, a heavy burden to bear,

As trust and love dissolve into thin air.

Yet amidst the darkness and the pain,

A glimmer of hope still remains.

For wounds may heal and hearts may mend,

And broken ties may find their mend.

So let us hold onto hope and grace,

And seek forgiveness in this bitter place.

For though a father's betrayal may sting,

Love's enduring power can still bring healing.

In twilight's soft embrace we met,
Where shadows dance, and whispers fret,
A serendipity, delicate bloom,
In the quiet of dusk, where dreams find room.

Eyes like galaxies, mysteries unfurled,
A moment suspended, a heartbeat swirled,
Time held its breath, the world turned dim,
In the silence between us, the universe brimmed.

Words untamed lingered, golden, unspoken,
In the briefest of pauses, our hearts wide open,
Like rivers converging, the spark of the new,
A tapestry woven of me and of you.

You brushed past my spirit, a phantom caress,
Filling the chasms, erasing the stress,
Each glance forged a language, a rhythm, a rhyme,
As if fate penned our story before there was time.

Beneath the vast heavens, the stars bore witness,
To a dance of two souls in the grip of their fitness,
Each word exchanged, a fragile thread spun,
In the tapestry woven, we became one.

But beyond the encounter, life pulls and it tears,
The echoes of laughter face shadows and snares,
Yet in the fabric of memory, a warmth ever bright,
Your presence, though fleeting, will linger in light.

So here's to the moments, rare treasures we claim,
To encounters that whisper, igniting the flame,
For though paths may diverge, and bodies may part,
The essence of meeting forever will chart.