Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

In the heart of the bay where the waters dance,

There roam the boys with the sun-kissed glance.

Their laughter echoes through the salty air,

As they navigate the waves without a care.

With calloused hands and weathered skin,

They bravely face the storm that lies within.

Their eyes reflect the endless horizon,

In search of treasures that remain unrisen.

Through trials of the sea, they stand tall and brave,

Where the wild winds whisper, and the waters crave.

In their souls, a longing for the unknown,

As they navigate the depths, all on their own.

Oh, bay boys with hearts of fire and sea,

Your spirit soars, wild and free.

May your journey be guided by stars above,

And the ocean's embrace, forever your love.

In the hush of evening's sigh,
Where whispers cradle weary dreams,
I find a longing, soft and shy,
Among the shadows, bursting seams.

The clock ticks slow, its hands like chains,
Each minute stretches, burdens grow,
In crowded halls of echoing pains,
Where restless thoughts like rivers flow.

I yearn for fields, for azure skies,
To dance beneath a sighing tree,
To close my eyes and feel the rise
Of gentle winds, wild, and free.

Let me escape this hurried pace,
This fraying thread of worn routine;
To find a quiet, sacred space,
A moment pure, serene, pristine.

I seek the silence that restores,
Where laughter lingers, light and sweet,
To wander through these open doors
And let my restless spirit meet.

Oh, grant me time to breathe, to mend,
To cast aside the weights I bear;
A fleeting pause, my weary friend,
In nature's arms, I find my prayer.

So here I stand, with heart laid bare,
A tender wish beneath the stars,
For in stillness, I will repair,
And gather strength from distant shores.

In gentle breaks, I'll find my song,
A melody of hope reclaimed,
To rise once more, with spirit strong,
Transformed, renewed, and unashamed.

In a room where time seems to pause,
Soft whispers linger, while moments cause
Hearts to dance with hesitant hope,
Beneath the weight of the world's scope.

Walls painted in soothing, muted hues,
Holding secrets in their silent views,
Where shadows play and light gently spills,
Upon dreams cradled in fragile wills.

The ticking clock, a solemn friend,
Marks the cadence of breaths that blend,
With thoughts of healing, of fears laid bare,
In chairs familiar, hearts yearn and share.

Each glance exchanged, a story unfolds,
"Tales of courage in the face of cold."
The worn-out magazines lie untouched,
Yet the spirit of warmth cannot be clutched.

There's solace found in the ailing sighs,
And hope reflected in tear-streaked eyes,
While the hum of machines, a lullaby sweet,
Sows comfort in the weary heart's beat.

In the quiet chamber of waiting, we stand,
With fragile strands of both love and demand,
A tapestry woven of heart, soul, and grace,
In this sacred space where we each take our place.

For here, in the stillness, the world seems to bend,
Uniting our spirits, a common thread to mend,
A compassion that flows like a river's embrace,
In the poetry of life, we find our true space.

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.

In the hearts of the oppressed, a fire ignites

A revolution born from the depths of despair

Whispers of change fill the night

As hope blossoms in the hearts of the brave

The chains of injustice, we shall break

With words as sharp as swords

A revolution fueled by the poet's ink

Guiding us towards freedom's shores

In the silence of the night, voices rise

Echoes of resistance fill the air

For poetry is the language of the revolution

A beacon of light in times of despair

So let us rise, poets of the revolution

With verses that speak truth to power

For in the power of our words

Lies the strength to change the world's hour

In the quiet corners of the mind's vast expanse,

Lies a yearning, a whisper, a plea for a chance,

To be seen, to be heard, to be felt deep within,

Yearning for attention, where new dreams begin.

Amid the chaos of this hurried world we roam,

Yearning hearts seek solace, a place to call home,

In the eyes of another, in a kind word or touch,

Craving connection, needing attention so much.

Like petals unfurling to the morning sun,

We seek validation, our battles to be won,

In the symphony of souls, we long to play a part,

Yearning for attention, a flame within the heart.

So let us pause and listen, with open hearts and minds,

To the silent cries that echo in the winds of time,

For in that tender moment, when attention is bestowed,

New life begins its journey, along the path we've sowed.

In aisles of whispers, where dreams unfold,
Amidst the shimmer of silver and gold,
They wait with stories, each object a plea,
To capture the heart, to set visions free.

The scent of soft leather, the touch of fine silk,
A tapestry woven with essence of milk,
The echo of choices, both subtle and loud,
In the theater of commerce, we stand, we're proud.

What is it we seek in these bright, shining lands?
Connection, perhaps, through invisible hands,
A tapestry stitched with the threads of the past,
As seasons cascade, the moments are cast.

Each item a treasure, each shelf a new chance,
To dance through the maze in an endless romance,
The flicker of price tags, like stars in the night,
They twinkle with promise, they beckon with light.

Yet amidst all the noise, in the hustle, the race,
Lies a longing for warmth, for a familiar space,
Where strangers become friends in the smallest exchange,
Where laughter and kindness can blossom, not change.

So here in this haven, with footsteps that weave,
We're more than mere customers, we're hearts that believe,
In the magic of moments, the art of the sell,
In every transaction, we're bound by a spell.

Let us treasure the essence, the scent of the day,
Find stories in shopping that carry the sway,
For in the realm of retail, where senses collide,
We're more than just buyers--we're souls open wide.

We live to see the day -- not as a promise
but as a small, stubborn miracle.
Night folds its palms and hides its eyes,
but we keep watch: breath against cold glass,
fingers tracing the map of where we were.

We live to see the day when the sky
learns to be generous again,
spilling light like an apology
across roofs, across the rumor of streets.
There is a language in the way dust trembles
as if remembering how to be gold.

We live to see the day for quiet things:
a cup warming a palm, a child's laugh
peeling like sun through the laundry,
an old song hummed into a doctor's waiting room.
We live to see the day for heavy things too--
for names spoken without the clatter of tears,
for graves that become gardens under our hands.

We live to see the day because someone
laid down their fear like a bridge,
because someone else dug their knees in and would not move.
Because the past keeps sending signals: ashes that still warm,
letters folded in pockets, the weight of lessons learned.
We carry them forward, not as anchors but as fuel.

We live to see the day to fill it: with repair,
with stubborn kindness, with stubborn laughter.
We live to see the day and learn again to trust
the small mercy of morning: that light arrives
even when we have nothing left to bargain with.
We rise anyway, shoulder to shoulder with dawn,
bearing the quiet stubbornness of survivors.

We live to see the day -- and when it comes,
we do not hoard it. We open every window,
let it move through us like wind, let it wake the seeds.
We lay our palms on the world and say, here.
We are here to meet you. We are here to keep you.
We are here to make of this bright terrible gift
a life that remembers why it wanted light.

In the heart of passion's flame, red heat burns bright,

A fierce intensity that ignites the night.

It pulses with desire, a powerful force,

Consuming all in its fiery course.

Like a blazing sun in the heat of noon,

Red heat captivates, entrancing the moon.

It dances and flickers, a wild, untamed fire,

A symphony of passion, a burning desire.

In the crimson depths of a lover's gaze,

Red heat roars and never betrays.

It sears the soul with a searing touch,

A fervent heat that is always too much.

So let it blaze, let it consume,

Let red heat reign, in the heart's vast room.

For in its flames, we find our truth,

A poetry of passion, a fireproof youth.

I deserve better -- a small verdict I learned to say aloud,
like lighting a match in a room that taught me to whisper.

I have swallowed crumbs of affection until my hunger
became ordinary; I have made my voice polite, then thin.
No more. I am unlearning the grammar of keeping quiet
so someone else can be comfortable.

My tenderness is not rent money for a temporary bed.
My time is not a currency to be spent on excuses.
I refuse to catalog my worth by the frequency of your return.
I will not measure my days by how well I fit into your absence.

I deserve better -- not as punishment to you
but as a home I build for myself, brick by reclaimed breath.
I will plant mornings where my name blooms first,
where promises are not fossils but living trees.

If love is a map, I will redraw the borders.
If patience is a seed, I will choose where it is sown.
I will set my feet where my heart is not apologizing,
where my laugh is full, where my wounds are tended.

I deserve better -- this is not anger, it is stewardship.
It is the quiet revolution of learning to keep my own light,
to walk out of rooms that dim me and into days that match me.
I deserve better -- and finally, I will answer to that.