Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

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.

In the hush of dawn, where dreams ignite,
A whisper calls to hearts in flight,
A comet's tail through the velvet sky,
"Stay on target," it breathes with a sigh.

The world may swirl, a tempest's dance,
But in focused gaze lies the chance,
To weave through storms, to pierce the night,
A steadfast spark, our guiding light.

When shadows loom and doubts ensnare,
Hold tight to the vision, breathe in the air,
For every setback, a lesson learned,
Every flicker of hope, a fire burned.

Through valleys deep and mountains steep,
In the echo of silence, dreams don't sleep.
So anchor your will, like roots in the ground,
In the rhythm of purpose, let courage abound.

Let not the noise of the world distract,
Keep your heart's compass, its true abstract.
With clarity woven in the fabric of fate,
You're not just a dreamer; you're a piece of the great.

So rise with the sun, and seize the day,
Carry your vision, don't drift away.
For the stars above, in their vast array,
Whisper to us softly, "Stay on target, stay."

With each step forward, feel the pulse,
The beat of your passion, the truth that repulses,
Fear and the doubt, from shadows be free,
For in staying on target, you'll find who you're meant to be.

In the hush of twilight's tender embrace,
Where shadows dance and dreams interlace,
There rings a sound, sweet as a spell,
A whisper of magic--silver bells.

They chime through the air, soft and clear,
Notes woven with hope, a song we hold dear.
A shimmer that glistens on crisp winter nights,
A tapestry woven with shimmering lights.

Each toll tells a tale of the years gone by,
Of laughter and love beneath vast, starry sky.
They summon the memories, fragile yet bright,
Of children in snow, their faces alight.

With hearts like the chiming, they echo and swell,
The joy of the moment, the stories they tell.
The frost-kissed air carries secrets anew,
Embracing the warmth of the bonds that we grew.

As softly they ring, like a lover's soft sigh,
Calling us home where the sweet spirits fly.
They bring forth the peace that the season bestows,
A symphony echoing as soft as a rose.

So listen, dear friend, as the silver bells chime,
Let their melody cradle you, timeless as rhyme.
In this world full of chaos, be still and behold,
The magic they weave, in their shimmering gold.

In the heart of the concrete, where dreams clash and meld,
Beneath the hum of the city, a symphony swelled.
With echoes of sneakers that whisper and shout,
In the dance of the hustle, there's no room for doubt.

A glint in their eyes, the young ones appear,
With passion ignited, fueled by hopes and fear.
They lace up their courage, the court their domain,
In every dribble's rhythm, they find joy in the strain.

Bouncing dreams on asphalt, arcs of sky-high shots,
Each feint and each pivot, a battle of thoughts.
The crowd roars like thunder on the wings of a pass,
In the cradle of hustle, the seconds can last.

Grit on their palms, ambition in flight,
They chase down the dusk, turning shadows to light.
Every missed chance, a lesson to earn,
Each victory echoed in the passion they burn.

What stories they carry, what burdens they share,
With every three-pointer, they conquer despair.
The hustle is real, woven deep in their soul,
A testament glowing, a fire to extol.

For in every jump shot, in every laid-up lay,
Lives the heartbeat of hope that refuses to sway.
So here's to the dreamers who take their stand,
In the hustle of hoops, they build their own brand.

Through sweat and through laughter, through heartache and pain,
They're crafting a legacy, a sweet refrain.
For in the game of life, both radiant and raw,
The hustle of hoops teaches us all to soar.

In the quiet hush of dawn's first light,
When shadows flee and dreams take flight,
I gather words like petals rare,
To weave a tapestry of praise laid bare.

With whispers soft, like a summer breeze,
I turn my gaze to the swaying trees,
And in their motion--graceful, true--
I find a rhythm, a song anew.

Praise is my craft, my heart's own beat,
In the mundane, I find the sweet--
The glimmer in a stranger's smile,
The warmth of kindness that makes life worthwhile.

For every heartbeat, for every sigh,
In the laughter that dances and the tears that dry,
I gather the moments, both small and grand,
And spin them into gold with a gentle hand.

Praise for the mountains that touch the sky,
Praise for the rivers that sing as they fly,
Praise for the love that binds us tight,
For hope that flickers, igniting the night.

In every sorrow that stirs the soul,
In every triumph that makes us whole,
I pen the verses that rise and fall--
A hymn of gratitude, a fervent call.

So let my heart be the vessel, true,
As I cradle the world in praises new;
For in each word, a spark I find,
A bridge of beauty, intertwined.

In a life well-lived, in the breath we share,
In the simple act of showing we care--
A poetry of praise is what I do,
To honor the light that shines in you.

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.

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.

It cracks the night like glass--an animal, a bell,
a throat unzipping to pour out a sky.
It spills, a red river down the face of the moment,
flashing teeth at the steady, indifferent stars.

NOOOOOOO!!!!! echoes in the ribs of buildings,
boomerangs off distant, sleeping houses,
finds the small room where hope had been folded,
unfolds it roughly, leaves the paper thin and trembling.

It is the sound of a hand pulled from another's,
of a light blown out in mid-sentence,
of a name that will not be buried politely.
It overturns the tea, it topples the faith
you had arranged like trophies on a shelf.

But listen: the scream is not only ruin.
It is also a beacon, raw and incandescent,
a flaring refusal that clears the fog.
In its wake the air tastes new--sharp, honest,
like rain after fire, like breath after being held.

NOOOOOOO!!!!! breaks open the sealed things inside,
lets you see the hands you thought were steady--
trembling. It forces the dress to the floor,
reveals the wound that was meant to be contained.

And from the jagged heart of that sound
a quieter music is born: a no that is a wall,
a no that is a door slammed shut against harm,
a no that makes room for the yes you might not yet know.

So scream it if you must--let it peel the paint,
let the neighbors think the world has ended.
Gather the pieces, count the cost, and choose:
not every NO is loss; some are the very shape
of the life you are still building.

NOOOOOOO!!!!!--a thunder that finally clears the sky.

Every other city we go becomes a small religion --
a cathedral built from our suitcases, ticket stubs,
and the way you cup your hands around a steaming cup
like it might confess the route it took to find you.

In Marseille the sea taught us how to argue softly,
blue and salt between our teeth; in the next place
we learned to speak in corners, in leftover bread,
the quiet grammar of two people trying not to leave traces.

Every other city we go keeps a piece of your jacket,
laces knotted into memory, a receipt folded like a prayer.
One city glows with neon and stolen kisses at three a.m.;
the next is a photograph of a bench where we apologized
for the weather and for everything else we could not change.

There are cities where we sleep like travelers in borrowed names,
where strangers offer directions and we are grateful for the past.
There are cities where the lamps throw our shadows long and hopeful,
where we map each other on the backs of postcards and hotel keys.

Every other city we go is a ledger of small miracles:
the street musician who taught us a chorus, the bakery that kept our secret,
the taxi driver who listened and refused to fix our problems.
Between them, in the odd ones, the silence gathers meaning,
a quiet room where we relearn how to be two without decaying.

By the time we learn the language of stoplights and rain,
the orbit of our feet has become a constellation.
We carry cities like coins--some bright, some worn flat--
and when we press them to our palms at night they still hum,
like a promise we are not sure we ever made but keep anyway.

Every other city we go is not a loss but a ledger of living:
an atlas of small departures and the tender ways we return.
When the plane lifts its hands and the skyline thumbnails away,
I count the spaces between us and know: we are always building home
out of the few things we keep--each other, and the names we refuse to forget.

There is a light beyond your window--thin, impatient,
like someone who has walked all the way here and won't wait.
The couch holds the shape of your evenings,
the kettle remembers every ritual,
but the world outside is an untied shoelace,
asking to be knotted into your next step.

Get out for more than air. Go for weather that argues with your bones,
for streets that whisper names you've never answered,
for alleys that fold themselves into secret rooms of sky.
Leave the small map you've learned by heart;
there are countries of sound and color waiting
with passports made of possibility.

Take the day that smells of wet cement and coffee,
take the night that tastes of streetlight and song.
Practice a courage that isn't loud--just steady,
the kind that eases your hand into the pocket of the universe
and finds a coin bright enough for a new beginning.

You will be awkward at first--two left feet at dawn,
fumbles at sidewalks, laughter that arrives early and stumbles.
That's how growth arranges itself: imperfect, insistently human.
You will also meet people whose names are warm like bread,
whose stories leak light into your marrow.
You will learn the language of cats and trains,
and the grammar of getting lost and then returning.

If fear is a locked door, curiosity is the long key--
it slides and clicks and finally turns.
Do not deny yourself the thrill of an unlocked life.
Collect small proofs: a sunset that makes you weep for nothing,
a stranger who becomes a memory you can slot into your bones,
a map smeared with coffee stains and yeses.

Return sometimes, but do not live in the doorway.
Carry the landscape inside you: the hush of the sea at three a.m.,
the honest glare of a noon market, the hush of someone's prayer.
Let those places teach your hands new ways to hold the world.

Get out for more than scenery. Go for the story you haven't told yet,
for the song you pretend you can't sing, for the truth that trembles
beneath your usual answers. Step until your shadow lenoers
and the horizon learns your name.

When you come back, bring the weather with you--
damp courage, bright wonder, wind-dusted teeth of laughter.
Set them on the table beside your old routines
and watch how the house rearranges itself
to let in a life that finally remembers to breathe.