Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

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.

In the face of daunting trials, we stand tall,
Like mighty oak trees, weathering the squall.
Life's challenges, they come in many forms,
Testing our strength, resilience it transforms.

When the storms of despair threaten to consume,
We find the light, dispelling darkness' gloom.
For within us dwells a flame, burning bright,
A spirit unyielding, ready to take flight.

Like a phoenix, we rise from ashes anew,
Unyielding, unbroken, in all that we pursue.
Each obstacle is but a chance to grow,
A stepping stone, teaching lessons we must know.

As mountains tower, we conquer our fears,
Guided by hope and determination, our dearest spears.
We gather strength from within and from each other,
For united, we triumph, sisters and brothers.

In every setback, a lesson is revealed,
Opportunity hides in wounds yet unhealed.
Through tears shed, we find the strength to mend,
To piece together shattered dreams, our hearts to tend.

With every step forward, we leave the past behind,
Embracing the present, a path to joy we find.
For life's challenges shape us into who we are,
Transforming us into warriors, shining like a star.

So let us face each hurdle with unwavering grace,
Knowing that together, we conquer the vast space,
Overcoming life's challenges, we shall prevail,
For within us lies a fire, that will never fail.

In a land where joy is wrapped in snow,

Where hearts are warmed by fires' gentle glow,

The air is filled with carols and delight,

I pen a poetry for this Holly Jolly Night.

Oh, Holly Jolly Christmas, so merry and bright,

A symphony of laughter, pure and light,

With twinkling lights and ribbons adorned,

The spirit of love, in this season, is reborn.

Through frosted windows, families come together,

Creating memories that will last forever,

With open arms and voices raised in glee,

A tapestry of love and unity we see.

Children's eyes, with wonder, radiate,

As they eagerly anticipate their fate,

With dreams of toys and Santa's sleigh,

Their innocence fills every heart with sway.

Friends and loved ones, near and far,

Share warmth beneath the shining star,

Gathered 'round the hearth, their hearts entwined,

In this festive season, love is truly defined.

Oh, Holly Jolly Christmas, a song so sweet,

Where harmony and bliss passionately meet,

In tales of old, our hearts find solace and cheer,

For Christmas is the time when miracles appear.

Let us toast to love and goodwill,

To moments that time cannot steal,

May this Christmas, so Holly and Jolly,

Fill our souls with joy and serendipity.

So raise your voices, let merriment chime,

In this poem, a tribute to Christmastime,

May every heart dance and sing,

With the magic this season brings.

Holly Jolly Christmas, enchantment in the air,

May hope and love, forever we share,

With this poetry, let hearts intertwine,

In a celebration that transcends space and time.

In the heart of the jungle, where vines entwine,

There lies a presence so fierce and divine.

A sanctuary of strength, beauty, and grace,

Where the spirit of the female finds its place.

In the jungle's depths, she roams free,

A force of nature, wild and carefree.

Her eyes gleam with the wisdom of ancient lore,

Her spirit was untamed, a lioness at its core.

She moves with the rhythm of the earth's beating heart,

Her presence commanding, a work of art.

In her jungle kingdom, she reigns supreme,

A vision of power, a mesmerizing dream.

Her roar echoes through the dense green canopy,

A primal call that stirs the soul within me.

She is the queen of the jungle, untamed and wild,

A fierce goddess, nature's beloved child.

In her realm of shadows and sunlit glades,

The female jungle dances, never to fade.

A symphony of strength and beauty combined,

In the heart of the jungle, she forever shines.

In the stillness of a mother's gaze,

Lies a heart that's led astray,

A betrayal unseen, a wound concealed,

In shadows where secrets play.

A child's trust, a sacred bond,

Shattered by a mother's hand,

Innocence lost, love turned to ash,

In a world where pain commands.

Through tear-stained eyes, a daughter weeps,

For a love that's now betrayed,

A mother's arms that once brought solace,

Now a source of shadows cast.

Betrayal cuts like a sharpened knife,

Through the bonds that once held tight,

Leaving scars upon the tender soul,

In the darkness of the night.

But within the depth of sorrow's grasp,

There blooms a seed of truth,

That despite the pain and bitter loss,

Love's resilience will soothe.

For a mother's betrayal may wound and scar,

Yet in forgiveness, hearts can heal,

And in the ashes of betrayal's flame,

A stronger bond may steal.

So let the tears fall like gentle rain,

And cleanse the wounds of old,

For in the heart's deep well of grace,

New stories can unfold.