Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

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.

Say it once like folding an old letter--
the edges soften, the ink blurs,
a confession turned into paper boats
set out on a late-summer river.
Nevermind, and the current takes it,
not cruel, not kind, simply moving.

Say it soft as moth wings against a lamp,
a small apology for wants that burned too bright.
Nevermind becomes a lullaby for the stubborn heart,
a quiet room where arguments unpeel
and sunlight finds the dust in forgiving ways.

There is a strange mercy in the word:
not erasing, but shelving--putting the ache
on a high shelf where we can see it, not live in it.
Nevermind teaches hands to unclench,
teaches mouths to close around the sharp things.

Sometimes it is a door left ajar,
sometimes an ocean swallowing a name.
It is not surrender to the night--more like
learning the map of your own soft places,
tracing the seams where sorrow and relief meet.

Say it when you must: to a fault, to a friend, to the mirror.
Let it be small and human, a bell rung for passage.
Nevermind--three syllables that carry a cross and a key,
a weathered hush that somehow clears the room,
and leaves you ready, at last, for morning.

They call it talent when lightning strikes once,
but skill is the slow keeping of fire--
a patient bellows under the ribs,
a hand learning the hymn of its own work.

It is the hour repeated until muscle remembers
what thought forgets under the weight of fear.
The edge that shaves away the useless,
the small gestures that tilt fate's heavy wheel,
the quiet sharpening of a single motion
until it sings true in the dark.

Skill is not thunder; it is a seam
stitched through days of stumbling and return--
scars mapped like constellations across the palm.
It converts doubt into a steady currency,
turns clumsy hopes into instruments of light.

See the maker bend to wood, to code, to clay:
each breath a syllable of apprenticeship,
each mistake a tutor who refuses to leave.
Power blooms where repetition meets attention,
where the ordinary becomes miraculous by care.

And when the world needs to be remade,
it asks not for raw force but for hands that know
how to coax a stubborn thing awake.
This is the power of skill--silent, relentless,
the small, fierce music that reshapes the world.

Between the chandelier and the bare bulb
a rumor of light moves like a thief --
it spills in crystal and puddles on pavement,
it learns the shape of silver spoons
and the hollowness of tin.

The Haves dine on calendars of plenty,
their plates are maps with no borders,
their laughter spins like coins
and settles soft on linen.
Outside, another door breathes on cold hinges,
a radio counts the hours in static,
a child folds an empty hand into a small fist
and names the wind for company.

Glass towers mirror the sky and keep their secrets;
cardboard dreams stack like low-rise constellations,
and in the alley the have-nots stitch dusk into blankets,
each thread a story of what was carried and lost.
The rich lawn keeps its shoes clean of mud,
while other shoes memorize the cracks in the pavement,
learn the language of soles.

They measure time differently:
one house counts gold as proof,
the other marks it by the patience of waiting.
But both feel the same late hour,
the same moon--thin as a promise--rising.
Both lovers press the same thin light to their faces,
both mothers name their children aloud
as if names could keep the cold from knowing them.

Sometimes the Haves grow small from too many doors,
and sometimes the Have Nots walk like kings, crownless but upright.
Compassion is a room nobody owns,
a table that will not seat just one kind.
When hunger is spoken into a bowl, when coin is split into care,
the wall that divided softens into a threshold.

If all the world's wealth were only weather,
we would still need umbrellas and hands to hold them.
So let the sun be shared in ledger and sky:
let no one wake to an empty cup while another's overflows,
let us remember we are not islands of profit,
but a single, breathing sea, rising and falling together.

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.

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.

In the twilight hum of city streets,

Where shadows dance and heartbeat greets,

A rhythm pulses through the night,

Whispers of tales, both dark and bright.

With every step, the pavement sings,

A story woven in the fabric of things,

This is how we do it, bold and free,

In the tapestry of life, our symphony.

The laughter spills like summer's rain,

A melody sweet, a soft refrain;

Voices rise and merge as one,

In the glow of the moon, we come undone.

It's in the warmth of a stranger's smile,

In the embrace that lingers a while;

We gather joy, like stars above,

This is how we do it, through grace and love.

Through trials faced, through battles fought,

In every lesson that time has taught,

We find our strength in each other's eyes,

In broken dreams that learn to rise.

So here we stand, with hearts aglow,

Together in the rhythm, the ebb, and flow;

This is how we do it, hand in hand,

United in spirit, a boundless band.

With every laugh, with every tear,

We carve our path, we own our fear;

This is how we do it, strong and true,

A living poem, a dream anew.