Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

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.

In twilight's shadow, where time softly fades,

I ponder on life's wandering serenade,

The dance of years, a melody so fine,

A poetry of staying sharp in old age.

Once sprightly, I leapt through youthful days,

With vigor and fire, in naïve displays,

But now, the gnarled hands of time embrace,

A humbling reminder, life's gentle grace.

Oh, let me ponder, let me intertwine,

The wisdom of years with this heart of mine,

For age is not defined by count of years,

But by the depths of wisdom one reveres.

The mind, a blade, once quick and keen,

Can still forge pathways through the silver screen,

Each word, a chisel, to sculpt stories untold,

Breathing life into memories, bright and bold.

With every verse, my spirit takes flight,

Defying the encroaching gloom of night,

The ink, a potion, preserving the mind,

Shielding it from the ennui of mankind.

So, let me sharpen, let me never rest,

For words are my armor, my very best,

And as the sands of time continue to pour,

I'll thrive in the beauty of forevermore.

I'll tether my thoughts to the poet's quill,

As I dance on the precipice, spine tingles still,

For within this rhyming tapestry I weave,

The essence of youth forever I'll cleave.

Now, as I traverse life's labyrinthine maze,

My poetry will guide me through the haze,

Staying sharp, I'll wander through endless times,

A testament to the old age's prime.

May my verses ignite fires in others' hearts,

Fanning the embers, rekindling their own arts,

For in this poetry, we'll find unity,

Knowing that age cannot constrain the free.

So, let us celebrate the silver strands,

The wisdom that flows through our aged hands,

For within our souls, like a phoenix, we rise,

A poetry of old age that forever defies.

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 the heart of a city where shadows blend,

Lies a place where the weary find solace, a friend,

Club Solar, where laughter weaves through the air,

A sanctuary shimmering, a haven so rare.

Walls echo whispers of dreams long unfurled,

Canvas of hopes in a vibrant world,

The soft hum of life, a rhythm divine,

With every heartbeat, the stars align.

From beams of sunlight spilling wide,

To voices entwined like the ebbing tide,

In this gathering circle, we dance and we sway,

With the moon as our witness, we chase night away.

Here, poets and dreamers share verses and tales,

Each word like a comet that paints cosmic trails,

With ink on our fingers and fire in our veins,

We speak of the beauty, the losses, the gains.

Beneath the disco ball's shimmering glow,

The stories of past, the seeds we sow,

Together we rise, with our spirits ablaze,

In Club Solar's embrace, we wander in a daze.

For in this warm refuge, no judgment, no fear,

We find kindred souls, and our purpose grows clear,

With each whispered secret, each song sung anew,

We turn hopes into galaxies, timeless and true.

So let's gather our memories, a luminous feast,

Celebrate together, from greatest to least,

For Club Solar is more than a place on the map,

It's a heartbeat of love where we find our way back.

In the hush of morning light, they gather,

Soft whispers fold between the pages,

Crinkled tales of hope and dread,

The pulse of a world, fragmented, aged.

Ink-stained fingers trace the headlines,

A tapestry of stories, bold and brave,

Where sorrows are etched, and triumphs shine,

Each article a wave upon the vast grave.

In the city's heart, they spill like secrets,

Crumpled destinies in black and white,

A mother's plea, a soldier's testament,

Lives woven in newsprint's tight embrace,

Each word a lantern glimmers in the night.

The fickle hand of time races by,

While history's notes inked in urgency,

Unfolding humanity's fragile cycle,

A mirror reflecting our epiphany,

The chaos, the beauty, a collective cry.

But in between the stories spun,

Lies the quiet ache for things unsaid,

The love unspoken, the dreams overshadowed,

Voices lost in the silence, blood-red.

Oh, bearer of truth, hold us dear,

For in your embrace, we are both alive and dead.

So as we sip on our coffee's warmth,

And scan the stories that paint our day,

May we remember the hands that crafted,

Each line a heartbeat, each phrase a ray,

For newspapers cradle our very essence,

A testament to those who dared to say.

In the light of dawn, where whispers play,
Where shadows dance in the softening gray,
I find a truth, a shimmering thread,
Woven through moments, unsaid, unshed.

A heartbeat quickens within the still,
As petals unfurl on the edge of a hill,
There's magic in silence, a soft-spoken grace,
In the warmth of a glance, in the touch of your face.

Each word like a brush, painting skies so vast,
In ink of the cosmos, our stories are cast.
You are the whisper in a crowded room,
A radiant blossom in the darkest gloom.

With every shared laugh, with every shared tear,
You fill up the spaces, and draw me near.
Your presence a melody, pure and profound,
A symphony of dreams in the laughter we've found.

So here, in this moment, I claim my place,
In the soft, gentle glow of your quiet grace.
To be seen and to cherish, to feel and to know,
In the garden of feelings where love's rivers flow.

For in just being you, I am lifted and spun,
A star in your orbit, my journey begun.
In the kaleidoscope world that you help me frame,
I feel so special, ignited by flame.

So let the winds carry this truth far and wide,
In the heart of the universe, our souls collide.
For to feel so special is not just to be,
But a tapestry woven, just you and me.

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.

Beneath the Roman sun, where sand meets blood,

Brave souls arise, in the echo of the thud.

Gladiators, forged in fire and in fate,

Their hearts beat fierce, their destinies await.

In armor glinting, they stand, resolved,

An ancient pact; their fates entwined, evolved.

With each fierce clash, the crowd's roar ignites,

A symphony of valor, of daring fights.

They dance with death, in a waltz sublime,

Each strike a story, a heartbeat in time.

Fingers wrapped 'round swords, bright with hope and pain,

They carve their legacies in the bloodied grain.

Faces marked by struggle, the lines of despair,

Tell tales of triumph, of love laid bare.

For in that circle, where glory meets the grind,

They fight not just for the crowd, but for what's left behind.

A brother's shout, a lover's name,

Each breath they take, ignites the flame.

For every fallen hero, a ghostly cheer,

Resonates with the dreams of the ones held dear.

Oh, magnificent warriors of the sunlight's grace,

In your savage artistry, we find our place.

You rise from the ashes, like phoenixes of old,

Our hearts entwined in the stories you've told.

When evening falls, and the cheers subside,

The echoes remain, and the spirits abide.

In the legacy of legends, where honor may fade,

The poetry of gladiators is forever portrayed.

Neon hum, a quarter moon over green--
chalk dust like dry snow on the tip of fingers,
the felt a small country of its own,
pocketed with hungry, round promises.

A glass catches the light: amber, forgiving.
One swallow, and shoulders dissolve,
tongue loosens the little verbs that hold you tight.
Confidence arrives on soft feet,
a borrowed shape of courage that smells like citrus and oak.

You stand over the table and the world rearranges.
Angles grow generous, the cue feels longer,
your elbow unbolts, your breath slows to candlelight.
The cue ball answers like an old friend,
the break sings and for a heartbeat you are brilliant.

Then the second shot comes with tremor.
The world tips. Distances swell like mirrors.
Your eye that once read geometry now reads ghosts.
A straight line becomes a rumor,
a bank shot a superstition--what was sure is suddenly slippery.

Alcohol is a kindly thief and a cruel teacher:
it hands you a mask of fearlessness,
and behind it your hands may forget the lessons
paid for by practice, patience, repetition.
It smooths the edge of doubt and the edge of judgment alike.

Some nights it polishes the ordinary into art;
some nights it muffles the clue-scent of precision.
It can quiet the critic that stops your cue,
but it also quiets the small, precise voice that measures distance.

So ask the table, ask the felt: does it help?
The table answers in clacks and silences,
in the luck of a roll, the mercy of a pocket.
It tells you this--sometimes the drink is a lullaby
that lets skill awake for a while; sometimes it is a fog.

At last the cue lays down. The glass breathes its last.
You tally wins that taste like someone else's name,
and losses that feel like old weather returning.
Better? --for a night, perhaps. For a life at the table, rarely.

Aim, they say, is more than courage: it is steadiness of hand,
the long apprenticeship of counting angles, of falling and rising.
If you must bring a spirit to the game, let it be the spirit of practice,
of patience, clear eyes, and a hand that remembers the geometry of truth.

But when the neon is soft and the pool hall hums,
there is a kind of grace in the first, warm sip--
a temporary truce with your own doubt.
Just be careful which you pocket: the ball, or the bottle.