Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

They call it silence, but it is not empty --
it hums like a hidden loom where meaning is woven.
A single lamp trims the room into a small sky,
and dust motes are galaxies being born and dying
inside the slow orbit of my hands.

Outside the street shouts and the city breathes loud,
but here I learn the language of careful motions:
the soft knuckle of a pencil against paper,
the patient stitch that holds a seam together,
the low arithmetic of decisions turned to habit.

Silence is not a void but a kind of listening --
it opens like a window when the world closes its doors.
My breath keeps time; my heart is the metronome.
Every small task becomes a constellation:
seeming fragments that, in this hush, are named and guided.

I work as if something is waiting just beyond sound,
a truth that needs the slow polishing of attention.
When the day finally leans back and the lamp goes out,
I carry away the work like a quiet harvest --
fruit that tastes of dusk and a steady, wordless faith.

In the realm of whispers and echoes,

Where shadows dance and secrets lie,

A poetry of blood and bone uncoils,

A tale both ancient and untold.

From the depths of earth's rich embrace,

Life emerges, a symphony of grace,

Blood, the river of vitality within,

Binding spirits, shedding mortal skin.

Through every heartbeat's rhythmic drum,

A river of life, where stories come undone,

Within our veins, ancestral whispers roam,

In the marrow, histories find their home.

Blood, the ink that writes the memoir,

Of all the loves, losses, and battles fought afar,

Stories of triumph and tales of despair,

Etched upon bones, a legacy to bear.

In veins, a river of passion doth flow,

Igniting hearts with a fiery glow,

Binding souls like love's eternal thread,

Through the labyrinth of veins, passion is spread.

Yet within this poetry of blood and bone,

There echoes an ancient truth, well known,

That life's delicate thread, so easily torn,

Leads us to a destiny, both known and unknown.

So let each pulsating beat be a reminder,

That life's sweet symphony is but a timer,

Embrace the poetry found within your core,

For in blood and bone lies an endless lore.

In the realm of hearts, a day doth hold sway,
A tender symphony, a poet's display.
Where love's sweet whispers dance upon the air,
And romance weaves its spell with utmost care.

Valentine's Day, a tapestry divine,
A moment frozen, like love's sweetest wine.
With roses blooming, crimson as the sun,
And silken words, by cupid's arrow spun.

Each beating heart flutters with anticipation,
In this realm of love, a sacred proclamation.
For in this world, passion's flame alights,
And ignites the spirit with fervent delights.

In whispered verses, secrets are revealed,
Love's true essence, through sentiments concealed.
The softest touches, like feathers on skin,
Bestowed affection, let heartaches rescind.

A chorus of sighs, and stolen glances meet,
As two souls intertwine, love's rhythms compete.
In verse and rhyme, feelings deeply felt,
Expressions of the heart, no words can melt.

Oh Valentine's Day, a poet's delight,
The canvas for emotions, shining bright.
With words that dance upon the page like fire,
Bathing hearts in longing, in sweet desire.

Let love be celebrated, in every verse,
With passion's ink, true feelings we immerse.
For in this poetry, we find love's art,
And touch the very depths of a lover's heart.

In the town of Springfield, mischief stirs,
Where Bart Simpson's pranks, his legacy reoccurs.
With a twinkle in his eye, and mischief in his tone,
He dials the phone, in his realm, he's never alone.

"Is Mr. I.P. Freely present?" he asks with a giggle,
His voice mischievous, his spirit never too little.
A master of disguise, his pranks unfold,
Leaving everyone in laughter, the truth untold.

From "Seymour Butz" to "Mike Rotch",
Bart's creativity knows no blotch.
With each call, a new character born,
In the world of his making, the rules are torn.

His laughter echoes through the night,
A prankster's delight, a mischievous sight.
In every call, a tale to tell,
Bart Simpson's pranks, a comedic spell.

So raise a toast to this mischievous lad,
Whose antics make us smile, never sad.
In Springfield's world, he reigns supreme,
Bart Simpson's prank calls, a humorous dream.

In shadows deep, where friendships fade to dust,

A tale of bonds unraveled, lost, and crushed.

Unfriended souls, once intertwined with care,

Now fractured, torn apart in silent stare.

The whispers of betrayal softly weep,

As trust is shattered, buried fathoms deep.

A rift now carved in hearts once close and true,

A friendship lost, a bond forever through.

Longing for the days of laughter shared,

Now left alone, in solace none have dared.

The echoes of the past now haunt the room,

A void where once there bloomed a friendship's bloom.

Yet in the silence, whispers linger on,

A hope that one day healing will be drawn.

For friendships lost can still be redefined,

In forgiveness found, a new bond intertwined.

So let us mourn the friendships now unfriended,

But never lose the hope that time extended.

For in the ashes of what once had been,

New friendships rise, to mend what's torn within.

There is a humility in the size of things:
a cup cradled in two hands, steam
that remembers the shape of your palms.
Think small, and the world fits --
a porch light, a book opened at midnight,
the slow exactness of a single, ordinary day.

To think small is to learn the grain
of wood, the contour of your own patience.
It is noticing the way rain scolds the windows
and then forgives them. It is keeping a map
of the streets that lead to your mother's kitchen,
memorizing the sound of laughter in one room.

But small thinking can be a fence, too --
a line that narrows horizons into neat, safe boxes.
It trims the wild edges until only the comfortable remains,
tethers wonder to routine and calls it wisdom.
When fear lives in small thinking, it shrinks the moon,
makes risk an expensive superstition.

Still, there is courage in choosing small:
to plant one tomato and watch it learn sunlight,
to hold one hand through one long conversation,
to refuse the constant roar that promises more.
Living small can be a radical act of focus,
an economy of love, a devotion to depth over display.

So let your smallness be generous:
pamper detail with attention, let tenderness grow,
allow the tiny things to teach you scale.
Keep room for sudden expansion -- a kindness that widens,
a door left open to the sky. Think small to sharpen sight,
live small to feel everything close and true.

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.

In frost-kissed nights where cold abounds,

With icy winds that whisper sounds,

When winter's grip holds hearts so tight,

Let me unveil wise tips to save, just right.

First, insulate your humble abode,

Wrap it up in warmth, and thus it'll hold.

Unwanted drafts shall yield to warmth's delight,

And frigid cold will dim its chilling might.

Next, befriend the sun, that radiant knight,

He grants us warmth in wintertime's fight.

Keep curtains drawn, expose the warming beams,

Embrace his touch, as life in darkness teems.

With shivers close, pull on your woolen gear,

Adorned in layers, banish winter's jeer.

Protect your body from the biting freeze,

A coat of strength, a fortress to appease.

Now, let us turn to comforts we hold dear,

Hot cocoa's embrace, a winter's cheer.

Choose homemade delights over costly fare,

Sip slowly, savor warmth beyond compare.

And as we nestle by the fireside glow,

Embrace those moments, let mirth bestow.

Entwine with loved ones, under blankets share,

A heartfelt warmth that money can't ensnare.

In winter's realm, where icy grasp does creep,

Seek solace, find joy, in pockets deep.

Save not just pennies but those precious hours,

Spent with loved ones, amidst nature's powers.

For when the chill subsides, and spring awakens,

Memories and treasures are what remain unshaken.

Saving money is wise, but save not just for gold,

Save moments, love, and stories yet untold.

So as the cold takes hold, fear not the freeze,

Embrace its challenge, and savings will appease.

Create a haven where warmth and love unite,

And see the true riches winter can igni(t)e.

In the labyrinth of cloth, behold the quest,
Where beauty intertwines with the humble test,
A dance between fabric, a symphony of grace,
An artistry of knot, the tie's rightful place.

Begin this journey, oh sartorial explorer,
With linen or silk, let elegance empower,
With measured steps, fold wide end o'er narrow,
A symmetrical embrace, gentle and thorough.

Like the sun's rays caressing the azure sky,
Guide the wide end beneath, so deftly apply,
Now gently let it rise, ascent to the peak,
Where confidence converges, bold and sleek.

Then to the left, now crossed, a twist and twine,
Embrace the narrow end, a bond of design,
A delicate surrender, a union of finesse,
As they weave and they merge, finding oneness.

As passion unravels, the knot begins to form,
Tightly pull, like life's moments that transform,
A snug embrace, a union tightly secured,
A glimpse of timeless charm, forever endured.

With a flair of genius, the final touch arrives,
A dimple, a whisper, as life gently contrives,
The tie, a symbol of strength and sophistication,
Marvel at its magic, its subtle invitation.

In the mirror's reflection, a masterpiece unfolds,
A symphony of style, a story, ageless and bold,
For in the act of tying, a metamorphosis takes place,
Transforming a man into poetry, bound by grace.

So let this poem guide you, oh seeker of ties,
With every knot tied, let your spirit rise,
For in the fabric's embrace, there lies incantation,
And the art of tying a tie becomes revelation.

In a house where shadows stretch and creep,

A symphony of silence, a secret keep,

Walls draped in echoes, the whispers of days,

When laughter rang bright in its sunbeam rays.

Windows frame a canvas, where the light bends low,

Dust dances in spirals, a soft, golden glow,

Each room tells a story, a tale woven tight,

Of comforts once gathered, now grasped in the night.

The clock ticks a rhythm, a metronome's sigh,

With each passing second, time seems to fly,

A chair holds the memory of warmth once embraced,

Now merely a shadow, a ghost interlaced.

The kitchen hums low with the scent of the past,

Coffee brews lonely, yet its warmth holds fast,

Cups stacked in the cupboard, each one a refrain,

Of mornings fragmented, yet anchored in pain.

The heart of the home beats to an empty song,

Resonating softly where we once belonged,

Yet in this stillness, a different note starts,

A melody rising from hollowed-out hearts.

For in the quiet, a seed can still sprout,

An echo of love that can still turn about,

Amongst fleeting fragments of joy and of woe,

A space that embraces the ebb and the flow.

So here in the silence, a solace can bloom,

A refuge for dreams in the still of the room,

Home Alone, but never devoid of the light,

For love's gentle whisper still lingers in night.