Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

In the realm of dreams, where time stands still,
A force so mighty, it lies within a quill.
Words, like gentle whispers, softly dance,
Crafted with intention, they hold a trance.

Momentum, sweet catalyst of life's symphony,
A surging rhythm, igniting energy.
It whispers in the breeze, its gentle plea,
"Embrace your dreams, set your spirit free."

Like the ocean's tide, it ebbs and it flows,
A driving force, wherever it goes.
It gathers strength, with each step you take,
Pushing you forward, in every choice you make.

In the shadowed valleys, when hope seems lost,
Momentum whispers, guiding you at any cost.
It fuels your passion, ignites the fire within,
A force so potent, it's impossible to pin.

Yet, in the chaos of a world so vast,
Momentum holds the key to outlast.
It galvanizes dreams, and fuels each aim,
A constant reminder, to play life's game.

So, let your verses be a testament,
To the power of momentum, never relent.
With every word, let your spirit soar,
And with each line, let your dreams explore.

For in the realm of poetry's divine,
Momentum is the heartbeat, the lifeline.
So write with fervor, let your ink control,
And watch as your dreams unfold.

In the realm of laughter and delight,
Where joy takes flight and shadows take flight,
A poetry of mirth and glee shall now commence,
With words that dance and thoughts that bounce.

Come, let us abandon all care and woe,
And let our spirits freely flow,
For in these verses, we shall find,
The essence of fun, unconfined.

Scoop up the sunbeams, paint the skies,
With colors bold and fantasies that arise,
What rules exist, in this blissful sphere,
When laughter reigns, devoid of fear?

Let us be children, unburdened by time,
Skipping and playing, in rhythm divine,
Like bubbles floating with playful glee,
Released from constraints, wild and free.

Capture moments, like fireflies aglow,
Embrace the whimsy, let your spirit grow,
Seek out hidden paths, with unyielding zest,
In this dance of life, be an eternal jest.

For fun resides in the simplest of things,
In skipping stones and butterfly wings,
It weaves through stories, shared aloud,
Creating connections, a jubilant crowd.

So laugh, my friend, with all your might,
Embrace the day, beyond the night,
For in this poem of fun and cheer,
You'll find the magic, ever near.

And when you've had your fill of play,
Remember this poem, its simple sway,
For within its verses, forever employ,
The power of fun, your ultimate joy.

In the quiet of the dawn's soft light,

A new day begins, both dark and bright,

As a parent, with babe in arms,

Balancing work and sweet baby charms.

In a world of screens and endless tasks,

In the midst of toys and baby masks,

The dance of parenthood and career,

A delicate balance, both far and near.

From emails typed with one hand free,

To soothing cries on bended knee,

A new mom or dad, in this home domain,

Navigating a path both joyous and plain.

The sounds of typing mix with lullabies,

As work and love become allies,

In this space of chaos and calm,

A daily journey, a parental psalm.

So embrace the beauty in this dual role,

In the heart and in the soul,

For in the midst of chaos and love's dearth,

There's magic in the balance of work and birth.

In the city streets where silence weeps,

There roam the gents without a cent,

Their weary eyes hold tales untold,

In their hearts, a resilient lament.

Their shoes worn thin, their pockets bare,

Yet dignity stands tall and true,

Amidst the chaos and despair,

A quiet strength shines through.

They navigate a world unkind,

Yet dignity they still uphold,

In every step, a silent prayer,

In every breath, a story yet untold.

For in their faces, you may perceive,

A beauty that transcends the pain,

A spirit that refuses to grieve,

A hope that dares to remain.

So let us see beyond the lack,

And recognize the wealth within,

For in these gents without a cent,

Resides a treasure, pure and keen.

In the heart of stillness, where whispers unfold,

A kingdom is woven from dreams spun in gold.

Where shadows find solace, the weary take rest,

A realm of compassion, where love is the guest.

Beneath the wide heavens, the stars brightly gleam,

Each twinkle a promise, each sigh is a dream.

Mountains bow low and the valleys arise,

In the kingdom of grace, where the humble are wise.

With rivers of mercy, ablaze with pure light,

The broken find healing, the lost seek the bright.

The laughter of children, like soft silver chimes,

Echoes through fields of the most sacred rhymes.

Here, justice is tender, and mercy is strong,

Where hearts beat in rhythm, a harmonious song.

The outcast embraced, the orphan held dear,

In the kingdom of God, all are welcomed near.

In gardens of hope, where each seed can take flight,

Faith blooms like the blossoms, eager for light.

The burdened find freedom; the captive, release,

In a tapestry woven, the threads weave in peace.

So let us be pilgrims, on pathways divine,

With love as our compass, in valleys we'll shine.

For the kingdom of God, it whispers to all,

A call to believe--come, answer the call.

In the heart of the forest, where shadows weave dreams,

Lies a haven of silence, where sunlight gleams,

A family of bears, with souls intertwined,

Embody the bond that nature designed.

The mother, a guardian, strong and so wise,

With eyes like deep waters reflecting the skies,

She cradles her cubs, soft breaths in the night,

In the whispering woods, they find warmth and light.

The cubs, ever playful, like leaves in the breeze,

Stumble through meadows, with laughter that frees,

They tumble and chase, beneath branches so green,

Life's simple joys in a world unseen.

With each gentle hug, the world fades away,

In the strength of their bond, they find hope and play,

Through thorny brambles and rivers so wide,

Together they wander, with love as their guide.

When storms roll in with a thunderous roar,

They huddle together, hearts beating like oars,

In the chaos of nature, fierce winds may blow,

But in the arms of each other, they always will grow.

As seasons keep turning, the years swiftly fly,

The cubs become giants, under vast, endless skies,

Yet still in their hearts, where memories rest,

Lies the essence of family, the eternal quest.

So here's to the bears, in their wilderness space,

A testament woven of love, time, and grace,

May we cherish our own, through tempest and calm,

For family, like forests, nurtures the balm.

In the heart where whispers weave through emerald leaves,

A towering figure reigns, where the wild heart believes.

With branches like arms that cradle the skies,

The King of the Forest, where silence replies.

His roots run deep in the earth's ancient womb,

A tapestry woven with secrets and bloom.

Beneath the moon's silver, he stands ever tall,

Guardian of shadows, protector of all.

The birds sing his praises, a chorus so sweet,

While rustling leaves dance to the rhythm of feet.

The deer tiptoe softly, in reverent grace,

In the kingdom of green, they each find their place.

Storms may come raging, with thunderous roar,

Yet he stands unwavering, a sentinel sure.

For ages he's witnessed the seasons unfold,

Through summers and winters, through stories retold.

Yet in his great stature, a wisdom imbues,

That life's fleeting moments are what we must choose.

The laughter of children, the scent of the rains,

All weave in his essence, where memory reigns.

So gather around him, dear souls longing free,

For the King of the Forest, he cradles the plea.

In his shade, find solace, in his roots, find your home,

In the heart of the wild, may you never roam alone.

And when you hear whispers, like secrets unfurled,

Know the spirit of nature has gifts for the world.

For the King of the Forest, in stillness, decrees,

That love is the essence in every soft breeze.

There is a drum in the chest -- not asking permission,
only keeping time with the slow tilt of the world.
Morning folds itself into the palms of your hands,
coffee cooling like a promise you almost kept;
the city exhales, a map of small fires and small mercies,
and somewhere a child learns the fierce geometry of falling.

The river does not consult the stones before it passes,
it remembers every grief and every name
and carries both like pebbles in bright mouths.
Light finds cracks in the ordinary and pours through,
insistent as forgiveness, as stubborn as a lighthouse
that has no business still calling ships home.

Love is kinetic -- a language of repeated gestures,
notes returned in the margin of a day. Loss is kinetic too:
it arranges itself into the furniture and the silence,
sits in your chair as if it had always lived there,
learns the cadence of your hands at the sink,
keeps visiting at the hour you thought was private.

It never stops: the turning of seasons, the folding of maps
we thought we'd read through. It never stops:
the naming of things, the singeing of hope and the rescue,
the ringing of keys, the making of beds, the letting go,
the beginning and the small remaking after ruin.
We are paper boats on a rain that insists on rising.

Sometimes it is tenderness that will not pause,
a stranger's umbrella given without explanation;
sometimes it is the ache that rehearses itself at night,
a slow metronome beneath the ribs. Both keep time,
both insist on being lived through. We are not finished
with what we are learning to be -- not yet, not ever.

Stand, if you can, with your palms open to the noise:
the endless work of love, the stubborn chorus of sorrow,
the quiet repairs, the sudden laugh that undoes you.
There is a pulse in everything that breathes and breaks,
and even in breaking, something decides to continue.
Listen: it never stops -- and for now, that is a way to live.

Midnight breathes like a softened bell --
a hush of smoke and hopeful glass raised to the sky.
We fold the year into the palm of memory,
watching old mistakes turn to ash that glows
a little warmer than we expected.

Streetlight confetti, socks of laughter,
someone's tired song made bright by strangers' voices.
We count backwards and then forward, a small miracle:
seconds unhooked from regret,
seconds rewired to possibility.

There are pockets of grief we tuck beneath our coats,
buttons sewn over cracks -- not to hide but to keep warm.
Resolutions arrive as quiet visitors,
bearing simple gifts: a promise to be kinder,
a vow to listen to the soft things first.

A child unfurls the future like a paper boat,
and in the steam of hot coffee, futures steam too --
some will sing, some will stumble, some will arrive
with maps of scars that read like constellations.
New cheer is not the absence of pain;
it is the courage to light a match anyway.

So we step across midnight's thin line,
carrying last year's lessons like careful luggage,
and release what refuses to bend.
The sky fills with tiny suns of laughter,
and for a brief, shaking moment we believe
in beginnings as if they were prayers answered.

Hold this cheer like an ember in your palm:
tend it with truth, feed it with small acts.
By morning, the city will be ordinary again,
but something in us will remain brightened --
a single room lit from within,
ready to meet the quieter miracles of the year.

We stoke them like small rebellions -- palms cupped
around sparrows of ember, feeding breath until
the hush refuses to stay. Night bends closer,
curious as a cat, and the first sparks remember
their names: longing, ruin, tenderness.

They do not burn politely. They roar
through the corridors of ordinary days,
igniting the curtains of routine, leaving
maps of light on the floorboards. We walk them
like pilgrims, barefoot on coals that glow
with old maps of what we swore we'd become.

Sometimes the blaze scours us clean -- a bright
surgery that leaves scent of cedar and salt.
Sometimes it devours the furniture of habit,
leaving only ash and a single, stubborn ember
that glows like a promise we forgot to keep.

Love is not a candle: it is a wildfire that learns
to read our faces, to chase the syllables of our laughter,
to tender the bones that feared to be touched.
It feeds on the moon's reflection in your coffee,
on the silence after a storm. It is both anthem and warning.

So we hold each other like flint and tinder,
knowing that to strike is to change forever:
to walk out incandescent, to walk home rebuilt,
to carry, beneath our ribs, a geography of light --
hearts on fire, not to consume us, but to show us what will still burn.