Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

Take the fist of your breath and strike the sky --
let your voice become an avalanche of light.
Stamp the metronome of your heart into the pavement,
so even sleeping cities wake and count their scars.

We are the hammer against the quiet glass,
the drumbeat that dares the mountains to move.
Sing until the rails bend like willow strings,
and the old maps fold into new constellations.

Let your laughter be a tectonic line:
where doubts once split, let wonder rise.
Plant your stubborn feet on the tongues of clocks --
time is a board we can tilt and make swim.

Rock the world not just with thunder but with seed:
small hands that feed the hungry hours,
soft hands that stitch the torn days together.
Meet the dark with a stubborn, luminous song.

When fear gathers like fog, become the wind.
When sorrow presses like stone, be the stream.
Shake the world awake -- not to break, but to build,
so every quiet corner learns to sing again.

Imagine how crazy life can have no ending
Like a relationship that you can't say that it's pending
Every little step you take
It is based on what future you want it to make
Determination is key to not only being yourself
But it also makes you feel like you have found yourself
Loving life like crazy is always a good thing
That is why singers love to sing
Understand that even the struggles are a plus
It takes heart to build on the must
So if you stop pretending
And the Crazy Life Has No Ending

In shadows deep, beneath the moon's pale glow,

A teenage heart beats with a primal flow,

Through windswept nights and forests wild and free,

A transformation stirs within, a mystery.

The beast within begins to rise and roar,

A teenage werewolf, craving something more,

With hungry eyes and feral instincts keen,

A world of darkness, waiting to be seen.

The moonlight dances on his fur, alight,

A teenage werewolf howls into the night,

In wilderness untamed, he finds his place,

A creature bound by neither time nor space.

Beneath the skin, a battle rages on,

A teenage soul, a beast to be upon,

Yet in this clash of selves, a truth is found,

A teenage werewolf, wild and unbound.

So let the night embrace his savage grace,

A teenage werewolf running in the chase,

For in his howl, a soul that longs to be,

Wild and fierce, forever wild and free.

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 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.

On the skin of a curve I lay a single silver thread,
not to trespass the arc, but to learn its breath.
I touch once--no more than that--and the world tilts,
a precise, soft geometry: the slope of wanting.

It fits the moment like a whispered definition,
a straightness that understands the curve's secret bend.
We are maps in motion--one line that leans, one line that leans away--
a punctuation of contact where infinity feels finite.

This is not ownership but recognition:
to meet and mirror the tangent's angle for an instant,
to read the derivative of a life and know the direction
without swallowing its compass of possibility.

The curve keeps its becoming; the line keeps its clarity.
Between them, a tiny miracle: a single shared point,
a language of touch so exact it could be called faith.
Here, approximation becomes intimacy.

How tender to be allowed such a perfect glimpse--
to count the slope and carry it like a secret home.
For lovers, for moments, for truths that refuse to loop,
we are always learning to be that straight, that brief, that true.

The tangent leaves as it came: straight, honest, inevitable.
But the touch--oh, the touch--bends us toward new horizons.

You close the door on yesterday's noise --
the clatter of shoulds, the static of doubt.
A small ritual: a kettle's breath, a pen's sharp tip,
the screen soft as a horizon. You breathe in the room
as if it were a living thing waiting to be spoken to.

At first the world crowds the edges -- emails, chores,
the future's impatient knocking. Then one sound thins:
the steadying of your own pulse, like a metronome
beneath a lighthouse. The margins shrink.
Attention becomes a lens and the lens grows hot.

Time pulls inward: minutes fold into one long seam.
Hands remember what the mind no longer needs
to remind them of. Errors fall away like loose stones;
only the path you are carving remains. Thought
isn't thought now but a river your will steps into.
You move with its current, not against it.

Outside, clocks count. Inside, sentences, stitches, beats
arrive as if delivered from another room.
There is a strange generosity to this place:
it trades loneliness for belonging, panic for craft.
Joy comes quiet, not triumphant but complete,
a small bell rung inside the ribs.

When you surface, light is different, familiar and new.
You hold something between your palms -- a sentence cured,
a chord that rings, a shape finally true. Your hands remember
the way home, and your heart keeps the map.
For a while you were both cartographer and sea,
and the ache afterward is only proof you went deep.

We are all meant to become a part of God's Love
It doesn't matter how many times you have been pushed and shoved
God said he will never leave you
Which means praying for things is nothing new
Some may ask for money, some may ask for Success
But they all may not realize that they are already Blessed
Everything that you touch is a Blessing
It is like having more flavor to a salad with dressing
Everything that you feel is a Blessing
Being positive is what you should be best in
Everything that you love is a Blessing
Your love builds on other people's lessons
Your Success is depending upon hard work Yes
but it only takes one blessing to become a progress
Take one step at a time towards your success
but Every Success Starts with Being Blessed

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.

They are the quiet pillars beneath a trembling sky,
not laws that bind but cartographers of possibility --
lines drawn so builders know where to trust the ground.
A code of common rhythm that lets many hands keep time.

Think of a bridge: bones measured, bolts known,
so two strangers can meet in the middle and cross
without asking the architect's name. Think of language --
letters paved straight enough that a hope can travel miles.

Standards are lighthouses on fogged coasts:
they do not steal the shore's mystery, they promise ships a place to aim.
They are the grammar of bravery, the scaffolding of wild invention,
a map handed forward so a child may climb farther than her parents did.

When we agree on measure, we make a stage for trust.
When we choose clarity, doors hinge wide instead of closing.
A rule kept is a seed planted in common soil;
standards are the weather that turns seed into orchard.

They pare away the needless options that drown momentum,
and in the space left open, new shapes take root -- surprising, tender, true.
Standards teach us how to walk together, not how to walk the same.
They give us roads so strangers can become collaborators,
and in that joining, opportunity wakes and sings.

So hold them lightly and hold them well --
not iron cages, but frames that let color and motion live.
Let standards be the promise we leave to those who come next:
a shared light, a steady plank, a language that says,
Come. Build. Begin. The world will hold you.