Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

The board stands still beneath the light,
a quiet dare of grain and pine;
I raise my hand, prepare to fight
the fear that says the strength is mine.

One breath, one shout, one sudden crack--
the world divides beneath the blow.
The splinters never strike me back,
but pain has ways a board won't know.

For wood is kind: it breaks, it yields,
it keeps no score, it bears no scars.
The hardest battles wait in fields
where hearts can answer who we are.

So train the fist, but guard the heart;
let courage learn what force can't prove.
A board may break beneath your art--
the living do not have to move.

Not in the trumpet's brazen cry,
Nor crowns that catch the noon,
But in the hand held out to lift
A stranger through the gloom.

It lives where quiet courage keeps
Its promise, step by step;
Where kindness asks for no applause,
And grief is gently met.

The years may dim the marble names,
The banners fade from view;
But what we give to one another
Endures, and carries through.

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.

Morning slips in, sparkling bright,
Polishes rooftops with threads of light.
The windows yawn, the sidewalks gleam,
The whole wide world steps from a dream.

A breeze runs laughing through the trees,
Washing the clouds and stirring leaves.
The river hums a silver refrain,
While sunlight rinses the night away.

Fresh shoes tapping, clean hearts awake,
New little promises ready to make.
Each breath feels clear, each moment keen--
A day unfolds, so fresh, so clean.

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.