Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

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.

In the heart of a town called Chico,
Where the river winds like a silver thread,
Sunlight dances on leaves in a gentle glow,
Whispers of nature, where stories are fed.

The sycamores stretch their arms to the sky,
Holding secrets of seasons, the laughter of years,
With every breeze, the past rushes by,
A tapestry woven from dreams and from tears.

The farmers' fields, golden like dawn,
Bathe in the warmth of a tireless sun,
From orchards of fruit that tilt with the bough,
Harvesting hope when the day's work is done.

In the vibrant streets where the people reside,
Cultures converge, and connections unfold,
Each corner, a canvas, a heartbeat, a pride,
In the tales that the locals so lovingly told.

By Bidwell Park, with paths carved in green,
Where laughter erupts and the children explore,
The simplicity, beauty, in moments serene,
Life in its fullness, forever we adore.

As the twilight embers paint skies into dusk,
The stars whisper softly, as if they can see,
A world in motion, with heartbeats and trust,
In Chico, together, we weave harmony.

So here's to the spirit, the love, and the grace,
To a place where community breathes and flows,
In the heartbeat of Chico, we find our embrace,
A world intertwined, where compassion only grows.

In whispers of the twilight's grace,
A silver sphere begins to trace,
A pathway forged on velvet night,
Where dreams take flight, the heart's delight.

Oh, moon, you cradle secrets old,
In your embrace, the stories told,
Of lovers' sighs and wishes spun,
In lunar glow, two souls are one.

Each crater marks a timeless tale,
Of long-lost ships that caught the gale,
Through midnight's hush, your lantern be,
A guide for hearts that yearn to see.

You watch the world with knowing eyes,
As shadows dance and stardust flies,
In every pulse, the tides you weave,
A symphony of hope and leave.

When spirits falter, weary, torn,
Your silver light, a new dawn born,
You rise to shine, through dark you loom,
A beacon bright--oh, take me, moon.

So here I stand, beneath your glow,
With whispered dreams, my heart will flow,
To chase the stars, to leap and swoon,
Forever bound, I long for you, moon.

n the hush of dawn, where whispers dwell,
And the sky blushes pink, weaving stories to tell,
I lace up my dreams, let the heartbeat ignite,
With each breath I take, I embrace the soft light.

The pavement beneath is a canvas, unspooled,
As my feet kiss the ground, where the world's whispered rules
Fade into the rhythm, a symphony sweet,
Each step a reminder, each heartbeat a beat.

The air stirs with whispers of wild, free delight,
As the sun casts its fingers, painting shadows in flight.
Breath after breath, I shed yesterday's weight,
With every good run, I dance with my fate.

The trees nod their heads, in a gentle accord,
Their leaves flutter secrets, I feel my soul stored
In the laughter of miles, cascading like streams,
Where hope intertwines with the fabric of dreams.

A rush of adrenaline flows through my veins,
An elixir of freedom that courses through pain.
Oh, how the world shifts, when my spirit takes flight,
In a cascade of motion, I glide into night.

And the finish line beckons, a shimmer ahead,
With the fires of passion burning brightly instead.
For it's not just the distance, nor medals of speed,
But the journey's sweet whispers -- they nurture my need.

So here on this path, I find pieces of me,
In the echo of footsteps, in the love that is free.
Each run is a heartbeat, each mile a soft hymn,
In the tender illumination, where my spirit can swim.

Let the world hold its breaths, as I celebrate grace,
For a good run is life, and with each stride, I embrace
The laughter of joy and the sweet, tender ache,
In this rhythm of motion, my heart cannot break.

In the quiet folds of twilight's breath,
Questions linger like shadows, whispering yet,
Stars dangle like hopes on a fraying thread,
In the silence of longing, my heart's eager plea:
Oh, answer me.

Where do the echoes of dreams softly go,
When the dawn blushes pink and the night says hello?
I stand on the edge of an unbroken sea,
Waves crashing with secrets, and oh, do they know?
Please, answer me.

In the depths of your eyes, do you find the same fear,
The tremor of silence that draws us so near?
For words left unspoken can weight heavy, you see,
Yet the truth in your silence could set the heart free--
Just, answer me.

What if the skies were to fall in a rush,
And we stood together in the midst of the hush?
Would the universe fold in the warmth of your decree,
Or would time freeze forever, caught in what could be?
Nay, answer me.

For in the stillness, I seek your embrace,
A language unvoiced, yet we dance in the grace,
Each sigh and each heartbeat syncopates our decree,
In the symphony of souls, will you choose to be?
Please, answer me.

So here as the moon cradles the sun's fading light,
I cast out my question into the deep night,
In the tapestry woven of longing and glee,
If the stars hold the answers, will you set them free?
Just once, answer me.

Every other city we go becomes a small religion --
a cathedral built from our suitcases, ticket stubs,
and the way you cup your hands around a steaming cup
like it might confess the route it took to find you.

In Marseille the sea taught us how to argue softly,
blue and salt between our teeth; in the next place
we learned to speak in corners, in leftover bread,
the quiet grammar of two people trying not to leave traces.

Every other city we go keeps a piece of your jacket,
laces knotted into memory, a receipt folded like a prayer.
One city glows with neon and stolen kisses at three a.m.;
the next is a photograph of a bench where we apologized
for the weather and for everything else we could not change.

There are cities where we sleep like travelers in borrowed names,
where strangers offer directions and we are grateful for the past.
There are cities where the lamps throw our shadows long and hopeful,
where we map each other on the backs of postcards and hotel keys.

Every other city we go is a ledger of small miracles:
the street musician who taught us a chorus, the bakery that kept our secret,
the taxi driver who listened and refused to fix our problems.
Between them, in the odd ones, the silence gathers meaning,
a quiet room where we relearn how to be two without decaying.

By the time we learn the language of stoplights and rain,
the orbit of our feet has become a constellation.
We carry cities like coins--some bright, some worn flat--
and when we press them to our palms at night they still hum,
like a promise we are not sure we ever made but keep anyway.

Every other city we go is not a loss but a ledger of living:
an atlas of small departures and the tender ways we return.
When the plane lifts its hands and the skyline thumbnails away,
I count the spaces between us and know: we are always building home
out of the few things we keep--each other, and the names we refuse to forget.

Say it once like folding an old letter--
the edges soften, the ink blurs,
a confession turned into paper boats
set out on a late-summer river.
Nevermind, and the current takes it,
not cruel, not kind, simply moving.

Say it soft as moth wings against a lamp,
a small apology for wants that burned too bright.
Nevermind becomes a lullaby for the stubborn heart,
a quiet room where arguments unpeel
and sunlight finds the dust in forgiving ways.

There is a strange mercy in the word:
not erasing, but shelving--putting the ache
on a high shelf where we can see it, not live in it.
Nevermind teaches hands to unclench,
teaches mouths to close around the sharp things.

Sometimes it is a door left ajar,
sometimes an ocean swallowing a name.
It is not surrender to the night--more like
learning the map of your own soft places,
tracing the seams where sorrow and relief meet.

Say it when you must: to a fault, to a friend, to the mirror.
Let it be small and human, a bell rung for passage.
Nevermind--three syllables that carry a cross and a key,
a weathered hush that somehow clears the room,
and leaves you ready, at last, for morning.

I stand at the crossroads with a pocket full of questions,
the map of my life folded into the crease of my palm.
Around me, voices bloom--soft, sharp, muffled--
each a lantern swaying in the night with its own small truth.

I ask the river for counsel; it answers in currents,
teaching me how to let go of stones that keep me anchored.
I ask the old tree for counsel; it answers in rings,
teaching me how patient grief can become a steady trunk.

Neighbors hand me phrases like smooth pebbles:
"Try this," "Don't," "Wait," "Leap."
Some glint like fortune, some bruise like warnings.
I hold them up to the light, trying to decide which will fit my pocket.

Advice smells of other people's forks in the road--
the taste of their victories, the ache of their regrets.
It is not a map but a mirror and a compass:
it will show the shape of a hand that has gripped a knife,
and it will point, faintly, toward a direction that once served.

I learn to ask with a soft mouth,
to invite the world's counsel without swallowing it whole.
To sift the gold from the gravel by touching it to my tongue;
to hear the thread in each story that vibrates true in my own bones.

Sometimes the clearest answer is a silence,
a pause where no one lays a stone on your path,
and that is advice too--permission to listen to the hollow
inside you that already remembers the way.

Advice is a lantern offered by a stranger,
a quilt stitched from many hands, a borrowed coat for cold nights.
It will warm you for a season, guide a step or two,
but the road asks you to walk, and your feet will learn the shape.

So I gather the lanterns, the rings, the river's soft lessons,
and fold them into the pockets of my coat.
I will carry others' light until my own ember glows enough,
until I can make my own map by burning midnight into dawn.

If you have something to say--speak it like bread handed across a table.
If you are the one who seeks--receive it like fire, with care.
Advice is love in fragments; choose what fits, and let the rest go.
The rest--like rain--will find another thirsty field to bless.

In the heart of passion's flame, red heat burns bright,

A fierce intensity that ignites the night.

It pulses with desire, a powerful force,

Consuming all in its fiery course.

Like a blazing sun in the heat of noon,

Red heat captivates, entrancing the moon.

It dances and flickers, a wild, untamed fire,

A symphony of passion, a burning desire.

In the crimson depths of a lover's gaze,

Red heat roars and never betrays.

It sears the soul with a searing touch,

A fervent heat that is always too much.

So let it blaze, let it consume,

Let red heat reign, in the heart's vast room.

For in its flames, we find our truth,

A poetry of passion, a fireproof youth.

I deserve better -- a small verdict I learned to say aloud,
like lighting a match in a room that taught me to whisper.

I have swallowed crumbs of affection until my hunger
became ordinary; I have made my voice polite, then thin.
No more. I am unlearning the grammar of keeping quiet
so someone else can be comfortable.

My tenderness is not rent money for a temporary bed.
My time is not a currency to be spent on excuses.
I refuse to catalog my worth by the frequency of your return.
I will not measure my days by how well I fit into your absence.

I deserve better -- not as punishment to you
but as a home I build for myself, brick by reclaimed breath.
I will plant mornings where my name blooms first,
where promises are not fossils but living trees.

If love is a map, I will redraw the borders.
If patience is a seed, I will choose where it is sown.
I will set my feet where my heart is not apologizing,
where my laugh is full, where my wounds are tended.

I deserve better -- this is not anger, it is stewardship.
It is the quiet revolution of learning to keep my own light,
to walk out of rooms that dim me and into days that match me.
I deserve better -- and finally, I will answer to that.