Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

In the quiet whispers of the night,

Where love's gentle touch takes flight,

I find solace in the words unsaid,

In the heart's language, always fed.

"I love you," a timeless refrain,

A melody that eases every pain,

In your eyes, I see the truth,

A love so pure, eternal youth.

Through laughter and through tears,

In the passing of the years,

"I love you," a sacred vow,

A promise to always endow.

In the silence of the world's embrace,

In the shadows of time and space,

"I love you," a whispered prayer,

A bond that's beyond compare.

So let these words linger in the air,

A love that's beyond compare,

For in your heart, forever true,

"I love you," always and anew.

In the tapestry of time, our destinies are cast,

Yet amidst the threads, a choice stands fast,

No fate but what we make, a whispered creed,

In each decision, our futures indeed.

Through valleys deep and mountains high,

We shape our path, beneath the sky,

No hand of fate, no written decree,

Only our choices, set us free.

In every moment, a chance to decide,

Our wills as strong as the rising tide,

No chains of destiny, no locked gate,

Only the power of choices we create.

So fear not the unknown, the uncertain way,

For in our hands lies the power to sway,

No fate but what we make, a truth profound,

In every choice, our destinies are found.

So let us walk with courage and grace,

Embrace the freedom in every choice we face,

No fate but what we make, our spirits soar,

In the tapestry of life, we are the ones who hold the lore.

In dusk's embrace where whispers blend,

Two souls entwined, as if they've penned,

A script of dreams, in moonlit glaze,

They dance through life in gentle ways.

Her laughter, like a brook, pure and clear,

His eyes, a compass, drawing her near.

With every word, a symphony played,

In the rhythms of love, their hearts displayed.

They walk through storms, hand in hand,

Finding solace in a world unplanned,

With silken ties that never fray,

Forging a bond that won't decay.

In quiet mornings, with coffee's steam,

They share their secrets, each other's dreams,

A glance, a touch, the world fades away,

In the tapestry woven, they softly sway.

They face the shadows, they chase the light,

Through whispered fears, and stars at night.

Each challenge met with steadfast grace,

In the heart's abode, they've found their place.

But love is not perfection's song,

It's the pushing and pulling that makes them strong.

The flaws embraced, the laughter shared,

In the mess of life, they've always cared.

So here's to the couple, in love's embrace,

Building a world, their own sacred space.

Not perfect, but real, with hearts that ignite,

In the fires of passion, they'll always unite.

For that perfect couple is simply this:

Two imperfect souls, lost in a kiss,

Bound by a promise, forged in the past,

Together, forever--love's die is cast.

In a sunlit room where shadows play,

Where laughter dances through the day,

A world awakens, bold and bright,

Where toys come alive in the soft twilight.

Woody stands with a heart so true,

A cowboy's courage in every hue,

With Stinky Pete and the others near,

They conquer fears, dispelling tears.

Buzz Lightyear, with courage unbound,

To infinity and beyond, he's found,

A space ranger lost, yet never alone,

In the realm of the young, he's truly home.

Through whispers of friendship, loyalty's song,

In the face of the night, they steadfastly throng,

From the bedroom floor to the wide-open skies,

They teach us the magic that never quite dies.

Yet the bittersweet pulse of a child's embrace,

In the passage of time, we all must face,

For as dawn creeps in and the playtime must wane,

In the heart of each child, the echoes remain.

So look to your toys, with love in your gaze,

For they're guardians, wrapped in our childhood haze,

They know every secret, every untouched fear,

In the silence of dusk, their wisdom draws near.

In the heart of each story, where memories dwell,

The magic's not lost; it continues to swell,

For as long as a child dares to dream and to play,

In the land of lost dreams, we'll forever stay.

In the quiet dawn, where shadows play,
A single beam of light finds its way,
It steers the soft petals, dew-kissed and bright,
Whispers of morning, in air crisp and light.

A child's laughter, a kite in the sky,
The joyous twirl as it dances on high,
In the mundane moments, where hearts intertwine,
There lie the treasures, our lives' silent shine.

The art of the simple, brewed coffee's embrace,
A book with a cover, and words that lace grace,
Each sip, each page, a small win anew,
Like bread baked with care, the aroma breaks through.

A stranger's kind smile on a crowded street,
The warmth of connection in strangers we meet,
The rustle of leaves, the sweet song of birds,
Tiny reminders, unspoken, like words.

The sunset ignited in hues spread so wide,
A canvas of colors, no artist inside,
Yet beauty prevails in the fleeting daylight,
In that moment, we find joy, pure and bright.

So let us remember, when storms cloud our skies,
It's not always the grand that brings forth our highs,
But the nuances woven in the fabric of fate,
The small wins, simple joys -- let us celebrate!

In the dance of the mundane, the world feels alive,
With hearts open wide, in small wins we thrive,
For within every heartbeat, every breath we take,
Lie the seeds of our happiness, the joys we create.

In aisles of whispers, where dreams unfold,
Amidst the shimmer of silver and gold,
They wait with stories, each object a plea,
To capture the heart, to set visions free.

The scent of soft leather, the touch of fine silk,
A tapestry woven with essence of milk,
The echo of choices, both subtle and loud,
In the theater of commerce, we stand, we're proud.

What is it we seek in these bright, shining lands?
Connection, perhaps, through invisible hands,
A tapestry stitched with the threads of the past,
As seasons cascade, the moments are cast.

Each item a treasure, each shelf a new chance,
To dance through the maze in an endless romance,
The flicker of price tags, like stars in the night,
They twinkle with promise, they beckon with light.

Yet amidst all the noise, in the hustle, the race,
Lies a longing for warmth, for a familiar space,
Where strangers become friends in the smallest exchange,
Where laughter and kindness can blossom, not change.

So here in this haven, with footsteps that weave,
We're more than mere customers, we're hearts that believe,
In the magic of moments, the art of the sell,
In every transaction, we're bound by a spell.

Let us treasure the essence, the scent of the day,
Find stories in shopping that carry the sway,
For in the realm of retail, where senses collide,
We're more than just buyers--we're souls open wide.

In the light of dawn, where whispers play,
Where shadows dance in the softening gray,
I find a truth, a shimmering thread,
Woven through moments, unsaid, unshed.

A heartbeat quickens within the still,
As petals unfurl on the edge of a hill,
There's magic in silence, a soft-spoken grace,
In the warmth of a glance, in the touch of your face.

Each word like a brush, painting skies so vast,
In ink of the cosmos, our stories are cast.
You are the whisper in a crowded room,
A radiant blossom in the darkest gloom.

With every shared laugh, with every shared tear,
You fill up the spaces, and draw me near.
Your presence a melody, pure and profound,
A symphony of dreams in the laughter we've found.

So here, in this moment, I claim my place,
In the soft, gentle glow of your quiet grace.
To be seen and to cherish, to feel and to know,
In the garden of feelings where love's rivers flow.

For in just being you, I am lifted and spun,
A star in your orbit, my journey begun.
In the kaleidoscope world that you help me frame,
I feel so special, ignited by flame.

So let the winds carry this truth far and wide,
In the heart of the universe, our souls collide.
For to feel so special is not just to be,
But a tapestry woven, just you and me.

Every dog has its day,
a small sun rising where the pavement cracks--
a gnawed slipper baptized in morning light,
a tail that learns to count the world.
Some days are thunder: sprinting down alleys,
nose like a compass to the vanished scent of dinner,
others are hush, a bed warmed by remembered hands.

There is the streetwise king with dust for a crown,
who finds a spilled sandwich and is royal for an hour.
There is the champion in the backyard--leaps like a yes,
eyes bright with the grammar of fetch,
who comes back every time with the whole day's praise caught in his mouth.

There is the old dog whose joints keep ledger,
who remembers every door that ever opened,
who dreams of running and wakes to the ache like a bell.
When the child drops a slice of toast, his tail--slow as forgiveness--answers.

There is the small one under the shelter light,
nose pressed to a cool, hopeful window,
who waits through seasons of goodbyes until a hand arrives,
and the world tilts, a plain made new as a bowl of water on a hot day.
For some, the day is loud with applause; for others, it is a single soft hand.

Every dog has its day,
not always the headline, but a holy quiet: a lap, a leash, a laugh,
the warmth of one familiar voice reciting the same silly name.
Sometimes it's a road that ends in a porch where the moon lays its silver paw.
Sometimes it's the simple miracle of being seen.

So let mornings be patient and let sunsets keep their secrets.
Listen for paws like small metronomes on the floor--count them.
Because when that day comes, it will be a bright thing:
brief, ordinary, fierce as joy, and it will make everything else forgiveable.

We unclasp the small, rusty bones of yesterday--
fingers tasting the cold iron of old promises,
and lift them like explained maps,
learning at last the names of our wounds.

Sun arrives as a patient witness,
burning the thin varnish of fear.
It finds the places where we hid our voices
and stains them gold; the songs spill out
like water from a cracked pot, generous and surprised.

There is a language that only unshackled feet speak:
the soft percussion of steps that do not ask permission,
the hush of breath that no longer counts its cost.
We trade the grammar of survival for an accent of daring,
and the world, for once, listens.

Liberation is not a single door opened;
it is the rustling of rooms within us,
the slow uncoiling of a bird's wings after winter,
the way a river remembers the sea and rushes toward it.

We plant our names in places that once forbade them,
root them deep as anchors and light as prayers.
Hands that trembled learn the shape of holding--
not to grasp, but to offer: food, truth, forgiveness.
Laughter becomes the currency of mornings.

And when the old gates fall--no clatter, only a wind that carries away the last lock--
we step through with pockets full of small, ordinary brave things:
a child's first clear question, an apology that reaches across a table,
the courage to say I was wrong, I am learning, I will stay.

Freedom tastes like a door left open at dusk,
like salt on lips after long, earnest travel.
It is not spotless. It bears the scab of every healed cut,
the history of every hand that pushed and did not relent.
It asks patience, vigilance, the willingness to repair.

Still, once unbound, we move: a sea of soft uprisings,
a chorus of feet, of seeds, of promises, of truth.
We become the small miracles we were taught to fear:
unafraid of light, unafraid of loss, unafraid to be tender.

Tonight the stars seem nearer, as if on purpose.
We lay our maps on the grass, trace new lines with bright, stubborn fingers,
and name the places we will not leave to shadows.
Liberation is the work of living whole, of being honest with our hands.
It is the music we finally allow ourselves to dance to.

We live to see the day -- not as a promise
but as a small, stubborn miracle.
Night folds its palms and hides its eyes,
but we keep watch: breath against cold glass,
fingers tracing the map of where we were.

We live to see the day when the sky
learns to be generous again,
spilling light like an apology
across roofs, across the rumor of streets.
There is a language in the way dust trembles
as if remembering how to be gold.

We live to see the day for quiet things:
a cup warming a palm, a child's laugh
peeling like sun through the laundry,
an old song hummed into a doctor's waiting room.
We live to see the day for heavy things too--
for names spoken without the clatter of tears,
for graves that become gardens under our hands.

We live to see the day because someone
laid down their fear like a bridge,
because someone else dug their knees in and would not move.
Because the past keeps sending signals: ashes that still warm,
letters folded in pockets, the weight of lessons learned.
We carry them forward, not as anchors but as fuel.

We live to see the day to fill it: with repair,
with stubborn kindness, with stubborn laughter.
We live to see the day and learn again to trust
the small mercy of morning: that light arrives
even when we have nothing left to bargain with.
We rise anyway, shoulder to shoulder with dawn,
bearing the quiet stubbornness of survivors.

We live to see the day -- and when it comes,
we do not hoard it. We open every window,
let it move through us like wind, let it wake the seeds.
We lay our palms on the world and say, here.
We are here to meet you. We are here to keep you.
We are here to make of this bright terrible gift
a life that remembers why it wanted light.