Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

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.

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

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 the realm of dreams, where destinies reside,
A poet's pen glides, seeking to confide.
A symphony of words, whispers in the night,
Chasing shadows of doubt, embracing the light.

Oh, soul wandering on an untrodden path,
Hear my verse, heed their melodious wrath.
For destiny, dear soul, is a waltz to embrace,
Not just a whisper, but a dance to be chased.

Do not submit to the whims of blind fate,
Inscribe your name, let it resonate.
For the world is but canvas, blank and vast,
Paint your dreams, make them eternal and steadfast.

Through tempests and trials, hold fast your voice,
Inscribe your desires, make your own choice.
Weave the tapestry of life, thread by thread,
Control your destiny, where others may dread.

Forge your own path, beyond the beaten way,
Command the winds, let them follow and obey.
Though storms may assail, with fury and might,
Keep your compass true, let no darkness smite.

For in the depths of your soul, a fire burns,
Unleash the poet within, let it yearn.
Your destiny awaits, a masterpiece untold,
Compose your symphony before your story is sold.

So, writer of words, poet profound,
Break free from the chains that keep you bound.
Embrace the power that's burning inside,
And soar on the winds of destiny, unbridled.

In the dance of life, we find our song

A melody that lingers, pure and strong

Through trials and triumphs, we carry on

For in the rhythm of time, life goes on

In the quiet moments of solitude

We ponder dreams, both old and new

Embracing change, both swift and slow

For in the ebb and flow, life continues to grow

Through joys and sorrows, we find our way

Navigating the twists and turns of each day

Bridging the past with the future ahead

For in the tapestry of life, we are all beautifully thread

So let us cherish each moment we're given

Embrace the journey, both humble and driven

For in the poetry of life, our stories are spun

In the endless cycle, the beauty of life goes on

In shadows deep, a father's betrayal lies,

Like a tempest brewing in a stormy sky.

Once a beacon of strength and guiding light,

Now a figure shrouded in deceit and blight.

A daughter's heart, once warmed by his embrace,

Now aches with the wounds of his disgrace.

Words once spoken with love and care,

Now twisted into daggers of despair.

The bond they shared, now torn asunder,

By the cruel hands of betrayal and thunder.

The pain, a heavy burden to bear,

As trust and love dissolve into thin air.

Yet amidst the darkness and the pain,

A glimmer of hope still remains.

For wounds may heal and hearts may mend,

And broken ties may find their mend.

So let us hold onto hope and grace,

And seek forgiveness in this bitter place.

For though a father's betrayal may sting,

Love's enduring power can still bring healing.