A moment before, floating in the sun
My love beside me
Warm and glowing
Her eyes ablaze with rays of light
Her darkness concealed in
Illumination.
A moment before, she spoke of love
My friend beside me
Kind and gentle
Her smile warmed but burned
Her face like wax
Melting.
I wanted to see my love through the brightness of stars
The universe brought low and waiting
Swirling about my hands and mind
Becoming one with all that breathes
And pants
And lives
And dies
A moment before, I removed my gloves
My fire beside me
Trembling and stiff
Her fingers felt but did not touch
Her hand in mine only
Embers.
A moment before, she swallowed words
My pain beside me
Inflamed and suffering
Her silence thickened in my throat
Her Nothing choked
Suffocating.
I wanted to see my love through the brightness of stars
The universe brought low and waiting
Wrapping my cold in warmth
Like a child crying
But hopeful
But calming
But safe
A moment before, the snow dropped down
My hope beside me
Present and vacant
Her ruffled dress covered with water
Her boots muddied with
Goodbye.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2015
Category: Poems and Sonnets
The End Is In The First
The sun in parting crowns the west with flame, A fleeting splendor yielded to the shade; What morning gilded, dusk resumes in claim And proves how brief the glory light hath made. The season wanes, yet keeps its ancient round, Its end enscrolled where first its course was writ; What once lay lost in silence shall be found, For time recalls what hearts would fain omit. So doth the soul, when judgment draweth near, Discern within its close the selfsame strain; The first sweet note returns, though harsher, clear, And strikes with weight the mortal breast again. Each sunset speaks what day could not defend: The way a thing began holds fast its end. Jill Szoo Wilson, 10/25
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Sonnet: Lantern of the Withering Grove
Through slender branches shines the swollen star,
A lantern hung upon this midnight’s crest.
Its argent glow calls shadowed fields afar
To bow in prayer, by silver calm caressed.
The fading canopy, with colors frail,
Lets gilded light slip softly through the air.
Each trembling bough becomes a fragile veil,
That parts to show a vision rich and rare.
The orb ascends with majesty untamed,
While earth beneath lies weary, bare, and still.
Though time shall claim what autumn once had named,
The moon restores the world with tender will.
So beauty dwells where silence weaves its art,
And sows eternal wonder in the heart.
Jill Szoo Wilson, 10/25
I wrote this sonnet after gazing at the October supermoon, its light threading through thinning branches and the fading canopy of fall.
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Sonnet: The Tongue of Peace
What once was whole is splitting at the seam,
With roaring tongues that never find a word.
Each stands alone, entranced by their own dream,
While fear doth arm the gates with aim absurd.
The bridge between us withers into dust,
A chasm wide where voices fade to air.
Yet in our hearts still burns this ancient trust—
The longing for a hand extending ear.
But how to reach when dread hath drawn the line?
When walls are built of pride and weary doubt?
We stand as statues, yearning for a sign,
Yet know not how to call the silence out.
O break the curse—let all division cease,
For love still speaks the only tongue of peace.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Poem: Un/Forgiven
I have not forgiven my friend
And so the poison swells
Like maggots crawling through my veins
Stealing life
And trading it for
Death.
First one offense
And then the next
Like flames wrapping around tree trunks
Stripping a forest
And pulling it down to
Ash.
Condoning silence with justice
And building my case
Like piles of bones in a graveyard
Pricking the air with a stench
And freezing my senses in
Yesterday.
I am prolific in the art of litany–
Telling the song in repetitive stanzas
Like a clown using his flower
To squirt and squirt small children in the eyes
And leaving them
Blind.
Tall grows the wound
And consumes all my mind
Like a bomb detonating inside my heart
Melting what is soft
And drying as hard as
Stone.
“Forgive,” he said
And I laughed at his joke
Like an amused audience stuffing its face
With an excess of food and wine
And vomiting that which was meant to
Nourish.
“Release,” he whispered
And I wondered at his audacity
Like a rich man counting his money
In the secrecy of a vault
And finding the suggested cost
Exorbitant.
“Lay it down,” he sang
And I grew weary of his prodding
Like a woman being courted
With courage and desire
And in stubborn acceptance I
Trusted.
“Here it is,” I offered
And He lifted it from my arms
Like a father removing splinters
From the hands of his beloved boy
And the war that had frostbitten
So many years
Thawed
Into peace.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Poem: Moonlight We
The sun grows hours
Then burns them dry
Like
Tumbleweeds
Blow by the days
And we
The cattle drivers
Saddle the minutes
And ride them,
Guide them from atop
Their prickly backs.
The Sunlight We
Strap on our shoes
Tattered at the soles
To tread
A line
Publicly defined by
The rules of
Marketplace
And who the other
We’s expect us all
To be.
Astride atop
Rolling ticks and tocks
And traveling
Through noon time
Crowds of We
Is She—
An explorer whose eyes
Are lifted
Toward the sky
Inside a sea of eyes
Seeing same.
The busy pavement
Vibrates with progress
As defined
By hand held devices
That shine
In daytime rays
And ricochet
Blinding
The gaze
Of the masked We
Stumbling at a gallop’s pace.
But she—
She sees.
She sees what is real
In the moment defined
Not confined by
What she should
Why she ought or
Questioning
Why she would
She rides the time
And feels the warmth
Of the sun instead of
Using it for light.
Reflection of the sun can be seen everywhere.
Embracing now
A give and take
Of new and ideas
And what does it mean
She offers herself
To the questions
That rise
Dwells in the
Wonder
Of wandering
Free.
And he—
He sees.
Along the trail
Sprawling on every side
Is one—
A He—
Who rides his own
Tumbleweed time
Carrying boredom
Wrapped in
Discontent
Searching for what
Is relevant.
His eyes wide open
Heart behind a shield
He journeys
With a purpose
Gone cold
Like a campfire
Dwindling—
He rubs his hands together
Above reasons
That fail
To keep him warm.
Until the moment
Just one moment
He
Amidst a thousand eyes
Sees
She
The only she
In a sea of
We
Whose awareness
Pierces the shield of his own.
No words exchanged—
Not yet—
But the moment is frozen still
The sun holds its place
And reveals
Details of her face
As though
The opulent
Fiery star above
Is painting
Something new.
“Hello,”
Says she and
“Hello,”
Says he and the sea of
We begins to roar
Once again.
He asks,
“Can you travel
This way?
If only
Today?”
He smiles—
Not only his lips
But eyes brightly
Joining as
His hands begin to warm.
She accepts
His invitation,
“I will come
Your way
Let’s not delay
The sun will set into night.”
Two journeys become
One moonlight We
As the day stumbles
Behind the moon—
The moon that stops
The growth of time
Replacing stars
For minutes
And silence for sound
When all around
Disappears
Into a single
You.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Poem: The Reaching
If ever a UFO landed on your head—
“She thinks that's a weird question.
No UFO has!”
I wasn’t talking to you.
But to you . . .
Pretend one has.
What do you think it would feel like?
Imagine it.
Go on.
I will wait.
[A sparrow flies by]
I am not asking how heavy it is or
Cold or
Bumpy or
Smooth:
You could not really know such things
At all.
I am asking what you would feel like inside—
“She would feel like an idiot!”
But if it was really there . . . on your head—
“On her head? What is this ridiculous riddle?”
Okay not on your head, but over . . .
If you ran out of your home
With no where to go
Your hair was torn and
Bruises and
The smell of whiskey
And cigars
On your face—
If your shoes were untied
And you saw your mother cry
And you didn’t want to stay
One more second
In that place.
If the air was so cold
You could see your breath
Shooting into the night
Like a jet engine beginning a race
So you slowed your pace
And panted and heaved
And your knees buckle under you
With disgrace.
Let us pretend the aloneness
You feel—
“It’s just a feeling, she's not alone!”
But still . . .
Your aloneness is real
With no one to call
And if you turned back now
You would be thrown against a wall.
So despite your
Aloneness
You crawl
To safety and the blackest woods
You embrace.
If in that space
You held on tight to a
Branch you could reach
Or the neck of a deer
Or the paw of a bear
Until
At last
You saw glowing near
A rounded
Machine with light bulbs you could see
And a sound you could hear
Like a robot giving chase.
What would you think—
“She would think she was nuts!”
Okay, maybe. But . . .
Would you believe your eyes
Or think your sanity was disguised
In the brain of a woman
Otherwise apt?
If you could touch and
Feel
Would you believe it was real?
And what about smell?
If you could smell the exhaust
Coming from the pipe
And taste the metal on the
Wind of the night
And hear a voice shrieking,
“We come from someplace” . . .
If it landed and
A hand
Came out from within
Would you look at your fingers
And kiss them goodbye
In case after touching they never returned
But still reach them out
And touch the warmth
Of an unknown hand
Unrecognizable
And trust
Even before you could see his face?
You can answer now—
“She doesn't want to answer,
She thinks you’ve gone mad!”
But there is no madness in the question. It is only a question . . .
“Yes,” she said.
And continued on,
“If I knew I was alone
Even in a crowd
And the sky delivered a mystery
I would.
Reach out.
And be brought in.”
Thank you for your honesty—
“Thanks for nothing, you mean!”
But thank you for telling the truth.
With a pair of eyes
Belonging only to her
She looked at the man
With the question,
“I would.”
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Order From Chaos
Long ago two young men drew a map of the sky
Laying on their backs, perhaps,
Like children in tents with holes in the tops
They counted and connected the stars.
Order from chaos was formed in their eyes
Squinting into darkness
Blinded not by light but by enormity
And mysteries invisibly connected.
They traced routes with their fingers, point A to B,
Like homemade kites pursuing the way
With windy anticipation and
Lines to find what was or was not connected.
As the men grew beards, their love of the sky
Fell to the earth and to pieces.
Shatters of themselves were given away
To money, ambition, and work: disconnected.
One of the two held hands with success
Palms sweaty together and traveling
With compass pointed away from the heavens
And down to notifications and contacts: connected?
The other man poured his life slowly
Like a cup spilling over his family—a wife and two kids—
He drained all he had, a deluge of hope
And then gurgled and gasped as the woman fled: disconnected.
Alone—surprised by aloneness—
The un-wifed man lifted the tips of his naked fingers to the sky.
Suspended in air his hand wished to feel
To touch, to reach, to caress, to connect.
No alien hand reached with fingers to intertwine
So the man looked down, instead.
A tear dripped from his eye and onto his future:
Two children—looking up from the ground—
Counting and connecting the stars.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2015
Poem: God of the Street
What if God was as close as
The domed ceiling of an antiquated church—
Walls lines with stained glass
Depictions of before and after
Christ invaded the story
The history of man
A broader narration
An epic
A comedy
A tragedy
A lineage of life and death
And birth and
Resurrection.
The grandiose nature of
The Alpha and Omega—
The beginning and the end—
Could not be contained
The stained glass rattles
The musty, dusty wood
That used to be trees stretching
Tall in majestic places
Now bowing to parishioners
Waiting for
Waiting for
The release of weight
When men and women
Stand to their feet
Applaud and proclaim
Praise to the One that lives
Beyond the dome—
Outside the temple erected
His focus directed on each one
Who walks the streets
Umbrellas and tissue
And glasses and backpacks
Catering to their earthly needs
All the while moving inside
An invisible song
Pervasive notes swirling
In the air
The breath of God in the wind
His playfulness in
The wings of fluttering birds
His rejuvenation in colorful promises
Of spring
His love in the eyes of those
Who hold hands
His peace in the frogs croaking
Their midnight serenades.
He whose visage
Hangs in the churches
Broke through the walls to
Walk side by side
No dome
No tomb
No misunderstanding
No doubt
No running
No running
Can hold the God of
Everywhere
Prostrate
To our wood and plaster and
Ornately
Drawn windows:
It is we whose frames are weak
It is we whose knees
Must bend
Whose heads must bow—
It is our shatters
Our shards that the
Incense picks up and carries
Into the atmosphere
Palpable with life
And into the nostrils of He
Who broke through the dome.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2016
Poem: Of Melody and of Moan
The sky is hot like leather
Brown and coating our skin
With beads surging into streams
Of sweat
In the distance
A lonely guitar throbs
Crooning refrains of love
And regret
We toil long and
Hum the oscillating songs
One by one to forget
The hour
Bugs sway back and forth
On blades of green
Tired and scorched by fever and
By life
Women tell stories
Laugh with heads thrown back
Simple versions of disaster pulsate in
Their smiles
Men with sinewy arms
Pull from the lazy earth
Swollen roots of sustenance and
Of dreams
Children thump the ground
Like ragtime drummers
Beating rhythms of play and
Far away
The musician strums andante
Caressing silvery strings releasing
Vibrations of melody and
Of moan.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023
Necessary Whispers 