Once I was told that Hope
Is the sky filled with sunshine
That it spreads like light,
Floats like a helium filled balloon,
Dances like the tail of a kite.
I wondered at this metaphor
Sprawling amidst the wind
Like a howling current
Vibrating on the wings of
Birds that flap before they soar.
Can Hope be so far
Above my head
Where only flying things
Rise to tread
And I on the ground
Watching
Awaiting release
Of a treasure trove
Unlatched and
Spilling down?
What if Hope is more like rain—
A simile easier to attain—
It does not gently lie atop
The atmosphere but
Is conjured inside storms
Like a witch’s brew
Bubbling through with contents
Thrown into a fiery caldron
Until that time when
The pressure built, releases.
Storm-soaked orbs floating down
Subject to the whims of
Gusts above and around
Hollow of motivation
Innocent as they fall to the ground.
And we, in soggy shoes,
Choose to stay
In the rain
Marinate
Let it penetrate
All the way through—
Some people run for cover
But not us
Not the dreamers
Or the lovers
Or the ones who understand
That the storms
Force the hands
Of Hope and of those
Stubborn in their wills
To see the brightness
Ahead—
Withstanding
Steeping
In watery expectation.
My friend,
If they tell you
Hope is the sun
Smile, nod and
Move along
With squeaky shoes
Leaving tracks
On the ground
To be found by those
Who seek the courage to drown.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Tag: Contemporary Poetry
Poem: Surrender
He found me in the middle of a war
Or maybe I should say
We found one another
The way two sleepy people—
Heads hanging down
Looking at the ground—
Bumps heads and
Mutter softly,
“Excuse me.”
I behind my shield
Holding to the leather strap
With knuckles white
Hands calloused where my grip
Could not afford to wane
Despite the pain
Of taking blows
And whispering low,
“How much longer?”
He to the left of his sword
Filled with ink
Black and dripping
Onto the page
Bleeding through
Pigments of rage and
Unanswered fear
Composing his mantra,
“What purpose here?”
We met on the battlefield
Surprised and confused
To find company
In the midst of assumed
Isolation
Comforted and ashamed
Of the devastation
We wore like scars and tattoos,
“Come no closer.”
Lucky for me
His eyes were exposed
Unprotected and flashing life
Like a flickering neon sign
Hanging in a window
Passed by thousands
Noticed by few
The shades drawn tight but,
“Open.”
Lucky for him
My grip was weakening
Armor slipping
He saw that I was breathing
Still awake but
Dirty from the fight
Ashamed of the darkness
But longing to ignite,
“Alive.”
We lifted our hands
Almost at the same time
Palms facing the other
Skin cracked and dry
Touching to confirm
Poetry written in the sky
In the form of sunshine
Warm and personified,
“I am here.”
I lowered my defense
He drew something new
Between my mind and my breast
We gazed and we grew
I, he, we began to smile
Said too much
Then nothing at all
Fear melting
Trust erecting a bridge to,
“Surrender.”
© Jill Szoo Wilson
Poem: Where Our Eyes Have Met
A single painting in an art museum gathers the gaze of countless viewers, linking people who will never stand there together.
This is a poem about that.
A hundred eyes
have paused at this painting—
or maybe a million—
a crowd distributed across decades,
all standing just where I stand now,
though wearing different shoes.
Some looked quickly,
some leaned in,
some tilted their heads
as if the angle held a secret.
None of them knew
they were becoming part of each other’s story.
The gold frame won’t say
how many people have stood here,
or how long,
or what they were hoping for.
Paintings don’t keep lists.
Still, I wonder
if your eyes
have ever touched this canvas
in the exact place mine do now.
If so, the colors would remember.
They are better archivists than we are.
A single brushstroke
might recognize you—
the way the spotlight sharpened on its surface
when you stepped closer,
the way it softens now
because I have.
We might have shared this moment
without sharing the hour.
Two visitors,
unlikely to meet,
connected by a patch of green
that neither of us layered
yet both of us trust.
It’s possible
the painting knows us both—
you by a trace of perfume,
me by the giggle I released too loudly,
you by the tear you wiped away quickly,
and them by a single loose thread
from their bright red scarf.
All the while,
it stays exactly where it is,
patient as a held page,
letting strangers
complete the same sentence
with different eyes.
What an odd, prismatic intimacy—
to be joined
by something that never speaks,
yet answers
each of us
in turn.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Snowfall On a Patio Chair
It started with one flake I mistook for a drop,
without asking my permission,
as snow often does.
By morning, the patio chair—
the one with the pale blue cushions I meant to bring in—
had accepted its fate
with the patience of an object that knows
humans forget things.
The snow took its time.
A thin first layer,
then another,
each one more certain than the last.
If the chair felt imposed upon,
it gave no sign.
From the maple,
a squirrel watched the slow takeover,
pressed flat against the trunk
in an embrace that invited romance, or,
at the very least,
warmth.
It twitched its tail once—
a gesture somewhere between
expectation and indifference—
then sighed a tiny puff of breath.
Meanwhile, at the back of the yard,
the pine tree leaned lower than yesterday.
The branches, loaded with fresh snow,
descended far enough
to touch the needles that had fallen weeks ago.
A quiet reunion.
If trees feel anything at such moments,
I imagine it’s something austere:
nostalgia, perhaps,
maybe even joy.
A grand ceremony,
and no one asked me to attend.
Still, I stood at the window,
unsummoned,
as winter arranged its small corrections:
the forgotten tucked in,
the living held close,
the fallen greeted by their own.
A world going on
perfectly well
without my remembering.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Jill Szoo Wilson 