He said he was like Aragorn—
which simplifies things.
At once there is a kingdom,
a lineage,
a future postponed for noble reasons,
and a woman somewhere
patient enough to make it meaningful.
And since patience,
then waiting,
and since waiting,
then interpretation—
small pauses examined like artifacts,
silences catalogued,
every delay entered into evidence
as proof of depth.
No throne required.
No witnesses.
No public act of choosing.
The crown exists in theory,
which is lighter to carry.
Not just the scale, it’s also the convenience—
a man may remain unfinished indefinitely,
provided the story explains him.
A man may divide his life into careful sections,
call it burden,
call it timing,
call it the long road.
The road lengthens nicely
when no one insists on arrival.
And I—
placed somewhere along this route,
not quite a destination,
more like a well-lit clearing—
am asked, without being asked,
to understand.
To recognize greatness in restraint,
to admire the discipline of postponement,
to hold the shape of a future
that keeps adjusting itself.
Meanwhile, in less mythic settings,
kings tend to announce themselves,
love tends to appear in daylight,
and decisions, when they happen,
have dates.
Still—
it is a beautiful story.
The hidden heir.
The necessary delay.
The almost.
So what can one say
about men who borrow epics—
the historians of themselves,
the quiet editors of consequence—
if anything fits,
it is this:
that in the retelling,
with enough weather,
enough distance,
enough carefully chosen words—
even hesitation
can be mistaken
for destiny.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Tag: Female Poet
On Writing, Voice, and Iris Lennox
In January 2023, I made a New Year’s resolution to write more poetry. For once, I actually followed through. I wrote quite a bit that year, but most of it was just okay.
What I started to notice was that all of it sounded like me, but not in that beautifully cohesive way where you can tell a piece is by Emily Dickinson or Wisława Szymborska. There was something a little circular about it.
So the following year, I started taking poetry classes and workshops with real, working poets.
I’m not sure if I’ve gotten better, but I do know this: listening to other students’ and poets’ work in the room changed everything.
I started thinking thoughts I hadn’t thought before and feeling things I didn’t expect to feel again. Just from listening to people write about ordinary moments. The kind that light you up, or break your heart, or make you want to live, but on fire.
Life is so rich and dynamic, and also boring and mundane. And you can write about all of it.
So, I created a pen name: Iris Lennox.
This summer, I’ll be publishing a book of poetry under that name. It felt like the right time to start sharing some of that work and to give that voice a little more room to grow.
I also created a website for it:
I’ll be sharing poems and short pieces there as I continue developing this side of my writing.
❤️,
Jill
Whisper the Passing Time
Memory sifted through their hands
Like water
Or like sand—
The kind of sand that lays flat
On desert ground
And all around the blistered feet
Of those who stand and watch the sun
With faces red
And cracking under heat
Filtered through dust—
Or like water.
Like water
In trickles
Between fingers pruning with excess
Trying to keep it there
Sickeningly aware
Of the weakness in the spaces
Between their fingers
And their hands—
Their memories fell right through
Splashed around their ankles
In a shallow pool
Reflecting upward
Not what was held
But what remained.
Recollections darkened
Not gone—
But changed
Into purples and blues
Certain as midnight
Uncertain as morning.
The light from those days
Did not disappear
It bent
Casting shadows
From the figures they had formed
In the mind—
Standing still
Even as everything else moved.
Not that they lied,
They simply could not see
That the laughter of then
Would return differently
That what once rang out
Clear and effortless
Would come back softened
Carrying weight
They had not yet learned to name.
They heard the voices
Of those they knew
From long ago days
When laughter was simple
Easy as something rolling
Downward
Without resistance—
Smooth in the hand
Bright in the light
Held up and turned
Until color revealed itself
And then slipped away again.
Recollections continued
Not fixed
Not held—
But moving
Across the surface of them
As water does
As sand does
Shifting
Settling
Lifting
And falling
Without asking permission.
Their memories were old
But inside them
Something remained
Not unchanged—
But present.
A trace
A tone
A warmth
That did not belong
Only to the past
But to the shape
Of what they had become.
Memory sifted through their hands
And still
Something stayed—
Not in the grasp
But in the holding
They could no longer see.
Recollections whispered
The passing time—
Not hurried
Not still—
Simple as a falling grain
Intricate as the path it takes.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Poem: Until It’s Time
The branch has lowered itself
just enough
to suggest an invitation.
Not to take—
only to come closer.
A cluster of blossoms gathers here,
pink in several decisions,
each petal folded inward
where light reaches
and shadow remains
until
it’s time.
They hold more air than expected.
When the breeze passes through,
the movement is slight—
not a flutter,
not quite a sway—
something closer to breath
distributed among them.
The scent does not arrive all at once.
It holds.
A faint sweetness
moves in and out of notice,
never settling long enough
to be claimed.
It resembles something remembered
without the obligation to be exact.
The bark chooses not to participate.
It’s rough
where the blossoms are not.
A hand, placed there briefly,
would feel the distinction immediately.
Somewhere beyond the frame,
grass yields under passing steps—
a quiet compression,
then release.
Water watches,
with continuity,
a low, steady movement
that declines the possibility
of becoming the subject—
ever the supporting role.
The blossoms remain.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to confirm
what they appear to promise—
a softness that would not resist
the certainty of fingers.
The distance holds.
The air carries a trace of green—
pale and timid,
warm and cool—
tumbling against itself
waiting to affirm a victor.
Summer already knows who will win.
For now,
the air passes through the mouth unnoticed
halfway inhale
halfway exhale.
Then it is gone again.
The branch lifts slightly
or the body does—
it’s difficult to say which.
The blossoms return
to their position among many,
indistinguishable at a glance.
Still—
for a moment,
they held the conscious weight
of examination.
And in that moment,
briefly,
blushed at their own beauty.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Poem: A Modest Proposal for the Internet Age
There is a version of you
already walking around out there.
She has good lighting.
He is a series of clean paragraphs.
They speak in sentences that arrive
fully dressed.
No one interrupts them.
No one misquotes them.
No one catches the moment
before the thought lands.
They do not hesitate.
They do not circle back.
They do not say,
“Wait, that’s not what I meant.”
This version of you
does not exist in your kitchen
or your car
or the quiet ten minutes
before sleep.
Still, she is convincing.
She has been liked.
Shared.
Saved for later
by people who will not remember
where they found her.
Meanwhile,
you forget what you were saying
mid-sentence.
You start projects you never return to.
You carry conversations in your body
long after they’ve ended.
You revise yourself
in the shower.
You win arguments
three days late.
There is no algorithm for that.
No one clicks
on the unfinished version.
No one bookmarks
the moment you changed your mind
and did not announce it.
And yet,
this is the only place
anything real has ever happened.
Not in the caption,
but in the pause before it.
Not in the post,
but in the hour you spent
deciding whether to speak at all.
The Internet will continue
to assemble you
from fragments.
A sentence here.
A photograph there.
A tone someone will misunderstand
and carry with them
as if it were complete.
You will be summarized
by people who have never
heard your voice in a room.
You will be known
in ways that are technically accurate
and entirely untrue.
This is not a problem
to be solved.
It is a condition.
So—
wash your cup.
answer the email you’ve been avoiding.
tell the truth
in the next small conversation
that asks it of you.
Let your life become
slightly more aligned
with the person
who appears so effortlessly
on a screen.
Not perfectly.
Not all at once.
Just enough
that if someone were to meet you
without context,
without history,
without the archive—
they would recognize you.
And if they didn’t,
you would not feel the need
to explain.
Now,
go and become the person
you want the Internet to think you are.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Iris Lennox
This one did not arrive gently.
The edges remember something—
a pressure,
a folding back,
as if each petal had to argue
for its place in the light.
Nothing about it is smooth.
The ruffles hold.
The color deepens where it was once hidden.
Even the softness has weight to it.
You could say it opened.
But that would miss
what it endured to become open.
There are days
the sky lowers itself without warning,
and everything living is asked
to stay.
No explanation is offered.
No promise of outcome.
Just weather.
Still, something in the root
keeps drawing what it can.
Still, something in the stem
lifts what it has been given.
And when it is finally visible—
the pale, steady unfolding—
no one sees the storms.
Only the shape they left behind.
Only the quiet fact
that it did not close again.
Only the way it stands
as if the breaking of it
was never the end.
@Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Selected Writing by Jill Szoo Wilson
I’ve been asked to create a Where to Begin page for my poetry. Good idea!
Here are the top 10 poems by Jill Szoo Wilson based on website views over the years, public response at poetry readings, and generous feedback from readers like you.
- Moonlight We
- She Spoke of Love
- Love and Alive
- Un/Forgiven
- Lighthouse Hero
- God of the Street
- Algorithms of Fathers and Sons (And Daughters, Too)
- Unzipped
- Drenched
- Opposite Sides of the Wall
You can also find me on Substack under Jill Szoo Wilson and Necessary Whispers.
I tend to share newer poems and unpolished thoughts over there.
Stay curious,
Jill Szoo Wilson
Poem: Algorithms of Fathers and Sons (And Daughters, Too)
There is a jukebox in the corner
Where saddle shoes used to tread
Under skirts and socks with lace
Splattered with drippings from
Chocolate malts and shakes,
Where pearls would bounce
And roll across the floor.
Tile black and white—
I know it sounds trite
Like paisley on a bow tie
But patterns and bow ties
Bring order to the madness—
Also hamburgers, French fries
Ponytails and Snake Eyes.
He came to this place
Where the music was stuck—
Records displaying
Yellowed faces
Songs replaying
Grooves worn low
Weary, dull and much too slow.
Going backward
Isn’t really his thing
But there came a day
When his soul melted
Slipped through his lungs
Leaked and oozed
Puddled around the soles of his shoes.
Forward
No longer
Was an option for him—
What was he supposed to do?
Walk away, a shell of a man
Empty but for the wind
Whistling through?
He stood
Until noon traveled around him
Draped over the moon
Darkness descended,
Then fell his soul
Standing stuck
He heard the rattling of a rancid truck.
“Move aside,”
Said a man
Who smelled like Linus looks
Plus the tan lines of a garbage man,
“You’re in my way,
and what is this filth
at your feet?”
Accustomed to the dross
Of the city streets
With fetid hands the garbage man
Began to lift the spilt soul
Which was running into the ditch but,
“Wait!,”
Cried the empty man.
“That is not junk
though it lacks the glow
of gold
please leave it here
with me
it is all I have
if the truth is told.”
“All you have?”
Laughed the man
With the smell of human waste
On his hands,
“Then pick it up.”
Then came the second truth,
“I can’t.”
“I need your help,”
The wind spun around his tongue
Then played the space
Between his ribs
And his lungs
Like a concerto for weakening
Flesh and bone.
“Damn it all,”
The collector of trash replied
As he bent at the waist
To clean up the spill
That rolled down the hill
Before it crusted, caked and dried
Under the heat of the sun.
“I’ll put it in your pocket
now move along
get something to eat
there is a diner
across the street
that serves the lost
and the weak.”
And so, this is how he came
To the place echoing with the past—
The jukebox, the pearls
Where nothing was meant to last—
Fate brought him low
Then brought him here
To face the time where it all began
(Thanks to the garbage man).
“I don’t understand,”
He thought to himself
Then said it out loud
As his eyes rolled around
Searching for some logic
He could grip
Or some algorithm
He could apply to the script.
And then
Entered a ghost
With matted hair
On the sides of his head
Coming out of his ears,
A limp in his knee and
Teeth glowing green.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,”
Said the empty man
“Tough shit,”
Said the apparition
Blunt in his delivery and
Over dramatic
In his long flowing livery.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
Coughed the ghost
To which the live one replied,
“Do you always start with small talk?
I don’t mean to gawk but
your presence and general
demeanor are starting to piss me off.”
“You are here for a reason
and so am I
we need to get some things straight
before it’s too late
for you.
As you can see
it’s already too late for me.”
The beginning and the end
Sounded like a riddle
But somewhere in the middle
The living man
Recognized the voice,
“Dad?”
He squinted and then stuttered.
“No shit,”
Said the ghost and then
Once more,
“Do you have a cigarette?”
The living man
Almost fell to the floor
“Here, one of my last four.”
They sat in a booth,
The jukebox began to croon
They ordered hotdogs with ketchup
Had no forks
Cut their food with a spoon,
“I don’t mean to pry
but why have you come?”
“I met her here in 1952
we were both too young
to know what to do
so we loved and had fun
and then she had you
I thought of staying
but I couldn’t follow through.”
They sipped coke through a straw
To fill the long pause,
“Again, I wonder
why are you here?”
The ice clinked
In the ghost’s tall curvy glass,
“I know I was an ass
I feel kind of bad
I heard you needed me there
but I didn’t know—
shit—
it was hard to stay away
and hard to stay
I wanted to say . . .”
A pause.
And a tightening of the throat
Both the man and the ghost
Turned and squirmed,
“But why today?”
Asked the living son
Who wanted to run but chose to stay.
“Before I go to my final space
I was given the gift
once more
to see your face
and written there
I saw your hopelessness—
it rendered my journey motionless.”
“Is that when my soul
dripped all the way out?”
The ghost whispered back,
“That wasn’t your soul
it was fear and self-doubt
and I couldn’t help but
notice my name
on the puss that spilled out
so I used my airy powers
to stop your feet
with the little time I have left
I wanted to meet
in case my song repeats
after I’m gone.”
The air was still
Atmosphere heavy
Like before a storm
The ground felt shaky
And covered with worms
Snakes, anteaters and obese germs.
“I took a bit of you
and left too much of me
dropped you in a hole
of anonymity
no sure identity
as is given by a dad
and when you reached for me
your hand collapsed
empty
confused
your confidence slid—
but hear me now:
you are the best thing
I ever did.”
The living man
Felt a peace begin to grow
In a place he did not know
Existed before today
Above his ribs, above his lungs
Where scabs were hung
Replaced with Band-Aids.
“I didn’t know
and I have a lot of questions
but I feel your time is fleeting
so I will ask only one
why wait
so late
to have this meeting?”
“Time is made of seconds and of hours
each tick devours each tock
as we ignore the face of the clock
take for granted the breath
and selfishly hold the seasons
in vaults of the mind we keep locked
for prideful reasons.
But I tell you,
my son,
you are not
hopeless
I see your shine
and as long as you are living
there is still
time
so live
and be the you that is
free
of the weight of me
and my stupidity,
I am sorry.”
Then the ghost
He didn’t believe in
Vanished
To whence he came
But left a ray of something
Maybe hope
And the jukebox continued to play.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026 (updated)
Poem: And She Flew
Currents of wind
Grasping blue
From the sky
Mixing colors—
Translucent white
Floating by
In puffs
Like smoke
But water
Cascading
Masquerading
As clouds, drifting down
To rest upon
The ocean’s top
Atop the undercurrents
Pulling dark and light
Together
In a haze
Under the phase
Of the moon
Where fullness
Steers the darkness
From the light.
At night the sense of
Flight
Alights
In dreams and hopes
A knotted rope
Hangs from the stars
And swings
As she sings
Like a bird
Whose song is sung
Carelessly
Without thought
She calls into the night
Filling it
From empty
To bright
And falls into
The space where
Downwind caresses
Upwind lifts
And buoyancy calls her
Higher still.
As hummingbirds swing
Creatures below
Sting
With venom held
Inside teeth
Red with the catching
Stories repeat
Through dust and mold
Dark with lies
Whispered inside
By unseen spies
Who feed on souls
Who fill the roles
Like actors
Paid to play
Unable to reach
The heart
And open—
Unfold
Like art.
The ones below
Whose wings were clipped
Set a scheme
Narrow as a
Tightrope
A balance beam
A trap
Set with bait
And they waited
Inside a box
Designed to promise
The only way
Into hope
From hopelessness—
To pull her down
To steal her crown
A crucible
Of fire
Inside folded walls
Where stories
Cease to be told.
She flapped her wings
Tilted her head
Toward the earth
Wondered
Then wandered
Through the expanse
Where freedom
Takes its chance
On little birds
Such as she
She caught a breeze
Saw her reflection
In the sea
Caught a glimpse
Of her worth
And floated down
To the cardboard flaps
Of the box
The dark ones
Moved
Like worms
The kind of worms
Eaten by birds.
It looked easy enough
Fold the second flap
Then the first
And follow the way
They had planned
To be kept
From the sky
From the breeze
From the warmth of the sun
The turn of the season
From the spring
That would
Enchant her
Like a lover
Enhance her
With colors
Vibrant
Breathing
Beating
With life
To romance her.
“No,” she thought
And then—
“No,” she said
The comfort of that dark
Is stark
The safety of that space
Is small
A quiet that settles
For an hour
Sweet at first
Then turning
She felt it
And knew it
And chose—
She rose
And she flew
And she flew.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Poem: Field of View
A man sits at a desk
with a telescope.
He has positioned it carefully.
The angle is correct.
The candle has been trimmed.
He is searching the sky
for something of importance.
The sky, meanwhile,
contains everything.
He believes in instruments.
He believes in narrowing the field.
He believes that what matters
will appear in the center.
The lens obliges.
It offers a disciplined circle.
Stars enter one at a time,
as if taking a number.
Then a streak of light
crosses the room.
Not through the telescope.
Beside it.
The man does not see it.
He is concentrating.
The sky has chosen
a different method of entry.
He adjusts the focus.
He notes the stability of the heavens.
He appreciates their order.
Something bright fades near the wall.
He records nothing.
In this way
the universe remains vast,
and the man remains certain.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Jill Szoo Wilson 