Tag: Female Poet

Poem: Opposite Sides of the Wall

I wrote this poem after visiting Berlin in 2015, where I was fascinated by the messages people had left on the remains of the Wall. This piece was inspired by one of those messages.

From the highest story

Of a building gray and cracked

Peer two eyes

Through dusty window panes

Pestered by a mosquito

Flying along the edges.


Below the eyes

A hand

Holding tin

Filled with coffee

Cold and strong—

A cigarette burning.


The fog of stagnation

Fills the room

As one wisp of smoke

Links arms with another

A silent dirge

Circling like vultures.


Her gaze is blank

She closes her eyes

Then opens them wide

Each closing a respite

Followed by

Disappointment.


She sighs

She coughs

She smiles for a moment

As the mosquito

Bumps against the glass

Bruised and trapped.


Above her head

Noisy neighbors shout

The song of frustration

Rings out and falls

Pulled by gravity and

By doubt.


She begins to hum a tune

She has not heard

Since she held a doll

Inside chubby arms

And kissed its head

With sugary lips.


Her raspy alto

Lays itself on the notes

Her Now

Transposes the music

From major to

Minor keys.


The mosquito brushes past

Her hand

And then lands and

Sticks his needle

Into her skin—

She observes the transaction.


A flashing light—


Her gaze arrested

Handcuffed to a mirror

Reflecting the sun a

A Morse Code message

.-.. --- ...- .

Which translates, “Love.”


She dunks her cigarette

Into her mug

Shakes her hand

The mosquito falls

Disconcerted but

Full.


She strikes a match

Holds it to a candle

Thick and matted

Like a paint brush

Spotted with colors

Dried from previous use.


A thin line rises from the flame

Gentle in its approach

And dancing in the haze—

She lowers and raises her hand

.- .-.. .-- .- -.-- ...


“Always,”

She replies

In this expression

They devised

From opposite sides of

The wall.


She blows out the fire

Puts her hand to the glass

Closes her eyes and

Kisses the air

As though it is

The last kiss in the world.


He lifts his fingers

Catches her lips

In mid-air—

Hungrily brings them down

Pressing their sweetness hard

Against his own.


The moment has passed

But their love

Will last—

Reach beyond time and space

Breaking past

The Wall.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2015
I took this photo at the remains of the Berlin Wall in the Spring of 2015. I was fascinated by the quotes spray-painted on the wall.

Poem: Love and Alive

Every day he comes and goes
Like a beggar on the street,
With no way to turn
But the direction from which he came.

If the streets were carpeted—
Soft to the touch—
The tread of his soles would
Scratch holes through the path
He has
Worn.

Worn out, the man with the
Briefcase breathes heavily
Under the sun and
Under the moon,
Inhaling and
Exhaling as he travels,
Blind as he goes—
Not because he has no head,
But because he feels no pain
Or joy.
He is numb.

Numb since the day she
Walked away,
And numb when he remembers
The way
Her hips sway—
This way and that.
And numb when he
Thinks of her name but cannot
Say it—
Silent.

Silently, the bird in his soul—
The bird whose name is
Alive—
Perches at the edge of her
Cage whose name is
Life,
And wishes for the day
She might once again
Begin
To
Fly.

Flying in the air
Above the man
Is a bird whose name is
Love.
He flies up high and
Then he dips
And twirls,
Like the tail of a kite giggling
In the wind,
Awaiting the moment when
The Man
Opens his coat and
Sits on his bench
And sleeps—
Like a beggar on the street
Dreaming.

Dreaming of her face—
The only face that is
Trapped inside the Man's soul.
Love watches with a keen and
Clever eye.

In one moment—
A moment whose approach is slow,
Whose arrival is timed
By the gods,
Whose watches are synchronized
To the beating of
Bird and human hearts—
The vigilant bird
Sees
The coat fall open,
Sees
The Man sit down on his bench,
Sees
Him close his eyes and
Seizes his
Freedom.

“Freedom does not live in the sky,”
He sings.
“Freedom lives inside Alive.”

Love drifts down
Through blue and through clouds
And alights
With bars between himself and
Her—
The one who holds his
Heart
Inside of her,
Inside a cage.
The one who
Knew he would
Come.

“Come to me every day,”
She wanted to say.
But instead, she said,
“You must not waste the time
Waiting by my side,
When all the world
Sprawls before your gaze.”

Love ruffled his feathers
And looked into her eyes.
“Until you are here with
Me—
Just you and me—
I will come and sit with you
Every day.”

Every day, Love came,
Just as he said he would,
And the earth turned slowly
From summer
To autumn
To winter
To spring.

Their stories grew, and
The details they knew
Poured through the bars
Like drops of water
Flowing
From watering cans,
Growing their love,
Growing him and growing
Her.

Her days inside,
Her will to survive—
Alive and Love
Together traveled through,
Until the day
The Man stepped anew
Off his carpet of same,
Tattered and
Worn through by
His shoes—
First one and then two—
Onto a path where four
Could move:
His loafers and
Her high heels of
Blue.

Blue turned to joy,
Joy turned to alive,
And Alive for the first time
Flew.
The Man let her fly,
As his heart said
Goodbye to the
Pain that was keeping
Alive inside the cage,
Inside his
Soul.

Souls in the air,
Free with
Togetherness,
No longer bound
But soaring high,
Strengthened by
The time in the cage
And by flying
Side
By
Side.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Poem: Ice

The moment before, he knew.
She knew it, too—but she didn’t know
What it meant.
He had spent all he had in love
And in time—
For time is all we have to spend—
Not knowing that one second would turn into
Years.

The moment before, he felt.
She felt it, too, but it was in her mind—
What it meant.
Dripping with memories, mundane,
Like coffee brewing slowly—
For love steeps one drop at a time—
Her daydreams were painted in
Love.

The moment before, he released.
She released, too, but she didn’t expect
What it meant.
Embracing and letting go, to embrace again,
Was like brushing her teeth—
For some rituals cleanse even as they return—
He knew her expectation and knew he would
Fail.

In the moment, he could smell her.
She could smell her, too—and she knew
What it meant.
He started a fire between his head
And his heart—
For the heart stokes the kindling the mind provides—
But the embers burned deeper than he
Expected.

In the moment, he could see the glow.
She could see it, too, and she knew
What it meant.
The lingering warmth of his hand on her back
Felt like ice—
For ice signals death—
The frigidity was new but not exactly
New.

In the moment, his conscience writhed.
She writhed a little, too, and she knew
What it meant.
His goodbye lingered near,
Like a rattling snake—
For snakes wait, and then they strike—
And she stiffened her heart, bracing for
The end.

The moment was gone. The seconds counted
And done.
The hem of her gown swished away;
His countenance melted
Like fire melts ice,
And ice turns to water,
And fire boils it all to steam.

The end was the beginning.
The beginning was now.
He sat on the ground.
He looked to the sky.
The moon turned out its lamp—
And he knew what it meant.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Poem: Humility

Every man must

Understand the soul

Inside the body

He sees looking back

From the glass

The surface only—

Not enough—

It is the flow of

Significance

And love

Just below

That holds his All together:

Every woman too.


With oxygen rushing in

Carbon dioxide spilling out

Like a water fall

Urging the river to flow

The body,

Which holds the soul,

Is made new

Every moment of the day—

A heart receiving

Old blood and

Then rejuvenating—

But dying all the time:

Our flesh holds it in but

It does not stay.


When the frame

Which holds the true art

Inside

Receives an idol’s praise—

Achievement

Acceptance

Affluence and

Ability—

An idol’s pace becomes

The engine of a train

And chugs the smoke

Of more and

Further an

Aggrandizement

Of I or me and

Me and me

Echoing the words

He wishes he believed.


It is often

Imagined

That the head held highest

The chest that is full

The voice that charges into the room

Like a bull knocking

Hands together to

Produce his own

Applause

Deserves the loudest

Respect—

Oh no.


Instead . . .


It is the man

Who knows his soul—

The smudges of grey

The shadow applied

With a line of paint

Too thick

To hide—

Who scatters his Joy

When others

Have won and

Seeks the

Truth

Of his weakness

With no trace of Pride.


A lowering of the head—

Not to be served

But to serve—

Imbues the hues

Of the soul

With radiance

Passion

And, besides,

Brings peace and life

To his bones.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Poem: Stillness

I stood beside the ocean once

And dared the waves to drown my breath

Toes nestled below the sand

Sinking further with the tide

I did not move

But the world moved around me.


The swells and crashes

Just beyond my reach

Roared against the sky in a game

I could not understand

And did not dare to join

But the world spun around me.


Nearly invisible spheres of water

Jumped from the fray

To cover my face one lick at a time

Until drenched my eyes and hair

Pulled me closer to the earth

But the world danced around me.


Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog

Salt-filled gifts from places

Dark and rolling with darker tones

Stumbled toward my knees

And buckled me into the shore

But the world pushed around me.


Without becoming any more fierce

And not with a call to war or anger

The ocean pushed closer

Like a drowning man clawing toward

The horizon and I waited

But the world melted around me.


It meant me no harm

I was a stranger to the swells

And standing small before the darkness

I asked, “Why haven’t you heard me?”

The ocean smiled and I stood still

But the world leapt around me.


I fought a war inside my mind

And all the soldiers writhed in sweat

The battles long with rising smoke

Unseen and big but small

I sat instead of dying, marveling at the moon

And the world breathed around me.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Poem: The Liar

He told one lie inside one sentence—
A capital letter, a comma, a period—
To stop the darts inside their eyes
With tips of poison traced with flesh
And ash
From the man before.

He carried his lie like a shield—
A bouche, an umbo, a coat of arms—
To hide the head he held up high
A posturing of dignity and pride
But hidden
Like a murderer walking free.

His arm was heavy with the weight—
Sinews tearing, sweating, fatigued—
So he told one more to add to the other
Deflecting, like a reflection of fire
And blinding
Impending conclusions.

He picked up his finger like a steely blade—
A quillon, a foible, a forte—
To thrust accusations dripping with blood
Into the flesh of the men within his reach
But falling
Below his cutting edge.

He grasped at a pain inside his chest—
A palpitation, a flutter, a squeeze—
To arrest the cardiac aberration
That pumped with compassion
And wrenched out
His beating liability.

He opened his mouth and told one more—
A series, a novel, a narrative—
To let the drips of his life smear their faces
With draining blood
But lifeless
His heart deflated like a balloon.

The chill of the air blew through his flesh
And hardened his skin into
Planks.
No longer a He but now an It,
It gathered the furs of the men
At his feet
And wrapped their death around
His own.

It told one lie and built a fortress—
An isolation, a prison, a cage—
To insulate itself from the arrows
It feared would leak its life
But drained
Its own instead.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Painting by Heiko Müller

Poem: She Spoke Of Love

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

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.

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.