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: Free Verse
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: Eight Out of Ten
A robin lands on the arm of the garden chair
as if the universe were not built to frighten her.
She tilts her head. The world tilts with it.
No anthem announces her.
No speech.
No medal.
Only the wind, unbuttoned at the collar,
pretending not to notice.
She steps once, twice—
a feathered stride across the iron rung,
making a path of what is there.
The waking yard yawns and watches,
a mini tightrope walker—
eight out of ten from the pine tree branches.
She pecks at a crumb
left over from someone’s careless breakfast—
(is that my blueberry with a bit of bagel?)
it is hardly a feast.
Yet she claims it with the authority
of a creature who never learned to doubt her place.
A distant car door slams.
The robin pauses.
I can see her thinking
the way a tiny body thinks—
all heartbeat and decision.
Then she stays.
This is how courage works:
not with battle cries,
but with the quiet agreement
to remain exactly where fear expected you to flee.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Love, Or Something Like It
There was a time
When the feeling was high
Like a tide
Rolling up and in
Surfers flying
Sun shining and
Invisible heartbeats
Crooning tunes of
Love
Or something like it.
The edge of desire
Between water and fire
Where burning is natural
Safe and contained
Where extinguishing
Is disregarded like a far-off joke
Laughter and ease
No appeasing
Only releasing
No hand on the trigger.
A season of passion
Final bastion before the mix
Of hearts and hands
Rhythms and bands
Playing songs for two
And candles glowing
Illustrating the knowing
Breaking shadows
Into pieces like crumbs
Along the way.
Shadows slip into
The hourglass—
Goodbye—
Crumbs and sands combine
Lost
And time falling
Sand filling darkness
That cannot be fished
All the way down
Into deepest fathoms of regret.
It is quiet there
Where thoughts dare not
To squirm—
They writhe instead
Slither over, “what the hell”
Wriggle past hatred
Lick the ears of obliterated
Words and
Images all stamped with,
“Doubt.”
There is a way out
But only further down
Past the malice
And through the chalice
Of poison
Red with the blood of
Something once living
Now stiffening
Twitching slowly before
Final death.
A memory of breath
Clouding
First love
Then hatred
Now something
More foreboding—
Indifference
The truest enemy of
That which was
And no longer is.
Indifference is
The air surrounding and
That one time we—
Oh, wait, now I forgot—
It is a stroll in the park
With nothing hiding,
Sitting at a traffic light
Waiting for green
But red is fine, too—
Nothing to forget, nothing to pursue.
There was a time
When hearing your voice
Scattered my focus
Like bees swarming
Drenched in honey
Bringing balance
To the flowers that we gave
And the ones we dropped
Along the way—
A garden full and thriving.
“Hello?”
My God, the timing—
I did not expect
How could I have known
That the ringing of my phone
Would start the race
Like a pistol pointed above,
Toward the space
Where helium-filled expectations
Rest in peace.
I touched my lips
As I do when my heart
Beats
Suddenly
Quickly
Stinging the parts that
Stabilize
When I realize
My hands are the only protection
I have.
“Hello,”
I heard—
Oh,
Hell no—
Hello is not enough
No greeting
Even in the repeating
Could fill the chasm
Between speaking
And hearing.
I wanted to spill
Like a leak in a pipe
Drip into the boards
Between my feet on the floor
Become a puddle
With no response
No chance to offer
More kindling to
Soak
Or to muddle.
I heard his voice
Once more
A bolt of electricity—
I was struck
With a memory
The simplicity of
The time that was high
The surfers, the tide—
A different world
A haunted time.
Then it was quiet
“It” being I
And I being the me
I remembered
I became
After the exit
Of he
And I breathed
Into the phone
Then I hung up—dial tone.
I poured a glass of Merlot
Sat in an unfamiliar glow
Once having waited—
Deeply anticipating his hello—
Now
Denied
Then
Intoxicated with his lies
But no more
And the red warmed my soul.
Once I read
Written on the sky
The opposite of love
Is hate
But you see, my dear,
I fear the stars
Were misinformed—
The opposite of love is
Indifference
I am sure I am right
As muted versions of
You and I
Are blown to dry
And stick
To freshly painted fingernails—
Not painted for you.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: The Thousand Deaths of Canton
Canton died on Monday
And then again on Friday
And in between
A thousand other deaths
All in a row—
His breathing shallow,
His passion stretched wide
Like a well dug for water supply
Now a brimming
Hole.
Canton’s misery has a name—
A she as you may have guessed
With brownish hair and
Bluish eyes
Anchored to her soul,
Her voice sounds
Like frogs chanting
In the night,
A melody Canton
Extols.
Her name is Sienna
Like the color artist’s mix
When simple red
Promises nothing of
Complexity
In its parts—
But complexity
Is the only way
To convey the
Whole.
She walked into his life—
No, she swam instead
Like a pirate
Fallen out of a ship
Whose pockets were filled,
Whose lungs nearing empty
Needed Canton’s
Breath to make it
To the shore with no
Patrol.
Canton wrapped his arms
Around her belted waist
He pulled her body
Wet with salted
Memories
To a warm and sunny
Place where
Resuscitating Sienna
Became his starring
Role.
He breathed his life
Into her lungs,
Sienna’s breast inflated
Like a blowfish
Reacting to her fear
Desperately wanting
His protection—
No, that’s not right—
His affection wrapped up in his
Soul.
Canton died when Sienna
Slept—
The world collapsed
With her unconsciousness
As though slumber
Was a distance too far to
Bare,
Not even the moon
Could console his emptied
Control.
He died when she blinked,
He could not withstand the dark
Her eyelids commanded—
Like a conductor
Setting the rhythm of
His pain and
One and two and three and
Four—
The music behind her open eyes, Canton’s
Parole.
Canton and Sienna
Clasped their fingers together
Like two pirates searching for love
Crossing a windy expanse—
They cried and laughed
And died and lived
Along the way
Two shipwrecked halves navigating
Toward one mysterious
Shoal.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Jill Szoo Wilson 