She collected recollections
From the past
As though they were
Trinkets from a shop
Where antiques—
Roughly used and rusting—
Lay waiting,
Lay trusting
Their time would come again.
Again yesterday came
But with a different name
“Today”
So she sat with her
Treasures
Stoic and measured
With a grip not to lose
For if she loosened her hold
They may drip away.
Away from the darkness
Of her previous losses
She looked toward the light
Lost her sight
At the brilliance it held
Shuttered with fear
Melted with doubt
Stifled her silent shout
With a thought.
The thought
A question
Singed with intention
Smoking
Like the barrel of a gun
Prompting her
To run
Instead of stay—
But she stayed.
Stayed in the place
Where she planted the seeds
Grass to grow
To overthrow
The things it seemed
She could not let go
Like a patient
Patiently awaiting
Death.
Death that rides
On the back of loss
That stabs at the fear
Of drawing near
“Don’t move from here”
She whispered out loud
And hoped the desire to move
Would evaporate
Like a cloud.
Clouds of then
Filled the present
A fog in this room
Invaded by the presence
Of shadows—
Not men—
Only places
They may have been
Had they stayed.
Staying threatened her breath
As the air turned white
The longing for safety
Compromised
By this encroaching night
The fear of losing
Being lost from her sight
As a struggle to gain
Awoke to the fight.
Fighting for air
She stood to her feet
Considered her options:
Victory / Defeat—
Destruction seemed easy
To fail is so clean
Triumph unknown
Invites mystery:
Shrapnel of
The unforeseen.
Unforeseen was the way
Mighty was the day
When the roots that held
Were cut away
When her voice
Unvoiced
Found the breath to say,
“Tomorrow
is where my future—
unencumbered—
lay.”
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Tag: Modern Poet
Poem: Beautiful/Lies
I will tell you what to see—
Everything but me—
A variety:
First, the shape my lips take
When I smile
Then, only aspects of my style—
The ones that deceive the senses
Lower your defenses
Make you wonder
Confidence thrown asunder.
A breeze
Whizzing by your certainty
A tornado—
Or a reverie—
Where the facts
Are art-i-facts
Designed to twist
To burrow in your mind
Then to grow
Into trees of truth
Where flowers of falsified youth
And branches that carry the load
Explode into blossoms and
Inspire.
Time evaporates into years
My collection has piled
Your recollection defiled
Melted
Reshaped
Into unknown
Unsuspected, unsuspecting
Wisdom flown
From your mind
And into my hands
Like clay
Shaped, reshaped
The size of the holes
On either side of your nose
Where what you see
Is only dreams—
The ones I dare to
Echo
Deflected from the truth
Reflected onto the marquee
Like a refugee memory
No longer sure
Which way
Is home.
I will choose the color,
You will trust my hand
Not because your will is irrelevant
Only because
You cannot understand—
And—
You trust
The choices
I make
Wait for the plans
The paths
That I take
Like a child—
Hope outstretched
Faith recklessly displaced—
Still you smile
And wait to see
What you will be-come
When the operation is done
Your vision restored
To my point of view
The illusion of Truth
Wrapped inside
Like a film reel
Reflecting
My cinematic lies.
The seed is sown
The deed is done
Now water it with your tears
Blink until you make it your own
Follow my finger
First up and then
Down
First left and then
Right,
“Don’t fight
let it be
trust me
I know the plans
I have for you:
to kill the boredom
to steal the dream
to destroy the blinding vision
to replace it with soothing
fabrication and
elation
for today.
Today is all that matters.
One more spin
Your view will be new—
you will thank me
when I am through.”
“I can see”
said she who trusted.
“Thanks for your selection.
How can I repay your
close attention,
touch easing apprehension,
voice soothing
the searing dissonance of
incomprehension?”
She wiped a tear
From the corner
Of her newly installed
Perception.
She who answered
Leaned in
Close
Low
Bestowed the wages
To be collected on
Another day,
“Only three things I pray:
go further than you intended to go
stay longer than you intended to stay
pay more than you were willing to pay.”
I will tell you what to see—
Everything but me—
I will whisper in the breeze
Rolling from the sea,
Caress your lips
From a hot cup of tea,
Sing in your ear
On the notes of a melody,
Just as long
As you agree
Never
To set me free.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Watercolor Dreams
An old poem about waking up from a story that was too small.
He found her with her eyes closed
Tight
Lids wrapped around
Pulled down
And dreaming
Watercolor dreams
He lived a life of comfort
Cotton
Filled his form
Like an animal stuffed
Insulated from
The courage to explore
He held her at one end
Taut
Between fingers tightly wound
Stretching like elastic
Brittle with aging codependence
Afraid to loosen his grip
She was like a Rose
Strong
Yet gentle in her making—
Giving but not taking—
So he wore her pinned
To his jacket like a prize
He pulled one petal at a time
Slowly
Scattered her around himself
Like confetti at his feet
Glimmering in sunlight
After a parade
She watched through rose colored
Eyes
Wondering at his dance
As he tapped his feet
To the rhythm of his science
Letting his heart beat out of sync
She rested a while tired by the
Miles
Traveled in footsteps and
In smiles broadly sewn
To the walls of her soul
Like threads of a tapestry
He named his rationality
Reason—
Suddenly like a thief
Holding a bag of gold
Heavy with secrets untold and
With her time and observations
She cut the rope between her
Heart
And the anchor he threw
Watched it sink
Until she could see it
No more, now
There at the bottom of the
Ocean
And her sighs
Lay the anchor and
There on the water’s edge
Sail her heartbeat and
Her watercolor dreams.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Undone
One layer at a time he peeled me
Like an onion
His hands wrapped around my outer skin
From top to bottom he found my flesh
And I made him cry
Like water
Running down the side of rock
In a cascade of drops becoming
A river below
Into which we jumped
His tears breaking our fall.
One page at a time he turned me
Like a book
His hands against the leather
Bound around my story, all my words
Unspoken and broken
He read and knew and studied
Like art
Smeared across a canvas
With descriptions written below
Telling of the image
Sitting still and wanting
To be known.
One note at a time he sang me
Like a song
Released from the beak of a bird
Whose daily life is filled
With music because music is
Like emotion
Strong and loud when the air is enough
And slow and soft
When there is tenderness in the touch
A balance of adagio and
A quickening of the pulse.
One sip at a time he drank me
Like wine
Held inside a carafe
Until the day my breath met his
At the edge of a glass
And stained our mouths with red
Like a flower
Vibrant with color and life
Not pulled but watered instead
By attentive hands
That understand
Petals cut or plucked
Are already dying.
Whatever the measures by which he moves
Whatever the story he tells
Whatever the words he says or unzips
I am undone
And his.
© Jill Szoo Wilson
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
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: 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
Poem: Unzipped
Born into the beauty of Spring
Between a fog-covered morning and
Daffodils breezily performing
A ballet in minor keys
She was touched first by the sun
Tenderly
Warmly
Our greatest star floated down
Like a blanket,
Covering.
Her mother was gentle
Hands soft and graceful—
Rose petals against her fingers
Blushed in their inadequacy
To soothe pain
With placid refrains of
Touch
Sliding down from
Cheeks to chins
With whispers thin.
Her father worked the fields
Gathered to his chest
The yields he nurtured
From seeds into
Future nourishment
Carried
In straw-colored baskets
To a town where
Eyes lit with hellos and
Hands shook with goodbyes.
Buried deep inside
The beauty young
A grain of aberration was planted—
Roots grew long and
Slanted downward
Spreading wide
Like awns on Wheat
Piercing delicate organs
Changing the beat
Of her sunflower heart.
Melancholia filled the pasture
Of her mind
A harvest inward
Pulling
Watered by heredity
Drowned in mystery
Tears stagnant
Hidden
Breeding mosquitos
Draining from within.
Born into the beauty of Spring
She lived in the landscape of Winter
Bracing against snow-filled torrents
Of frozen joy—
A sculptor of ice into smiles
A painter of masks
Detailing profiles
Desperate to delight
Those she could not disappoint—
Ashamed to bare only flickering light.
Her mother named her Bliss
Her father called her Life
They held her hands
Through seasons passing
Interlocked their fingers
With her plans
Held her high for every eye
To marvel and admire
Proud of the child, the woman
They knew her to be.
Her outside
Belied
Silent cries—
A contrast of
Cheerful attainment to
Sorrowful containment
Wrenching from
The wish to please
To the reality of
Brokenness.
As Autumn sang
Its songs of change
She unzipped her disguise
Let her discrepancy fall
And her hopelessness rise—
A coffin soft
Burlap and heavy
She sunk into the shadow
Where finally she could hide
From sunshine and from lies.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2016
Necessary Whispers 