She called to him
Beneath a veil of night
When summer wore
Its hottest mask
Wax and dripping
Onto the earth
Leaving sticky puddles
Drenched and drying fast.
He was ill equipped
From skin to guts
No cape in his wardrobe
Or spectacles to hide his eyes
Paralyzed
By the fear–
No not the fear–
The knowing.
Knowing that his will
To fight for love
Was vacuum packed
And wrapped in moth balls,
It wreaked of age and of
The stench of desperate attempts
And falls–
Memories of unanswered calls.
Calls for him to be the one
The victor in the storm
Brimming to capacity
With strength enough to
Hold her heart–
At least her hand–
Across jagged tightropes
Stretching over pits of sand.
Quicksand questions
Lined with glue
Meant to close the chasm
Between expectation and
What is true–
Catechisms from the past
Never brought to light
Long enough
For queries to last.
What lasted was uncertainties
And now he paid the price
Not wanting to lose
Her
But unprepared to fight
All he could muster
Was a broken hero’s
Journey into night.
Night fell
Long past its time as
Summer solstice
Lazily drew its haze
Upon a sultry sky–
Like the afterglow
Of a camera’s flash
Imprinted behind the eye.
Eyes heavy with fatigue
Propped open by ambition
He pulled his jeans up high
Belted at the waist
Sat on the dew-drenched seat
Slicing through salt
Like he was a Sodomite Sculptor
Entering the competition.
A competition
Against himself
Against the doubt
Bubbling through
His tightening veins
Waking him from
Slumber of uncertainty to
Valor through adversity.
Adverse conditions
In the black
Gave way
As light he carried
Burned a path
Radiant as day–
Along the way he set it down
The dread that he had nothing to give.
He gave her a coordinate–
It was all he had–
A map written in the air
To help her find him
Approaching beneath a beacon
Brave and bright
Like a compass
More meticulous than starlight.
Starlight led her way
Across a stretch of sand
The edge of land
And water
Lapping against her skin
Deep and
Deeper still
She wandered toward the glow.
Glowing first as though a firefly
Small and far away
His vessel cutting through
The foam, mocking delay
For time no longer mattered
As slow their paths came near
He, soaked with ocean
She, doused in tears.
Her tears were anvils
From her soul
Releasing injured expectation
She felt her heaviness go–
Fly
Into the heavens
Where drafts outweighed
The currents swirling down below.
She never saw below
The hidden treasure trove
Inside his hidden space
The place
Where thought and emotion
Ruptured like burdened banks
To flood his heart and
Overflow–
Overflows of adrenaline
Like rain
Saturated and drowned his pain
Leaving only
In the boat
He and the lighthouse he kept
For her
A flame no longer detained.
No act of the Furies could detain
His passage toward her eyes
The two he knew without seeing
He could feel at the side of his neck,
Glimpse behind the pillow
Where once she lay
Inside his dreams
And–in the middle of day.
The glow began to grow
He rowed like a man
Pursued by death
And she
Released a laugh
That tore his heart
From two parts into one–
He dropped the oars so he could run.
He ran to just before her
Then stopped to etch her
All
Inside his mind
Where secrets forever kept
Could burrow, rest and hide,
"I came for you,"
He said–
She already knew
But she feigned a big surprise,
"I wondered at that
single point
upon the horizon growing
never knowing
whether I should run away
or stay."
"I am glad you stayed,"
He kicked some sand
Between his shoes
And cleared his tightening throat,
"Now that you have
would you allow
this reluctant pirate
to stay here, too?"
She blew out the candle
Burning above his face–
No need to keep it lit
Inside this place
Where journey’s end
Had come to rest–
"I never really lost you,” he said–
"Then I was never really lost."
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Tag: Modern Poetry
Poem: Exit, Stage Left
You left the room
with a clumsy flourish,
the door slammed quickly—
reverberating force
like a vacuum cleaner
shaking the dust, until
every corner rattled, left clean,
untraceable—
the map you had in your hand
a plan
long before anyone knocked.
You ran.
But you forgot about me.
You fled the scene
like a small boy whose shadows
stalked him
though he could not hear
the others say,
"That's simply the moonlight
trailing behind as it breaks
upon your face."
Merely a shadow.
I was the one whose voice you heard
I was still there—
I ran to the door
watched you flee,
from the entrance
you turned into an
exit.
But you forgot about me.
You closed the door with a lie.
Later
I closed the door with the truth—
One isn't better than the other.
Yes it is.
You had a victim's mask in your pocket
all along—
pieces of your defense
glued together
at my expense
wrought in a place of false pretense
cutting the edges of your hands
shaking at the moment of
planned dispense—
the past is a map.
Now I see
what before I missed.
(There is no before . . .
Sure there is.)
You were the one who always
showed up
until showing came with a price
which is not showing to give
but to take what you could
while fingering the razor
you'd use to excise,
lingering as long
as I was the sacrifice—
your comfort the key
my love the prize
your time a carrot
my loyalty a vice.
But you misread me.
I was telling the truth all along—
on the notes of every song
in the lines of the poems
and walks in the sand
in the gaze of my eyes
the touch of your hand
the finding and seeing
hearing, agreeing,
unfolding, repeating,
the four loves
and being—
freeing.
But you didn't see me.
I was there.
I remember it all.
I know the true parts
and the ones you call false—
what you call a dirge
was clearly a waltz
one-two-three, one-two-three,
I wasn't weak—
that’s never been me—
life has taught me resilience,
presence,
when to be quiet and
when to speak.
But now you can’t hear me.
I said the truth
with a slam—
for every action there is reaction—
that's what I teach.
You were "the other,"
my other,
I paid attention in full—
you had it all—
then, it was a gift to you
now, a gift to me
because as I look back I can see
we—you and me—
found our way to
living truthfully.
These scenes lay unrevised,
unchanged by your alterations—
the story is the same
no slight of hand
will defy the playwrights’ vision
like a Choose Your Own Adventure can—
the plot is still thick
(you know it's so)
we wrote the pages
created the spaces where each scene would go.
But you upstaged yourself and I left it all on the boards.
The places we graced
now empty stages
but stages withstand
construction and striking,
building up and tearing down
don't change reality
or the things we knew
the verbs, the nouns—
as the ghost light rolls on
what changes is
me
and yes,
even you—
and so, we.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023
Poem: We Walked Through Snow and Ice
People are complicated. They’re rarely what we first believe, and they’re almost always carrying a weight we cannot see. We tend to notice what others are willing or able to show us, and we assign meaning from there.
Strength, in particular, is easy to misread. Sometimes it’s resilience. Sometimes it’s concealment. Often it’s both.
We move through the world interpreting one another through our own mixture of experience, education, memory, and fear. It is remarkable that we connect at all. And yet, we do.
We walked along in the snow and ice
And you wanted to hold my hand.
I thought you wanted to show yourself strong,
But you were losing your footing too,
And needed my steadiness to help you along.
I refused you because I did not need your help,
I did not fear a fall,
And then you fell all on your own.
I wondered
If I could have helped.
We walked along a sandy shore
And you wanted to hold an umbrella up to the sun.
I thought you worried my skin would burn,
But yours was turning red,
You forgot your hat and needed the cover.
I refused you because I did not need your help,
My skin is olive in tone,
And then your skin turned hot.
I wondered
If I should have helped.
We walked along in wind and rain
And you wanted to lead me into shelter.
I thought you wanted to hold me close,
But beads of sweat gathered around your head,
And fever took your strength and made you ill.
I refused you because I did not need your help,
For me, the rain is a thrill,
And then you lay for days in your bed.
I wondered
Why I did not help.
We walked along inside my dreams
And you wanted to plot out the way.
I thought you wanted to boast in your sense of direction,
But the path grew long and the day turned to night,
So we lost one another under the stars.
I refused your course because I did not need your help,
For me, wandering without plan is adventure,
But then I lost you and you were gone.
I wondered
If I should have let you lead.
We walked away, I went this way, you went that,
And you did not turn to watch me go.
I thought you wanted to stay,
But the distance grew wide
And the time grew long.
I refused to feel because I could not feel it all,
My heart was broken in your hands,
But when I felt it all at once
I turned,
And you were gone.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Puff and Flicker
She sat in the corner of my room
Smoking a cigarette and
Draining
A glass of whiskey and
Draining
Me.
She was the kind of woman
Who let her ashes fall and she
Swept
Them under my rug but I was never
Swept
Away.
She stayed and she stepped
And the ashes dug into the
Ground
Creating a circle of black
Like a sacrifice made to what could not
Be.
I couldn’t make her leave
Even when she didn’t want to
Stay
And when I couldn’t bear to
Stay
Away.
She sang songs too loudly
And wanted applause
But all I could muster
Were halfway smirks
And halfhearted shards of
Me.
“We were happy once,”
She said then she flicked and
Fire
Fell and she kicked the
Fire
Away.
“The flame is hot and the
Light is bright,”
I muttered.
“Don’t flatter yourself
You aren’t the man you used to
Be.”
Wisps of smoke rose between
Her fingers and she
Puffed
And then coughed and then
Puffed
Away.
“The furnace you lit is
Beginning to roll
Like a lake of flames
Licking the shore
And I fear the fire will splash onto
Me.”
She looked at me with
A tone of voice that was
Silent
Like a deaf man wanting to push
Silent
Away.
“I thought you were speaking of
Love but now I see
I am being engulfed
Because I misunderstood.
You should probably leave me
Be.”
I watched as she sat in the corner
Smoking like a cigarette and
Draining
Drops of whiskey to stop the fire, her life
Draining
Away.
When I knew she was gone
The echoes of my heartbeat
Revived
And vibrated against the walls and
Revived
Me.
© Jill Szoo Wilson
Poem: The Us We Can See
I am stationed at a wooden table
the size of a reasonable thought.
It does not wobble.
This feels like a small mercy
after watching my Americano
sway back and forth on the last.
Here, the Americano steams steadily
as if rehearsing confidence,
dark, uncomplicated,
uninterested in my opinions.
I wear fingerless gloves,
a compromise between dignity and survival.
My knuckles remain unconvinced.
Winter returns again and again
through the green-painted door,
carried on the backs of coats,
slipping in at ankle height,
lingering like someone
who has already said goodbye
but remains.
A woman at the counter
counts her change twice,
the last of her pennies
now a relic of a simpler time
when 1-2-3 meant something more.
A man near the window
keeps turning his cup
until the logo faces forward,
forgetting the face
with every sip,
which ends with a new turn.
A familiar dance, a waltz?
Sip-2-3, sip-2-3.
A woman with wiry white hair
removes a bright turquoise hat,
carefully crocheted,
leaving one thread to dangle
from a curl.
The thread hesitates.
So does she.
Heavy oak chairs keep their positions,
pretending not to notice
who chooses them and why,
practiced at holding
what is briefly certain.
A barista with inked forearms
wipes the same spot again,
loyal to a principle I do not know.
The clock on the wall yawns
while declining comment,
stretching its hands
in a familiar reach,
analog-2-3, sameness-2-3,
predictable without irony.
I lift the white mug,
my fingers watching and ready,
and remember how warmth
asks to be held,
while cold does not.
—Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
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: 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
Poem: The Path Widens
A meditation on how people grow: slowly, sideways, and almost never on schedule.
In teaching acting, you learn that most progress happens quietly.
Not in the moment a student secures a role, but in the moment she finally makes a choice no one suggested. Nothing dramatic. A shift of breath. A decision about when to look away. A line spoken with intention instead of hope.
Parents ask me when they should know whether theatre is a good path for their child. They mean well. They want a timeline, a benchmark, a sign that reassures them the world can still be predicted. Adults love prediction. It keeps the fear at a reasonable volume.
But acting doesn’t depend on prediction. It depends on attention.
A student gives more than she takes. She listens longer. She works without being asked. These are not qualities that make announcements. They don’t trend. They barely register unless you’ve been watching the way a gardener watches new growth: alert, but never frantic.
Younger students arrive full of borrowed enthusiasm.
A favorite movie. A character they memorized line for line.
At that age, the self has not yet solidified enough to have a motive.
They imitate because imitation is how they understand the world.
It’s not my job to explain their “why.”
It’s my job to give them something sturdy to push against.
I learned this long before I ever taught anyone.
When I was five, my uncle removed the floaty from my back and told me to jump into the pool. He said he would be right there. Adults often say this. Sometimes it’s true. Sometimes it’s more aspirational than factual.
The first time, he stood still.
The second time, he stepped back.
By the end of the afternoon, my floaty lay drying on the concrete like a gasping fish.
That is how learning works at its best.
You move toward someone who trusts you can manage the distance.
Then the distance widens.
A simple object left drying on the concrete carries its own questions.
What does a beached object imagine?
That this is the edge of its usefulness,
or that the next body of water will be waiting somewhere farther on?
Even a stranded object suggests the truth: every stage asks something different of us.
Parents want to know when their child is ready for the “path.”
But the path is not an announcement.
It is a series of small decisions, barely noticeable except in accumulation:
a student opens her script earlier in the week,
rehearses with a friend instead of scrolling a phone,
asks a question that requires thinking instead of guessing.
These things don’t earn applause.
But they build a life.
The work goes on.
The child grows.
The deep end waits, patient and unbothered.
And the path widens without saying why.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Jill Szoo Wilson 