Peter pressed the issue
About the past
He said it is a bridge
Collapsing behind
With every step
In space or in the mind
The sound of crumbling
Is all that remains.
Anna disagreed
And touched
The back of her head
She said,
“The past is braided
here next to my skull
interwoven threads attached
cascading down.”
The debate rolled around
Like a tumbleweed
Dry and filled
With agitation and
With wind and
Picking up the dust
Of misunderstanding and of
Disconnection.
“But I remember,”
Said Anna, and
“I do too,”
He whispered into
The air heavy with
Distance between
Her admission and his
Isolation.
Invisible walls
Erected between
Murky like swamp water
Disorienting like smoke
Cloudy like breath on glass—
And if he looked with only eyes
He would have turned away
Like fear.
In his imagination
He was strong
Moving along
The path in between
His hesitation and
Her vacillation
Conquering impending
Devastation.
Peter felt bolts
Screw through his feet
Into the floor
Caught between
Tomorrow and
Before
The middle of the moment
Weighted like an anvil.
He felt like a clown
Tears rolling down
Behind a mask of
White painted on
A smile red
Withdrawn
From the truth
Within.
Anna said a simple thing,
“You are afraid
of the future
and I run from
the past
maybe the middle
is all
we have.”
Something true
Like a flash of lightning
Filled the room
Forced
Confusion to scatter
Like bugs or
Like demons
Who dwell in the dark.
They stood in the kaleidoscope
That splashes
Onto eyelids pulled down
After sunlight exposes
Reality
Leaving only
Shapes and pigments
Behind.
Peter did the thing
That frightened him
Most
And Anna met him
There
He stepped into the future
She let go of the past
From the middle she whispered,
“Stay.”
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Tag: Poem
Poem: A Man Lay Dying in a Field
A man lay dying in a field
between blades of grass,
panting
like a dog without water,
searching for air
not to be found.
In the quiet of night
where darkness
falls
and fills the earth,
spilling into
crevices deep and wide,
he wondered at the sky.
The reasons why
seemed now
to matter most—
there was nothing left
to boast.
Emptied of the fight,
his limbs
dreamed of flight.
Wrists turned upward,
soft skin
receiving midnight dew.
Fluttering eyelashes—
butterfly wings
above his blue.
Whispered memories
of when hope was fresh,
a fruit heavy with sweet.
A sound in the sky.
Wings opened wide.
Staring,
but not seeing.
Hearing,
he began to listen.
A breeze,
like mystery,
rolled in—
a wave in the expanse,
surfing stars
in a cosmic dance.
His limbs began to sway,
cradled by beauty
far and near,
above and surrounding.
His heaving stilled.
Focus tore free
from breathlessness
to oxygen
pouring down
like honey.
Water leapt from his heart,
flooded his blue,
nourished
his soul
and the grass.
A release on the ground.
A release in the sky.
Two powers
surging—
electricity
between earth and heaven.
A man lay dying in a field
until
he decided
not
to
die.
Instead, he laughed.
He writhed in pain
and howled at the stains of grass
on his pants.
When laughter ceased,
the loss,
the pain,
the breathless grief
rose like smoke
and fled into the clouds.
Mystery swirled,
a ghost swinging from the moon.
The living man stood,
said goodbye to the end
and hello
to the new.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2016
Poem: Drenched
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
Poem: Woman Waking
She lifted her hands toward the sky—
White and heavy with snow-laden clouds—
And stretched all the way through
From the tips of her fingers
To the delicate curves of her ankles:
A sound flew and then fell from her lips.
It was a sigh of awake, a dream of asleep—
Her breath still deep but rising to the surface—
She could see the wrinkles of her pillow
Branded into her face, holding on
Until they too had to fall from her cheeks
And rise, like steam from a cup of coffee.
The birds outside her window sang—
Songs of newness, routines and plans—
And then they were muted by the clamor
Of coffee beans bursting with fragrance
And tones more lively than even the birds
Could muster through beaks that sip only water.
She sat at her table wearing pajamas—
White cotton speckled with flowers of pink—
And she touched the tip of her mug
To lips that had not yet spoken into the day
But made only the sound of awake
And she swallowed the warmth as she thought.
Her thinking became clear and her eyes became bright—
Brightened like snow when the sun begins to shine—
A plan began to spin and to whir
Like the cogs in a machine newly oiled,
The sound of movement—of forward—
And she hopped on the sound like a wave.
Into the day she rode on an idea with wings—
The feathers were big like those of an angel—
Her hair blew backward and also to the sides
Into air that felt the way water feels
When at first the faucet cascades
Before the heat of hot has time to warm.
She was not sure where she was going—
The going was more important than the where—
Beating inside her was a heart
Burning inside was a feeling
Rising inside was a hope that
Waking was only the beginning.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Poem: Lighthouse Hero
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
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: Minor Character
The pen lazes about,
thinking
it’s a minor character.
It agrees to be borrowed,
chewed, misplaced,
forgotten in a drawer
with expired batteries
and a single paperclip
that has lost its shape.
The pen does not announce itself.
It is not forged.
It is assembled.
Plastic barrel.
Ink persuaded to flow in one direction.
It watches other tools
take the credit.
The shovel, for example,
returning from the field
with dirt to prove it was needed.
The brush,
still wet,
still dramatic.
The pen keeps quiet.
Between finger and thumb
it waits for pressure,
not strength.
Pressure will do.
It does not dig.
That would be too much to claim.
It scratches.
Again.
Again.
A thin disturbance
on the surface of things.
Strangely, the surface remembers.
The pen does not decide
where it will end up.
It is surprised to find itself
quoted,
misunderstood,
folded into pockets with muted shades of lint.
Set aside,
it enters ongoing business,
love stories,
and napkin dreams,
still damp at the edges.
If it resembles a spear,
this is an accident of geometry.
A narrowing.
A choice to point
rather than spread.
At the end of the sentence,
it returns to stillness,
yawning,
innocent as ever.
It will deny everything.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Poem: Stillness and Wind
“You can observe a lot
just by watching,”
said a baseball player
who understood seasons.
Two afternoons ago,
I sat in a lecture hall
watching a man
who still loves what he does.
This, I think, is a form of generosity.
He spoke about observation
as though it were not a skill
but a posture,
something you lean into
rather than master.
Take the dandelion.
We learned its name early.
We learned it could grant wishes
if we breathed hard enough.
We learned the wind would do the rest.
Then we decided
we knew it.
Label applied.
Lesson complete.
Attention withdrawn.
The dandelion continued anyway
with its architecture,
its patience,
its quiet mathematics of return.
It kept unfolding relationships
with bees,
with soil,
with children who forgot its name
but still loved its defiance.
How many things
have we learned only enough
to stop looking?
How many people
do we greet by name
while knowing nothing
of their design?
Later, we were encouraged
to ask our questions
and then to set them down.
To watch.
Intellectual beauty likes to be solved.
Aesthetic beauty prefers to be witnessed.
One explains.
The other arrives.
So perhaps today
we step outside
without extracting meaning.
No schedules.
No proof.
Just a willingness
to stand still
long enough
for something ordinary
to show itself
as extraordinary.
And if we feel something
we cannot name,
let us resist the urge
to name it.
Let us watch.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Like Any Woman
It was not what she said
Instead
It was the way she held
The stem of her glass
Between freshly painted
Fingernails
Details
Red wine and red.
She breathed in and out
Like any woman would
Except
The silk in her dress
Gathered and fell
With inhale and
Exhale—
I waited for the next.
Her laugh was too loud
No clever disguise of
Civilized
Formalized veiling her mouth
Instead
Candlelit stares
In the face of she
Whose savage joy mesmerized me.
There was a soulful tune
Permeating the room
Penetrating
Armor I knew
Well beyond its usefulness
But
I had grown accustomed to
Until I felt the thrust of she.
Never before had her eyes
Encountered mine
“Hello,” I said—
Enunciation tranquilized
Words fell all the way back
And slid
To the sharpest point
Of her black high heel.
It was not that I fell mute
Instead
I dared not dilute
Fortuity in the air
With words wrapped
In coherence or
Forced insistence
Of my own understanding.
I held my hand open
For her to take
Perceiving
Gently cleaving
To the feeling
If she lay her hand in mine
Her touch would both stop and
Awaken time.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
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
Jill Szoo Wilson 