He said he was like Aragorn—
which simplifies things.
At once there is a kingdom,
a lineage,
a future postponed for noble reasons,
and a woman somewhere
patient enough to make it meaningful.
And since patience,
then waiting,
and since waiting,
then interpretation—
small pauses examined like artifacts,
silences catalogued,
every delay entered into evidence
as proof of depth.
No throne required.
No witnesses.
No public act of choosing.
The crown exists in theory,
which is lighter to carry.
Not just the scale, it’s also the convenience—
a man may remain unfinished indefinitely,
provided the story explains him.
A man may divide his life into careful sections,
call it burden,
call it timing,
call it the long road.
The road lengthens nicely
when no one insists on arrival.
And I—
placed somewhere along this route,
not quite a destination,
more like a well-lit clearing—
am asked, without being asked,
to understand.
To recognize greatness in restraint,
to admire the discipline of postponement,
to hold the shape of a future
that keeps adjusting itself.
Meanwhile, in less mythic settings,
kings tend to announce themselves,
love tends to appear in daylight,
and decisions, when they happen,
have dates.
Still—
it is a beautiful story.
The hidden heir.
The necessary delay.
The almost.
So what can one say
about men who borrow epics—
the historians of themselves,
the quiet editors of consequence—
if anything fits,
it is this:
that in the retelling,
with enough weather,
enough distance,
enough carefully chosen words—
even hesitation
can be mistaken
for destiny.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Tag: Poet
On Writing, Voice, and Iris Lennox
In January 2023, I made a New Year’s resolution to write more poetry. For once, I actually followed through. I wrote quite a bit that year, but most of it was just okay.
What I started to notice was that all of it sounded like me, but not in that beautifully cohesive way where you can tell a piece is by Emily Dickinson or Wisława Szymborska. There was something a little circular about it.
So the following year, I started taking poetry classes and workshops with real, working poets.
I’m not sure if I’ve gotten better, but I do know this: listening to other students’ and poets’ work in the room changed everything.
I started thinking thoughts I hadn’t thought before and feeling things I didn’t expect to feel again. Just from listening to people write about ordinary moments. The kind that light you up, or break your heart, or make you want to live, but on fire.
Life is so rich and dynamic, and also boring and mundane. And you can write about all of it.
So, I created a pen name: Iris Lennox.
This summer, I’ll be publishing a book of poetry under that name. It felt like the right time to start sharing some of that work and to give that voice a little more room to grow.
I also created a website for it:
I’ll be sharing poems and short pieces there as I continue developing this side of my writing.
❤️,
Jill
Selected Writing by Jill Szoo Wilson
I’ve been asked to create a Where to Begin page for my poetry. Good idea!
Here are the top 10 poems by Jill Szoo Wilson based on website views over the years, public response at poetry readings, and generous feedback from readers like you.
- Moonlight We
- She Spoke of Love
- Love and Alive
- Un/Forgiven
- Lighthouse Hero
- God of the Street
- Algorithms of Fathers and Sons (And Daughters, Too)
- Unzipped
- Drenched
- Opposite Sides of the Wall
You can also find me on Substack under Jill Szoo Wilson and Necessary Whispers.
I tend to share newer poems and unpolished thoughts over there.
Stay curious,
Jill Szoo Wilson
Poem: Subsequent Kingdom
The hour came
When she no longer knew
Where to stand and so
She sat
In the middle of a ground
Hollowed of movement
And sound.
Wrapped her arms around
The tops of her knees,
Squeezed and held
Herself in a balance
That felt like a trance.
Faded memories danced,
Then turned into smoke,
Lifted up
And away—
Transformed day into
Night,
Where what was bright
Had taken flight.
There was no way
To know for sure
Where her plight would
Take her
Or send her next
But to a dream—
So she slept and found
That nightmares abound,
But dreams are the things
Worth stepping into.
And so
She slept
And she stepped.
She entered—
Her feet soaked in regret,
A substance heavier than she knew.
Underfoot,
Leaves crunching,
Small souls darting,
Dripping mysteries and dew.
She stood in a hidden forest
Where light was shattered
By shadow—
The sun trickling
Down tree trunks
Until devoured by shade.
In this place—
Where light and dark collide—
Life breathed
Without fear of
Being censured
Or scrutinized.
Her hands trembled,
Adding vibration to the breeze
Shaken loose from unseen clouds,
Wrapping around her skin
And seeping past
Petrified courage within.
Location undisclosed—
To she and he and me.
Lost inside—
No fear of being unfound,
No regret of being drowned
Between the monotony there
And this rising cacophony of sound—
Increasing swells surrounding,
Like a riptide racing outward,
Tearing her loose from security,
Crowning her
With confounding obscurity.
A subsequent Queen
Bowed low—
In coronation,
Surrendered to unpredictability,
Relinquished proposals
And control.
Her scepter raised,
Exposing the cavity
Of beating heart and soul,
Warring against
Encroaching enemies
Threatening to bring her low.
She breathed.
She sighed.
She caught the eyes
Of a creature drawing near.
In him—a revelation
She held dear,
Yet sensed she should not go near.
Stuck
Between stimulus
And choice—
As thick as tangled underbrush below,
As wide as these grounds
She did not know—
She stood still.
A stabbing thrill
Entered her side,
Some kind of alive
Breaching the tenderness
Of the space
Where her secrets hide.
She lowered her scepter,
Compelled to disavow
The tenacity of her presence here—
In a place
Perhaps she should fear.
There he stood,
Quite near.
Treading upon this undisclosed ground
Gave air to her footsteps,
And she, like a child,
Laid her focus
At the feet of he
And of mysteries
Surrounding her there—
She worshiped at the altar
Of her long-forgotten
Sense of wonder.
Unexpected places.
Unimagined faces.
Unforeseen encounters
Reminded her that life
Is an unpredictable force—
Impossible to bridle
By will alone.
“Let it be,”
Said she—
With an indignant air
Of possibility,
A heaviness in her lungs
Making it difficult to breathe—
Yet she breathed,
And she sighed,
And she moved into his realm,
Stuck her fingers in,
And pried him open—
Revealing his positives
To her negatives.
A Pandora’s Box
Of magnetism—
Cataclysmic exposure,
Volcanic disclosure—
Blasted through their chests
And up through
The tops of the trees.
A burst of what was unseen
Careened,
Trading winds
With all that was seen—
A hurricane of chemistry,
Unforeseen,
Destroying the routine
Like a machine
Come to life
With a sharpened pulse.
She realized too late
That being crowned
In her dream
Unbound her stream
Of waking consciousness—
Stuck now inside her sleep,
Between worlds,
Stewing in a concoction
Of waking memory
And present dream.
She remembered when
She had a choice—
When she sat
With her arms wrapped
Around her knees,
A breeze of normalcy
Blowing across
Tear-stained cheeks:
“The tears I knew
Were softer
Than these torrents
Where light and dark
Steal what was—
What is—
And twist the present
With what they undo.”
The hour returned.
She no longer knew
Where the path of her then
Met the path of her now.
So she sat with her crown,
Awaiting sundown—
Her sleeping life
Mingling within
Her subsequent kingdom.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, updated 2026
Poem: Hall of Dreams
Within me
(one)
are many.
I stand before
a hall of dreams—
experiences arranged
like exhibits:
fair trades,
unbalanced ones,
who I was
and who I could not be.
I sit in the gallery
of my own imagining,
hovering above
movement and stagnation,
searching for pattern.
Logic keeps me safe
while everything mingles.
The projector clicks.
Slow at first.
Then steady—
like a train pulling memory
down its track.
Flicker.
Light.
I am lulled.
I understand the staying
and the leaving,
the cleaving,
the fall.
Shadows drip
between choice
and consequence—
wax from a tongue
that once burned
with lies.
Faces I trusted
tilt in the light.
Spies in their eyes.
Or was it mine
that misread?
I thought I knew.
At least
I trusted.
I replay.
Hover above.
Detached.
Objective.
What questions
should I have asked?
The kiss.
It split me.
Once one—
now two.
I built a case
for future disgrace,
called it truth,
called it depth,
called it destiny.
But you only tilted me—
then let me go.
What I named vast
was narrow.
What I called deep
was small.
The descent—
mine.
I wanted you
to speak truth.
Instead
I heard
what I wanted.
Weak.
Yes.
Deceived—
by myself.
Within me
(one)
are many—
but now
one fewer.
I lay the hall down.
Let the projector darken.
Offer illusion
back to silence.
And keep
what is real.
© Jill Szoo Wilson
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: Only a Hand
His hand was only a hand
With veins that rose and fell
Like gently rolling waves
A dip and a swell
Giving life to all within
Beneath the water and his skin.
His brush was only a brush
With bristles short and soft
Like freshly growing grass
Subject to the windy wafts
Of springtime growing new
Filling in the lines he drew.
His eye was only an eye
With so much more behind
Like the shade of green
That bends and winds
Beneath the skin inside her wrist
Deeper still before a kiss.
His art was only art
With confines of space and wood
Like the forest she explored
In the freedom of childhood
Filled with shadows and light
An expanse of elation and fright.
© 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
Jill Szoo Wilson 