Tag: Poet

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
I took this photo at the remains of the Berlin Wall in the Spring of 2015. I was fascinated by the quotes spray-painted on the wall.

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: Stillness

I stood beside the ocean once

And dared the waves to drown my breath

Toes nestled below the sand

Sinking further with the tide

I did not move

But the world moved around me.


The swells and crashes

Just beyond my reach

Roared against the sky in a game

I could not understand

And did not dare to join

But the world spun around me.


Nearly invisible spheres of water

Jumped from the fray

To cover my face one lick at a time

Until drenched my eyes and hair

Pulled me closer to the earth

But the world danced around me.


Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog

Salt-filled gifts from places

Dark and rolling with darker tones

Stumbled toward my knees

And buckled me into the shore

But the world pushed around me.


Without becoming any more fierce

And not with a call to war or anger

The ocean pushed closer

Like a drowning man clawing toward

The horizon and I waited

But the world melted around me.


It meant me no harm

I was a stranger to the swells

And standing small before the darkness

I asked, “Why haven’t you heard me?”

The ocean smiled and I stood still

But the world leapt around me.


I fought a war inside my mind

And all the soldiers writhed in sweat

The battles long with rising smoke

Unseen and big but small

I sat instead of dying, marveling at the moon

And the world breathed around me.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Poem: Un/Forgiven

I have not forgiven my friend

And so the poison swells

Like maggots crawling through my veins

Stealing life

And trading it for

Death.


First one offense

And then the next

Like flames wrapping around tree trunks

Stripping a forest

And pulling it down to

Ash.


Condoning silence with justice

And building my case

Like piles of bones in a graveyard

Pricking the air with a stench

And freezing my senses in

Yesterday.


I am prolific in the art of litany–

Telling the song in repetitive stanzas

Like a clown using his flower

To squirt and squirt small children in the eyes

And leaving them

Blind.


Tall grows the wound

And consumes all my mind

Like a bomb detonating inside my heart

Melting what is soft

And drying as hard as

Stone.


“Forgive,” he said

And I laughed at his joke

Like an amused audience stuffing its face

With an excess of food and wine

And vomiting that which was meant to

Nourish.


“Release,” he whispered

And I wondered at his audacity

Like a rich man counting his money

In the secrecy of a vault

And finding the suggested cost

Exorbitant.


“Lay it down,” he sang

And I grew weary of his prodding

Like a woman being courted

With courage and desire

And in stubborn acceptance I

Trusted.


“Here it is,” I offered

And He lifted it from my arms

Like a father removing splinters

From the hands of his beloved boy

And the war that had frostbitten

So many years

Thawed

Into peace.


© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023

Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.

Poem: Moonlight We

The sun grows hours

Then burns them dry

Like

Tumbleweeds

Blow by the days

And we

The cattle drivers

Saddle the minutes

And ride them,

Guide them from atop

Their prickly backs.


The Sunlight We

Strap on our shoes

Tattered at the soles

To tread

A line

Publicly defined by

The rules of

Marketplace

And who the other

We’s expect us all

To be.


Astride atop

Rolling ticks and tocks

And traveling

Through noon time

Crowds of We

Is She—

An explorer whose eyes

Are lifted

Toward the sky

Inside a sea of eyes

Seeing same.


The busy pavement

Vibrates with progress

As defined

By hand held devices

That shine

In daytime rays

And ricochet

Blinding

The gaze

Of the masked We

Stumbling at a gallop’s pace.


But she—

She sees.


She sees what is real

In the moment defined

Not confined by

What she should

Why she ought or

Questioning

Why she would

She rides the time

And feels the warmth

Of the sun instead of

Using it for light.


Reflection of the sun can be seen everywhere.

Embracing now

A give and take

Of new and ideas

And what does it mean

She offers herself

To the questions

That rise

Dwells in the

Wonder

Of wandering

Free.


And he—

He sees.


Along the trail

Sprawling on every side

Is one—

A He—

Who rides his own

Tumbleweed time

Carrying boredom

Wrapped in

Discontent

Searching for what

Is relevant.


His eyes wide open

Heart behind a shield

He journeys

With a purpose

Gone cold

Like a campfire

Dwindling—

He rubs his hands together

Above reasons

That fail

To keep him warm.


Until the moment

Just one moment

He

Amidst a thousand eyes

Sees

She

The only she

In a sea of

We

Whose awareness

Pierces the shield of his own.

No words exchanged—

Not yet—

But the moment is frozen still

The sun holds its place

And reveals

Details of her face

As though

The opulent

Fiery star above

Is painting

Something new.


“Hello,”

Says she and

“Hello,”

Says he and the sea of

We begins to roar

Once again.

He asks,

“Can you travel

This way?

If only

Today?”


He smiles—

Not only his lips

But eyes brightly

Joining as

His hands begin to warm.

She accepts

His invitation,

“I will come

Your way

Let’s not delay

The sun will set into night.”


Two journeys become

One moonlight We

As the day stumbles

Behind the moon—

The moon that stops

The growth of time

Replacing stars

For minutes

And silence for sound

When all around

Disappears

Into a single

You.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023

Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.

Poem: The Reaching

If ever a UFO landed on your head—

“She thinks that's a weird question.

No UFO has!”

I wasn’t talking to you.

But to you . . .


Pretend one has.


What do you think it would feel like?

Imagine it.

Go on.

I will wait.


[A sparrow flies by]


I am not asking how heavy it is or

Cold or

Bumpy or

Smooth:

You could not really know such things

At all.

I am asking what you would feel like inside—

“She would feel like an idiot!”


But if it was really there . . . on your head—

“On her head? What is this ridiculous riddle?”


Okay not on your head, but over . . .


If you ran out of your home

With no where to go

Your hair was torn and

Bruises and

The smell of whiskey

And cigars

On your face—


If your shoes were untied

And you saw your mother cry

And you didn’t want to stay

One more second

In that place.


If the air was so cold

You could see your breath

Shooting into the night

Like a jet engine beginning a race

So you slowed your pace

And panted and heaved

And your knees buckle under you

With disgrace.


Let us pretend the aloneness

You feel—

“It’s just a feeling, she's not alone!”


But still . . .


Your aloneness is real

With no one to call

And if you turned back now

You would be thrown against a wall.

So despite your

Aloneness

You crawl

To safety and the blackest woods

You embrace.


If in that space

You held on tight to a

Branch you could reach

Or the neck of a deer

Or the paw of a bear

Until

At last

You saw glowing near

A rounded

Machine with light bulbs you could see

And a sound you could hear

Like a robot giving chase.


What would you think—

“She would think she was nuts!”


Okay, maybe. But . . .


Would you believe your eyes

Or think your sanity was disguised

In the brain of a woman

Otherwise apt?

If you could touch and

Feel

Would you believe it was real?

And what about smell?

If you could smell the exhaust

Coming from the pipe

And taste the metal on the

Wind of the night

And hear a voice shrieking,

“We come from someplace” . . .


If it landed and

A hand

Came out from within

Would you look at your fingers

And kiss them goodbye

In case after touching they never returned

But still reach them out

And touch the warmth

Of an unknown hand

Unrecognizable

And trust

Even before you could see his face?


You can answer now—

“She doesn't want to answer,

She thinks you’ve gone mad!”


But there is no madness in the question. It is only a question . . .


“Yes,” she said.

And continued on,

“If I knew I was alone

Even in a crowd

And the sky delivered a mystery

I would.

Reach out.

And be brought in.”


Thank you for your honesty—

“Thanks for nothing, you mean!”


But thank you for telling the truth.


With a pair of eyes

Belonging only to her

She looked at the man

With the question,

“I would.”


© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Poem: Order From Chaos

Long ago two young men drew a map of the sky

Laying on their backs, perhaps,

Like children in tents with holes in the tops

They counted and connected the stars.

 
Order from chaos was formed in their eyes

Squinting into darkness

Blinded not by light but by enormity

And mysteries invisibly connected.


They traced routes with their fingers, point A to B,

Like homemade kites pursuing the way

With windy anticipation and

Lines to find what was or was not connected.

 
As the men grew beards, their love of the sky

Fell to the earth and to pieces.

Shatters of themselves were given away

To money, ambition, and work: disconnected.


One of the two held hands with success

Palms sweaty together and traveling

With compass pointed away from the heavens

And down to notifications and contacts: connected?


The other man poured his life slowly

Like a cup spilling over his family—a wife and two kids—

He drained all he had, a deluge of hope

And then gurgled and gasped as the woman fled: disconnected.

 
Alone—surprised by aloneness—

The un-wifed man lifted the tips of his naked fingers to the sky.

Suspended in air his hand wished to feel

To touch, to reach, to caress, to connect.

 
No alien hand reached with fingers to intertwine

So the man looked down, instead.

A tear dripped from his eye and onto his future:

Two children—looking up from the ground—

Counting and connecting the stars.


© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2015

Poem: God of the Street

What if God was as close as

The domed ceiling of an antiquated church—

Walls lines with stained glass

Depictions of before and after

Christ invaded the story

The history of man

A broader narration

An epic

A comedy

A tragedy

A lineage of life and death

And birth and

Resurrection.


The grandiose nature of

The Alpha and Omega—

The beginning and the end—

Could not be contained

The stained glass rattles

The musty, dusty wood

That used to be trees stretching

Tall in majestic places

Now bowing to parishioners

Waiting for

Waiting for

The release of weight

When men and women

Stand to their feet

Applaud and proclaim

Praise to the One that lives

Beyond the dome—


Outside the temple erected

His focus directed on each one

Who walks the streets

Umbrellas and tissue

And glasses and backpacks

Catering to their earthly needs

All the while moving inside

An invisible song

Pervasive notes swirling

In the air

The breath of God in the wind

His playfulness in

The wings of fluttering birds

His rejuvenation in colorful promises

Of spring

His love in the eyes of those

Who hold hands

His peace in the frogs croaking

Their midnight serenades.


He whose visage

Hangs in the churches

Broke through the walls to

Walk side by side

No dome

No tomb

No misunderstanding

No doubt

No running


No running


Can hold the God of

Everywhere

Prostrate

To our wood and plaster and

Ornately

Drawn windows:

It is we whose frames are weak

It is we whose knees

Must bend

Whose heads must bow—

It is our shatters

Our shards that the

Incense picks up and carries

Into the atmosphere

Palpable with life

And into the nostrils of He

Who broke through the dome.


© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2016

Poem: Of Melody and of Moan

The sky is hot like leather

Brown and coating our skin

With beads surging into streams

Of sweat


In the distance

A lonely guitar throbs

Crooning refrains of love

And regret


We toil long and

Hum the oscillating songs

One by one to forget

The hour


Bugs sway back and forth

On blades of green

Tired and scorched by fever and

By life


Women tell stories

Laugh with heads thrown back

Simple versions of disaster pulsate in

Their smiles


Men with sinewy arms

Pull from the lazy earth

Swollen roots of sustenance and

Of dreams


Children thump the ground

Like ragtime drummers

Beating rhythms of play and

Far away


The musician strums andante

Caressing silvery strings releasing

Vibrations of melody and

Of moan.


© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023