Every man must
Understand the soul
Inside the body
He sees looking back
From the glass
The surface only—
Not enough—
It is the flow of
Significance
And love
Just below
That holds his All together:
Every woman too.
With oxygen rushing in
Carbon dioxide spilling out
Like a water fall
Urging the river to flow
The body,
Which holds the soul,
Is made new
Every moment of the day—
A heart receiving
Old blood and
Then rejuvenating—
But dying all the time:
Our flesh holds it in but
It does not stay.
When the frame
Which holds the true art
Inside
Receives an idol’s praise—
Achievement
Acceptance
Affluence and
Ability—
An idol’s pace becomes
The engine of a train
And chugs the smoke
Of more and
Further an
Aggrandizement
Of I or me and
Me and me
Echoing the words
He wishes he believed.
It is often
Imagined
That the head held highest
The chest that is full
The voice that charges into the room
Like a bull knocking
Hands together to
Produce his own
Applause
Deserves the loudest
Respect—
Oh no.
Instead . . .
It is the man
Who knows his soul—
The smudges of grey
The shadow applied
With a line of paint
Too thick
To hide—
Who scatters his Joy
When others
Have won and
Seeks the
Truth
Of his weakness
With no trace of Pride.
A lowering of the head—
Not to be served
But to serve—
Imbues the hues
Of the soul
With radiance
Passion
And, besides,
Brings peace and life
To his bones.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Tag: Poetry
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: 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: She Spoke Of Love
A moment before, floating in the sun
My love beside me
Warm and glowing
Her eyes ablaze with rays of light
Her darkness concealed in
Illumination.
A moment before, she spoke of love
My friend beside me
Kind and gentle
Her smile warmed but burned
Her face like wax
Melting.
I wanted to see my love through the brightness of stars
The universe brought low and waiting
Swirling about my hands and mind
Becoming one with all that breathes
And pants
And lives
And dies
A moment before, I removed my gloves
My fire beside me
Trembling and stiff
Her fingers felt but did not touch
Her hand in mine only
Embers.
A moment before, she swallowed words
My pain beside me
Inflamed and suffering
Her silence thickened in my throat
Her Nothing choked
Suffocating.
I wanted to see my love through the brightness of stars
The universe brought low and waiting
Wrapping my cold in warmth
Like a child crying
But hopeful
But calming
But safe
A moment before, the snow dropped down
My hope beside me
Present and vacant
Her ruffled dress covered with water
Her boots muddied with
Goodbye.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2015
The End Is In The First
The sun in parting crowns the west with flame, A fleeting splendor yielded to the shade; What morning gilded, dusk resumes in claim And proves how brief the glory light hath made. The season wanes, yet keeps its ancient round, Its end enscrolled where first its course was writ; What once lay lost in silence shall be found, For time recalls what hearts would fain omit. So doth the soul, when judgment draweth near, Discern within its close the selfsame strain; The first sweet note returns, though harsher, clear, And strikes with weight the mortal breast again. Each sunset speaks what day could not defend: The way a thing began holds fast its end. Jill Szoo Wilson, 10/25
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Sonnet: Lantern of the Withering Grove
Through slender branches shines the swollen star,
A lantern hung upon this midnight’s crest.
Its argent glow calls shadowed fields afar
To bow in prayer, by silver calm caressed.
The fading canopy, with colors frail,
Lets gilded light slip softly through the air.
Each trembling bough becomes a fragile veil,
That parts to show a vision rich and rare.
The orb ascends with majesty untamed,
While earth beneath lies weary, bare, and still.
Though time shall claim what autumn once had named,
The moon restores the world with tender will.
So beauty dwells where silence weaves its art,
And sows eternal wonder in the heart.
Jill Szoo Wilson, 10/25
I wrote this sonnet after gazing at the October supermoon, its light threading through thinning branches and the fading canopy of fall.
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Sonnet: The Tongue of Peace
What once was whole is splitting at the seam,
With roaring tongues that never find a word.
Each stands alone, entranced by their own dream,
While fear doth arm the gates with aim absurd.
The bridge between us withers into dust,
A chasm wide where voices fade to air.
Yet in our hearts still burns this ancient trust—
The longing for a hand extending ear.
But how to reach when dread hath drawn the line?
When walls are built of pride and weary doubt?
We stand as statues, yearning for a sign,
Yet know not how to call the silence out.
O break the curse—let all division cease,
For love still speaks the only tongue of peace.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
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
Jill Szoo Wilson 