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necessary whispers

observe. connect. make new.

Month

March 2016

I And The Hero

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The roots of my soul

Are buried

Below

Where mud dances

With worms—

Waltzing

With the earth

The unseen of

Who I am

Spreading

In all directions

Nourished by sunlight

Above.

 

 

A forest of mysteries

Where wild things hide

In every level

The topography

Of past

Present and

Future reside together

Making peace of

The chaos

Dissonant sound

Beating rhythm

From the top—

Down.

 

 

What you see with your

Eyes

Cannot be disguised

As a seed

Cannot betray

Its bloom—

What was planted

Now grows

Amidst the rain and

The snow but also

The spring and the summer

Undergrowth and

Over—

 

 

From the tops of the trees

I watch

Through eyes

Filled with

Fire

And a heart

Burning the cold

With hope

That—maybe—you

Wearing the gear

Fashioned for a Pioneer are

Worthy of the journey

Inside.

 

 

A hero

Stands

At the edge of the wood—

You—

Whose strength is fashioned

In humility

Whose bravery

Is gentle courage

Like a storm

Thundering

Releasing only

Quiet rain—

Falling.

 

 

“Unfold me,” I whisper—

Fluttering words

Carried by the

Cluttered air

To the ears of

One—

 

You

 

Who

Does not flatten

The forest

But sees the

Beauty between the

Weeds.

 

 

Beneath your feet

Muddied

Dancing roots

You lift

Like a gardener

Tending

All that lives

Inside the Waltz

And under the surface

A partner

Worthy

Of all that is buried and

Hides.

 

copyright Jill Szoo Wilson

(Photo credit: This poem was inspired by Boje Arndt Kiesiel’s piece, The Forest Edge. http://www.kiesiel.com)

A Man Lay Dying

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(Photo credit: This poem was inspired by German artist Boje Arndt Kiesiel’s piece, “The Ultraviolett III.  http://www.kiesiel.com)

 

A man lay dying in a field

Between blades of grass

Panting

A dog with no water

Searching for air

Not to be found.

 

 

In the quiet of the night

Where darkness

Falls

And fills the earth

Flowing over into

Crevices deep and wide.

 

 

He wondered at the sky

The reasons why

Seemed now to

Mean the most—

There was nothing left

To boast.

 

 

Emptied of the fight

His limbs now

Dreamed of flight

Wrists facing upward

The softness of his skin

Receiving midnight dew.

 

 

 

Fluttering eyelashes

Butterfly wings

Above his blue

Whispered memories

When hope was fresh

A fruit filled with sweet.

 

 

A sound in the sky

The wings opened wide

Staring

But not seeing

Hearing

He began to listen.

 

 

A breeze

Like mystery

Rolled in

A wave in the expanse

With surfing stars

A cosmic dance—

 

 

His limbs began to sway

Cradled by

Beauty

Far away

Above and close

Surrounding.

 

 

His heaving stilled

Focus tore free from

His breathlessness

To oxygen

Pouring down like

Honey.

 

 

Water leapt from his

Heart

Flooded his blue

And nourished

His soul and

The grass.

 

 

A release on the ground

A release up above

Two powers

Surging

Electricity between

The earth and the sky.

 

 

A man lay dying in a field

Until

He decided

Not

To

Die.

 

 

Instead, he laughed

He writhed in

The pain

And howled at the

Stains of grass

On his pants.

 

 

When laughing ceased

The loss and the

Pain and the

Breathless grief

Turned into smoke and

Flew into the clouds.

 

 

Mystery swirled

Like a ghost swinging

From the moon—

The living man stood

Said goodbye to the end

And hello to the new.

 

copyright Jill Szoo Wilson

Breaking Through

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(Photo credit: This poem was inspired by German painter Boje Arndt Kiesiel‘s piece, “The Turmoil.” http://www.kiesiel.com/index.html)

 

In the warmth of her

Feathers

The chicken

Inside the egg

Grows confident

Of his mother’s love—

Gentle

Constant

Protective

Safety.

 

When the moment

Leaps

Into his life

The time to

See the world

The chicken

Pushes

Stretches against

His

Shelter.

 

His mother watches

As he rolls

From side to side

He bends his back

He feels a

Crack

Weakness finds

Strength

In the struggle to

Progress.

 

If she

Aided he

Out of agony as a witness

To his fight—

If she set free

The chicken

From the egg

The he inside

Would fail to

Thrive.

 

And so she waits

She knows his fate

Her boy must

Gain his strength

In the tension

Between safety and

Risk

The ability to kick

His way into new

Life.

 

So it is

With the butterfly

Too

At first a cocoon

Wrapped tight in

A single room

Where nutrients

Seep through

Where patience feeds

Growth.

 

Unwrapped into sunshine

The caterpillar wakes

Yawns into light

And shakes

Off her skin-

New journey

To begin

On her way to

Becoming a

Butterfly.

 

As nature shows

So we follow

The paths—

Some that we chose

Others we cannot know

We stumble along the way

We expand from

Day to day

Until the time we too

Emerge.

 

copyright Jill Szoo Wilson

And She Flew

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(Photo credit: This poem was inspired by German artist Boje Arndt Kiesiel’s piece, “The Flight.”  http://www.kiesiel.com)

 

Currents of wind

Currently grasping blue

From the sky

Mixing colors

Translucent white

Floating by

In puffs

Like smoke

But water

Cascading

Masquerading

As clouds and floating down

To rest upon the

Ocean’s top

Atop the undercurrents

Pulling dark and light

Together

In a haze

Under the phase

Of the moon

Where fullness

Steers the darkness

Away from the light.

 

 

At night the sense of

Flight

Alights

In dreams and hopes

A knotted rope

Hangs from the stars

And swings

As she sings

Like a bird

Whose song is sung

Carelessly

Without the thought

Of sharing she

Calls into the night

Fills it full

From empty

To bright

And falls into

The space where

Downwind caresses

Upwind drafts and

Buoyancy calls her

Higher still.

 

 

As humming birds swing

Creatures below

Sting

With venom trapped

Inside teeth

Bloody with ensnares

And repeats

Of stories told

Through dusty mold

Black with lies

Whispered inside by

Unscrupulous spies

Who feed on the souls

Who fill the roles

Like actors

Paid to play the part

Impotent to impart

Transparency

That could reach

The heart

And open—

No—

Unfold like an art.

 

 

The ones below

Whose wings are

Clipped

Hatched a scheme

Narrow as a

Tightrope or a

Balance beam

A trap

Set with bait

And they

Sat in wait

Inside a box

Designed to portray

The only way

Into hope

From hopelessness

To pull her down

To steal her crown

A crucible

Of fire

Inside cardboard folds

Where stories

Cease to be told.

 

 

She flapped her wings

Tilted her head

Toward the earth

Wondered and then

Wandered

Through the expanse

Where freedom

Takes its chance

On little birds

Such as she

She caught a breeze

Saw her reflection

In the sea

Caught a glimpse

Of her worth and

Floated down

To the cardboard flaps

Of the box

The dark ones

Formed

Like worms

The kind of worms

Eaten by birds.

 

 

It looked easy enough

Fold the second flap

Then the first

And follow the

Way

They had planned

To be banned

From the sky

From the “breeze”

Floating by

The warmth of the sun

The summertime fun

And the spring

That would

Enchant her

Like a lover

Enhance her

With colors

Vibrant

Breathing

Beating

With life to

Romance her.

 

 

“No,” she thought

And then

“No,” she spoke

The comfort of

That dark

Is stark

In comparison—

The safety of that

Space

Is waste

When adventures await

To elate

To resuscitate—

The quiet of that place

Is peace but for

An hour

Disguised as sweet

Filled with sour—

She was tempted

But rejected

The dark

And she flew and

She flew.

 

copyright Jill Szoo Wilson

 

 

 

A Poem: Dancing Pain

 

 

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(Photo credit: This sculpture was created by Irish artist, Kevin Francis Gray.  It is called Ballerina and a Boy.)

 

“Dance in the pain,” she said

And she meant it

Although no one could know

How to dance with a

Broken leg

Cut at the knee

With no foot attached

And bleeding a

Puddle

Below.

 

“Dance with the pain,” she smiled

A flip of her hair and

A casual blinking of

Her eyes

Signaled crossing—

Like a light at the corner

Of heartbreak and healing—

Into a sighing against

A dying inside of

Loss.

 

“Dance on the pain,” she whispered

Her hand resting on

My cheek

I could feel the breeze

Of her breath

Tousle my hair

Blow a hurricane

Through my mind and

All my contents

Spun.

 

“What does it mean?” I lamented

The what not important as the

“When?”

But the when was too

Hot

Boiling in the kettle

Of my mind

On fire and shaking

Frenetic bubbles of

Thought.

 

“What does it mean?” she squinted

Then she rubbed her eyes

And stared like

Moonlight

Blue and cold—

A story told in shadows

More than white

She sat on a throne called

Grief

Silent.

 

Her flesh turned to marble

While her soul chiseled

The mound

Each pound fallen

To the ground

Made the sound of

Hollow drums of regret

A beating rhythm

Of hardened, dropping

Façade.

 

“I asked about dancing,” I pushed

“You asked about pain,” she pulled

Both of us right

We ended the fight—

One statue, shining

And one man, pining

For the map and

Heavy with fear of

Two left feet and no

Partner.

 

Her stony eyes filled with tears

She chiseled a smile

Held a book of her years

The woman

Once a square

Now round with edges soft

Curving in and then out

Stood amidst

The pebbles and dust of the

Past.

 

I took her hand of stone

It melted

Dripped down like a puddle into my own

My fingers held the small of her back

A song floated down

From the clouds

And the when and the why

Met in the space between us

Where pain and love

Dance.

 

copyright Jill Szoo Wilson

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