necessary whispers

observe. connect. make new.


July 2017

Knowing Is the Only Knowing


She put her hands above her face—

Fingers long and slender—

Extended her neck so she could see

Behind the shadow and under the moonlight

As though a longer neck would help her eyes

To focus.



It is funny the things we do

When we want to


What is real.

We stand up taller

Use a cloth to clean our glasses

Rub our eyelids and

Open them wide.


We are the only animals

To do such things

And the only animals that


We have to make concessions.



He cupped his hands to the back of his ears—

Strands of hair got in the way—

Hid behind a tree so he could hear

The songs she sang to herself

As though his hands were gathering

The sound.



It is desperate the things we do

When we want to


What is real.

We bend at the waist

And strain our backs

We twist our necks and

Close our eyes to block out

The rest.

When we want to hear

A voice and

Presence of another

It is a choice.

We cannot rely on chance.



She lifted her nose toward the winter branches—

Her neck lay all the way back—

From inside the crook of an Oak

She could vaguely smell the cigar he smoked

The dampened mud rose to

Camouflage the scent.



It is urgent the things we do

When we want to


What is real.

We close our eyes

Soften our lips

Lift our nostrils

Like wisps of smoke

To conjure the

Air floating in invisible wafts

Around us

Brought down by

A spell wrought by the will

To discover the whole instead of a sliver.



He touched the soggy leaves under his shoes—

Buried his fingers all the way through—

To ask the earth if she was near

His fear was that he would not feel

Her footsteps

So he crawled until an indentation appeared.



It is passionate the things we do

When we want to


What is real.

We bend our knees

Put our faces to the ground

Cover the backs of our heads

With our hands

And roll our bodies down

As low as we

Can go

Because the

Earth will tell the truth

About how to lay ourselves low.



She kissed the back of his head—

He was kneeling in the mud—

Told him without words

That he was found

And to the ground

She sank beside him.



It is magnificent the things we do

When we want to


What is real.

We open our mouths

Let the edge of our


Invite the textures

And the taste

The sweet

The sour

The bitter

The salt—

Nourished by the whole.



For a moment each of them broke

Like a glass

And their senses spilled

On the ground

Gravity let them fall around—

Sight and hearing,


Touch and


No longer necessary

Because when a thing is real

Knowing is the only knowing.


copyright Jill Szoo Wilson

Photo Credit: This poem was inspired by a sculpture created by German artist Isabell Kamp.  The sculpture is entitled, Past d.  If you would like to see more of her work, please visit her Facebook page and/or website: Isabella Facebook Page ,Isabell’s Website





Standing in the sand

Of a deserted land

Where rockiness below

Contrasts with the

Smooth and

Even flow

Of clouds rolling by

And away




A kind of dread

In the mind

Where space and a little bit

Of time

Roll around like a dime

Dropped and alive

On the floor.



But the sand

In my hand:

A proof

That hourglass shapes

And the space they hold

Give way to

Entrances and exits—

Still the sun is heat

The moon is a signal

Of what has been done

Of what will come

In the form of a morning

Made new.



But the sand

Fills my hand:

And I laugh

Crunching down

Grit clasping

The sides of my tongue,


The sloughing off of

Dust from the feet of travelers

The dirt from thousands of years

Wet with tears

But still I laugh

Because the road has been lost

As I steady my fingers

Counting the cost

While sand falls all the way through.



People will come

People will slide

The same way—


They came:

Like births

Like death,

With mutiny burrowing sand crabs

In the hearts of those who nurture—

Whether they come to comfort or torture—

The sand will gather them up

The wind will cover their tracks:

Raindrops shy with tears of their own

Will moan into the desert

And erase the path

No looking back

Only forward

Filled with every direction

To go.



It is good

To burn

Pinned ‘neath scorching heat—


Good to stand

Find balance in your feet—


And to walk from the place

Where your name was written

In the sand and

Good to remember

The spot

Where your finger dug the trail

Between teeth-bitten nails

Hopes and betrayals

In the desert






Jill Szoo Wilson

Photo Credit: The intriguing and beautiful photo featured with this piece is by the photographer Jo Fischer.  His photography inspires me to ask questions about the people and places he captures . . . and sometimes simply to feel.  If you would like to view more of his fine work, please visit his website and/or his Facebook page :Jo Fischer’s Website , Jo Fischer on Facebook


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