Resurrection...

...by Jim Bronyaur & Laura Ebohon

(final day of feature week!)

(Jim Bronyaur)

…do they come back?


Inked letters –

hacked to paper

what story do they carry… tell…

Does a softer ground mean more

- than a frozen one?

Is it a misty thought

(or spirit)

That comes…

A soft touch on the back of your neck

or the lost wandering up a cement drive…

I’m back. I’m here. I’m ready.

(Laura Ebohon)

Layers of tainted skin


like gathered fabric

pleated by time into ruffles of sin,

where guilt slowly infiltrated

subtle, endless needles

sewing yarn of sorrow and regrets...

Fragile conscience,

Blind to the spiritual nature

of forgiveness,

Holy gift of departing memories from pain

Looking for the guidance of divine power

holding on to the belief that beyond Life

on the other side of these walls of Time,

over the bridge of Death,

under these dark tunnels of crimes,

through the maze of convictions,

there are eternal flames of Love,

and the possibility of Salvation...

In an ethereal journey back to Life

running through green fields of peace

swimming in calm seas of wonder

passing by streets of celestial calm

where we talk without words

we see the invisible

we breath eternity

In the screaming light of Resurrection!

Life...

...by Jim Bronyaur

(part 4 of 5 of feature week with Laura Ebohon)

Awake!


Begin!

(to understand all that will remain unknown).

The time has started…

(it’s also losing breath by breath –

and someday you’ll learn to appreciate that –

once you get closer to that last one…)

Yes, the blood may be existed

but it’s the celebration of innocence.

(and innocent).

It’s the fresh eyes of the “new” –

those too (two) are in such a way given life.

(again).

The sounds outside –

and inside –

they all add up to something greater than we can ever understand.

Like the changing winds that push and pull seasons

Like the rolling clouds bringing picture and thunder

Like the other skies… long fingers spin and big eyes mean.

But this… only this… just this…

This… this is life.

Death...

...by Jim Bronyaur
(part 2 of 5 of feature week w/ Laura Ebohon)

It’s been a good run…


As if bubbly rusted holes tear flesh away

As if the engine won’t start –

and all the little pieces break and shatter.

When the passing time deals its final winning hand

you aren’t the only one with fuzzy eyes…

but you do get the answer to the biggest mystery…

(what’s next?)

I can only imagine how feeble the feeling of failing must be –

to know IT’s coming… any second…

(breath in, breath out, breath in, breath…)

There is the trickster lurking –

the more evil hands of the clock

(the ones rubbing together –

creating sweat in the small lines of the hands –

as they reach for your neck…)

It happens more than you think.

(but so does good things…)

It happens more than you have ever thought about.

(it does.)

There will be a last good morning

There will be a last good night

There will be a last bloomed flower

- a last kiss

- a last moment you will never have back

I don’t make the rules.

I can only follow.

I am the piece of paper in the wind.

I am the autumn leaf that makes it through winter.

I am the blade of grass that will not be cut.

But no matter what I am or what I try

(or you)

Everything will end. Yes –

it will.

Implosion

by
Jim Bronyaur / Laura Mercurio Ebohon

It was easy to fall




harder to realize it!



It all happened



at the center of those days



where time was a side matter



planning



strategic demolition



of these walls



brick by brick



layer by layer



a gravitational collapse



an implosion of senses



crashing stars in our sky



What is left now of all that noise?



broken pieces



without color



without texture



thin and fragile



like leaves in the autumn wind



they make no sound



floating restless



holding hope



of touching the ground

________
rusted rumble



chasing the time.



Each word –



another shot



another chip off a broken heart.







Stained glass eyes



distort the truth.



A one sided, endless cycle of love.



The love disguised for



Want.



Need.



Touch.



Taste. . .







The warm breath on your neck –



feels greater than the cold winter breeze.



The punch of reality.



The shadow that passes with the day.



A soft touch on your cheek –



feels greater than a bitter winter smack.



The punch of reality.



The shadow that passes with the day.







Can you catch your breath as if races from you?



Can you follow the sound of your own footsteps?







The door.



The entrance.



The life.



The words.



The heart.



The handle is so cold outside. . .



but inside. . .



inside is warm. . .



everything falls inside.

Explosion

by
Jim Bronyaur

What's left -

the world behind

Signalling seasons

a broken traffic light

Sending souls crashing

at intersections hung

between now and death.

The faded treeline shades

to brown

The high mountains sink -

just a little.

Popping glass dances around

titled signs point all ways

all ways to the heart

always to the heart

an explosion

feel.

Descend

by
Jim Bronyaur

Watching as the falling
the calling

they come.

Bringing they spread

they become

all okay.

Secrets the world can't know

can't believe

it's real.

The sorry and the sorrow

the sadness

the sound.

Creaking to the wet

the dark

one last kiss.

Destiny

by
Jim Bronyaur

 For I am the creator of destiny


My weathered hands tear apart on cracked grounds

they tear apart on beat up hearts

(why is fate such a cruel beast?)

The crossroads you face

The time you spend looking and waiting for

(the sign)

Why, my dearest life,

that time is wasted

the sign is held deep within.

deep within a place of existent

(that is often left behind)

The place (you may ask) is not one of fortune.

not one of greed.

not one of lust.

not even on of hope.

But of life.

But of yourself.

But of your heart.

All within your destiny…

The destiny I create

And hand to you with the care

while my scars bleed to show that time is real.

Labyrinth

by
Jim Wisneski

I sit more lonely
then the tomb of the unknown soldier,
reflecting on my life.
I close my eyes to hide from the world,
and I get lost,
in my minds cryptic labyrinth.

The intense atmosphere
wraps its somber arms around me.
It’s filled with creatures,
living in unison.
I’m confused,
like a child lost in a murky forest,
with the sullen trees glooming down.

I soon find a bright spotted a flower,
and I thirst its sweet nectar.
I drink as if it were my last drink,
my last peril into the illusion of life,
as to never wake again.

I then sit on an old,
rotted, brown tree stump,
and I absorb the cool, crisp air.
I discuss with nature, life,
but she quietly smiles,
and drifts away.

Then I am greeted by a foreign lizard woman,
with gold eyes,
and skin of a lime.
I begin to trouble the young luscious creature,
with many questions,
my life.
And I soon begin to realize that only I,
a pawn of life,
could answer these questions.
She finally speaks,
and guides me back home,
to reality.
I hate to leave,
as much as a child hates to leave
their playground at dusk.

I open my weary eyes,
still lonely,
and I smile. . .
for I am the victor,
of the labyrinth of life.

Breathing

by
Jim Bronyaur

A fragile wind
The feel of your name
As it rushes into my ear.
To my heart.
Carrying a fading sky on my back
I pull the horizon to you
I pull the weak and the missing
So you can heal them with a glance.
The one that made me float.
As you look beyond what it is
What do you see?
Can you come through all that shouldn’t -
To live and be as you are?
Without it. Without everything.
I cannot be.
I just cannot be.

Hangin'

by Jim Wisneski

Time Stands Still

by Jim Wisneski They greeted me with smiles – I with regret. I felt the soft touch on my cheek- Welcomed her future. The line appeared endless- Reflections growing darker (seemingly meaner) A thousand wounds bleeding from me- As I deserved. They all shared the same- As I. The color of their eyes- Their hair so… (how can they be happy?) More they come- The more I began to realize. All actions serve purpose- As time stands still.

A very good reason...

Yes, the site is backed up just a little. BUT, there's a good reason... on Sunday at 10:29am, my wife and I welcomed our second son, Chase Adler Wisneski, into the world.

Things will be back to normal around Soft Whispers within the next week... I promise... but until then... meet Chase (with Daddy)!

Spring-o-Ween

by Jim Wisneski / Derian Wisneski

USA

by Jim Wisneski

Mix

by

Derian Wisneski / Jim Wisneski

Trial. And Error.

by Jim Wisneski So worthless and broken a futile experience… Do all feel this cheated? Perhaps a turn of the clock. yes but how to measure the turn of the paper or the turn of the world, life, generations gap. Everything that was held spoken in tongues in a home voicenow just rustles against the air we breathe. Still strangers who once had names all the apologies sorted on the table... close your eyes and pick one – any one – just don’t tell for the sake of stepping back to go forward just seems plagued… like thrusting dreams into a star filled night sky. And then counting them. When innocence comes along. It’s taken away. Originally published on Jim's short story/poetry site Trial. And Error.

Left Over

By Jim Wisneski

Them Shoes

by Jim Wisneski "They're back," the small voiced echoed through the small room. Sheriff G remained still, looking out the yellow stained glass window as a small group of cars lined up at a red light. He felt a shot of jealousy burn through his veins as he wanted to be one of the innocent people sitting in their car, tapping the steering wheel to some song. His hidden secret of "murderer" was killing him on the inside, and now because of the damn kid's shoes, it might have been trying to kill him on the outside. "Sheriff?" the voice echoed. Sheriff G raised a hand to acknowledge the words. He had run out of excuses and ideas. This was the third time just this month (only being the 12th) that the shoes came back. By now the local newspapers had already contacted the big city papers with the story - whoever told it first and best would get their shot at working for a "real" newspaper; not just some shit town paper where the headline is "Mrs. Mongulstine turned 100!". "Do we move 'em?" the voice asked. Sheriff G turned slowly in his creaky chair. "Leave 'em this time. Chase everyone away. Tell 'em my orders. Tell 'em I have called in a special f'rensic team to check things out. You know the drill Pete's, let's shake a goddamned leg here and move on." Pete's tipped his hand and left. To Sheriff G, through the power of replay and denial, the murder was turning into an accident every time he played it in his mind. There was the boat. Himself. The kid. The kid that snooped and found Sheriff G's pill bottles hidden in his desk drawers. But that didn't matter though. That wasn't why they were on the boat. They were there to fish. Relax. There was only one fishing pole. But that was because Sheriff G wanted the kid to fish. The kids hands were tied behind his back. It was night out. But that's okay though, night fishing is great. But his hands were tied behind his hand. But that's okay. . . night fishing is great. Then the kid slipped. Yup, he slipped. Right off the boat. Yup. Into the water. See, Sheriff G sped away to find help. That's all. He wanted to help the kid. But then he somehow forgot all about the kid. . . screaming as water filled his mouth. . . Sheriff G slammed his hand off his desk. All the thoughts vanished. The kid was reported missing. Sheriff G oversaw the investigation and kept everything clean. Clear. There was never any finger pointing, no. Just good 'ol detective work that suggested the kid ran off. Prolly to the big city ma'am, Sheriff G had told the kids mother. Then his shoes showed up on the shore. Just there. Pointing towards the water. All that did was give hope to everyone that the kid was still around. Sheriff G took the shoes and burned them. To ash. But they came back again. That time he burned them to ash again and again and again until there was nothing left. "Now they're back again," Sheriff G whispered. He opened his top drawer and took out a pill bottle. His little white friends would make the demons go away. Sheriff G closed his eyes and put the pills in his mouth. Their bitter taste had become welcomed. As he swallowed them, he heard the sound of water sloshing against the floor. Sheriff G jumped and mashed pieces of his pills dribbled on his lips as he saw the kid standing in the doorway. "Still eatin' 'em, huh?" the kid said as water poured out of his mouth like a broken faucet. He leaned in the doorway with soggy clothes and a wrinkled, purplish face. A few stringy pieces of seaweed hung from the kid's head and shoulders. Sheriff G reached for his gun and held it out. The kid laughed. "There ain't nothin' left of me. You ain't gon' shoot me." Sheriff G blinked and the kid was now standing at his desk. He placed his hands on it and leaned forward. Water dripped onto the paperwork on Sheriff G's desk. His eyes watched as the papers absorbed the water. This is real, he thought as the kid opened his mouth. A tiny white crab climbed out of the kid's mouth and fell onto the desk. "Pretty cool, huh? When you’re swimming with the fishes, there's not much to do." Sheriff G dropped the gun to his desk and blessed himself. "The water dissolved the rope enough so my hands got free." The kid grabbed Sheriff G by his shirt and pulled him forward. He touched his cold, wet nose to the Sheriff's and then smiled. "I'm sorry," Sheriff G whispered. "This job and town is all I've got. If you told them about the pills. . ." The kid pushed Sheriff G back into his chair and started to laugh. "I just came for my shoes," the kid said as his eyes turned white to black. "But since we're on the subject about your pills. . ." The kid stepped around the desk. He opened the drawer and with one hand held Sheriff G's throat so his mouth was open and with the other poured all the pills into the Sheriff's mouth. . . "Suicide?" the Deputy asked. "Has to be. Why would he take so many damn pills?" "It's because of those damn shoes comin' back." "The shoes? What, did he think it was a ghost er somethin'?" "Maybe," the Deputy said closing Sheriff G's eyes with his fingers. "Man, why the hell is his desk soaked? And look at the floor. And, hey, is that a crab over there?"

Blizzard

by Jim Wisneski

Time Fly

by Jim Wisneski