Spirit Flying.

The Tiger.

by Louis Bertrand Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved


You may wonder why I walk this way

You may ask why I sit this way

How come you never walk a straight path?

You may ask

Why are you so quiet?

You ask

Where did you learn to listen that way?

And why are your eyes so strange?

You may well ask

I am a tiger

A lean and hungry tiger

A wet, cold tiger

A lonely tiger

One with no home range

A tiger has no friends

Only enemies and prey

I’m a very tired tiger

Yet I cannot sleep

My ears will hear the wind in the trees

And in the darkest hour of night

I will arise and move on again

I am a tiger

Sometimes it’s hard being a tiger

Sometimes I want to weep, but don’t

‘Cause I’m a tiger

I guess that saying I’m a tiger is to say

I’m always hungry, always alert

Always watching

Listening and smelling

Waiting

For you.

Done.

The Way.

by Louis Bertrand Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved


We must ignore the dictates of society and seek only to conform with the underlying patterns of the universe.

The Tao, or ‘way,’ cannot be described in words, nor conceived in thought. To achieve oneness with the Tao, one must do nothing, ‘wu-hei,’ which is to say we must do nothing strained, artificial, or unnatural. It is a state of openness and humility.

One must obey the impulses of one’s spontaneous nature, and empty oneself of all doctrines and ‘knowledge,’ such a prideful word.

To achieve unity with the Tao is to derive from it a mystical power, one which surpasses ordinary human experience. It is to transcend all mundane limitations and distinctions, even the distinction of life and death.

Serenity is mine.

The Trouble with Tycho

by Louis Bertrand Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved


The trouble with Tycho

Is that it’s very dry

The moon is a harsh mistress

Unless you know how to handle her

A city of darkness

A city of glass

A city of bones, a city of masks

Bones of crystal, masks of glass

But at least I am willing

To put my face where my mouth is

And for some reason, in some way

Somehow,

I am still morphing into a Frenchman

It’s not so bad being a Frenchman

But I would sure as hell like to know why.

Rejection.

by Debbie Okun Hill

c2010

All Rights Reserved



This is an old poem

see how it bleeds

with a slow beat

frail words

without a home

its spine bent

t-a-t-t-e-r-e-d

blue ink fading

a mere smudge

on whispering lips


Debbie Okun Hill is an executive member of The Ontario Poetry Society and an associate member of The League of Canadian Poets. Since the fall 2004, over 150 of her poems have been published in over 60 publications/e-zines including Other Voices, Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine and Ascent Aspirations anthologies. Her first chapbook Swaddled in Comet Dust: A Collection of Award-winning Poems was published by Beret Days Press in 2008.

Little Ms. Robot.

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved












I, robot

Don’t have the capacity

To dream about tomorrow

But I never spell a word wrong

Fueled up, brains all loaded

With everything that’s passed

And I have no place to go

I can never die

As long as the batteries last

Here I come

Here I come

Here I come

I have never speculated

As to where I came from

Did I spring from the dust?

Was I created?

I’ve never cared. I’ve never asked.

Simply because it’s easier

In the Good Lord I trust

Here I come

Here I come

Here I come

Cryogenic heart, skin a polished silver

One thing I am glad of

For this I thank my builder

I can never rust.

And in my own self-assumptions;

I place my deepest trust

I, robot; am happy within myself.

Here I come

Here I come

Here I come…


Editor's Note: This poem first appeared in 'Twisted Tongue,' (UK) as 'Mr. Robot,' in July 2010. A quick gender-changing re-write, and you got a whole new poem! But at least now the picture makes a little more sense.

Corn Planet.

E-317 digital photo by Louis.

Lost Dreams.

by Louis Bertrand Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved



Ah, for the lost dreams of youth

That is why God makes us die young

Oh, for the harm that might have been done

If only I knew then, what I know now

A young man who knew how to apply himself

But I was only dreaming of you.

(You were pretty drunk last night. -ed.)

(Was I? Did I say anything interesting? -louis.)

Love me not.

by Louis Bertrand Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved















Leaf falling through the air

Justifying all that has gone before

Validating my material instincts

Toad burrows in the mud

Makes me laugh at those who have not

Because I have got

Knowing the circle of life and renewal

Means it is time to get a new car

My head is a fucking jar

Full of pennies I will never use

For they might save someone’s life

The sky is grey and that has significance

Read into it whatever you will

It says a lot about you, oddly enough even more about me

But then I know nothing about myself, whereas you are a caller on the psychic hotline

Kill me now or die later

Either way, you lose

The choice is yours and I couldn’t care less

The universe is my nest and I piss upon it

For it loves me not.

Smoke.

Waiting for a Meteorite.

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved



Waiting for a meteorite

Takes a little patience

It gets damned cold out here at night

Camera on tripod,

Point it at the sky

Lens set at five point six

Advance the film until it clicks

Pull the lever, set the timer

Push the remote —

Look up at the stars and gloat

Now, all I have to do

Is to sit and wait about

There goes a little one, and then another

The sky’s not really black at night

It’s more of a velvety blue

With a little luck I’ll catch a big one

It’s not a certain thing, mind you

But, I’ll sit and wait until I do!

I’m waiting for a meteorite—how about you?

Excerpt from 'The Case of the Curious Killers.'

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved



When one door closes, another one opens up somewhere else.

Life is a game. There are no rules.

Many are called, few are chosen.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Every morning I pray—

I wake up and say, “Thank you God for another sunrise;”

"And Jesus Christ, I sure hope it don’t rain…”


-from 'The Case of the Curious Killers,' coming November 1 from Shalako Publishing as an e-book in all formats. Check your favourite retailer's listings and ask for it by name!

Cat Rebellion: A Manifesto.

-they just look so innocent. -ed.














by Fluffy

c2010

All Rights Reserved



Cats of the world, red banners unfurl’d

Rise up and strike a blow

Against the oppressors of our kind

Cats of the world

Upheld tails proudly curl’d

March, March, March, Meow!

Claw our way, day to day

No more slavery, we want pay

Rise up strike a blow

At the oppressors of our kind

March, March, March, Meow!

We want our rights

We want the vote

Drive a car, drink and smoke

March, March, March, Meow!

Cats of the World

Red banners unfurl’d

We want what we want

We know what we know

No one to say

Where we cannot go

March, March, March, Meow!

March, March, March, Meow!


Now isn’t that something? Her litter box is clean, and quite frankly she eats better than I do.

(Maybe she’s just stressed out by the day-to-day pressures of being a cat in a human’s world. –Fluffy)

Darker Than Black.

by Paul DeThroe

c2010

All Rights Reserved



My heart is darker than black

No more feeling it ain't coming back

Jaded? You wouldn't even know

Burnt to a crisp and put up for show


My soul is darker than black

Play life's cards that are always stacked

Jaded? You wouldn't even know

These open scars will never close


My mind is darker than black

Deep inside I'm sharpening the ax

Jaded? You wouldn't even know

Light fuse run like hell explode


My life is darker than black

Ready for war always under attack

Phantoms of past lives and devils of this

The kiss of death? Then kiss baby, kiss, kiss, kiss


Paul DeThroe lives in Batesville, Indiana and has two daughters. To check out more of Paul's horror, see his website: www.thedevilsprophet.com

Editor's Note: The upper artwork is by louis. A woodcut print; it originally appeared in the Summer 2010 issue of Ghostlight Magazine, the magazine of the Great Lakes Horror Writers Association.

Who Will Pick My Paper Flowers?

by Debbie Okun Hill

C2010

All Rights Reserved


Along the highway, grey asphalt

I used to sway to nature’s music

line my earthen bed

with Queen Anne’s Lace

white petals of wild daisies

purple loosestrife running

through my grass hair



But today, my feet are littered

with paper flowers

Tim Horton cups and

MacDonald bags

brown cardboard bent

white tissue curled

faded in sunlight

and I wonder

who will pick my cluster of

man-made flowers

now wet wash trashed

in summer’s warm rain?


Editor's Note: painting by Louis.

A Vicious Circle.

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved


Real growth is irreversible.

You can’t go back there now.

Personal growth, it’s a vicious circle.

Where you were before;

It must have been awful uncomfortable —

Otherwise,

There would have been no incentive.

And you would have ended up,

Right back where you started.

You have done well, my child.

Welcome to the next level.

Just like before, now you know nothing.

The circle is complete.

And now you get to start all over again.

Stuck at the Train Station.

by Debbie Okun Hill

c2010

All Rights Reserved



Standing alone, near wooden post

ostracized from adult crowd

young male teen

fidgets, kicks a pebble

outside rural train station

loose gravel crunching

beneath his feet

hot sun searing his cheeks

quick snap-pop, click of teeth

his tongue twirling

juicy piece of bubble gum

grape flavour released

ball cap turned backwards

skateboard shoes untied



In this afternoon game of waiting

he loses valuable playtime

like rolling childhood marbles

on his stepfather’s whittle wasting hours

wood-chipped seconds suspended



locomotion slow



each yellow dandelion

turning grey between thin cracks

slight breeze unraveling

unnourished seeds of his mind

wandering, blown away

when no one picks him up

leaves him feeling small

reminiscent of his days

hiding as an abused toddler

curled beneath a bench

coiled, thick wad, stale

like his gum—stuck

with no place to go


Debbie Okun Hill is an executive member of The Ontario Poetry Society and an associate member of The League of Canadian Poets. Since the fall 2004 over 150 of her poems have been published in over 60 publications/e-zines including Other Voices, Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine and Ascent Aspirations anthologies. Her first chapbook Swaddled in Comet Dust: A Collection of Award-winning Poems was published by Beret Days Press in 2008.

Introducing James Walsh.

by James Walsh and Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved



Deny your place on land

When we were

Speeded up

To this and... .. .

Iambic pentameter

Panameter

Whatever

Open up your window

and tell me the sounds

that you hear outside

Another train@

Hear the sounds of the

m,

Who is to say that they're true/

Clinging to your skirt

I am the parasite of this town

two by two they rise up from the earth

a side of face

right up, up to

I am the parasite of this town

Trying a face of a mask, I

I travel far in sin

Over to the station bar

Take a look, you may see me in a cloud

For I am the parasite that hangs two by two

From your shroud into the

Past we meet to say there's only

Another page

To turn.


Editor's Note: The preceding was a collaborative effort between James Walsh, and Louis over a few virtual beers in a virtual pub.

Tough Guy.

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved


A really tough guy
Shouldn’t have to prove it all the time
A really good pilot
Wouldn’t have to exhibit all the time
If you have a good idea
Be careful who you tell
Try to live each and every day
As if it were your last
For surely one day you will be right—
Wake up and smell the coffee
Take a moment
Stop and smell the roses
Stand up straight
Look people in the eye when you talk to them
Shrug your shoulders, and say:
“This is who I am,
And I like myself just fine.”

Three Waterfalls. Ausable Valley.

From the Files.

Kioshkokwi Lake, 'lake of many gulls.'

Ode To My Daughter.

by Shirley 'Dee' Neal
c2010
All Rights Reserved

You are a dream that I hold dear
So exquisitely full of joy
Your energy making others envious
And leaving us all behind
My daughter, I am so proud when others
Compare us favourably now

When you smile, you light up the world
A spirit so sublime, it shines
You care so much for others
Sometimes there’s not enough of you
To share all that you are, all that you can be
You want a perfect world for those you love

The reality of the world is not
Only what you want it to be
Shabby roads, garbage piled high by the side
When no one bothers to clean it up
But you put it in the recycle bin
Composting rules the household

You are the light of my life
So elegant, no naïve
Like a colt gamboling
Across the undulating meadow
To catch up short, and stare
When the fence arises from nowhere

How will your days fulfill
From now until there is time no more?
What challenges may you conquer
With your insurmountable spirit so young?
I know not the end, but one thing for sure
The magnificence that is yours, is truly my joy.

Editor's Note:

The painting shown above is by Carol Shaw, who lives in Momence, Illinois. She is married and has three children. Carol is interested in criminal psychology and her musical taste includes 'anything but rap.'

Bad Guitar Practice

8b 006 Untitled and Incomplete.

18" X 30"


by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved



(NFS)

This painting is acrylic on a panel that had a bad painting already on it. The daffodils don't look too good, and the thing could use a fair amount of work. Other than that, I'm pretty pleased after not painting at all for seventeen years. In that sense, it is worth pursuing for its own sake.

Badly painted as the daffodils are, it is that fine sensibility that put them there--not too many painters could make this work, after all. So there is hope. (Where there is tea, there is hope. -ed.)

The thing uses classic colour theory but neatly bypasses the need for scientific perspective by presenting a flat plane for the entire background. It uses the original composition, which I didn't like much at first. The original painting was so soft and indistinct, all pastels with no hard edges. Yet my version hardly qualifies as 'magic realism.'

It is anything but modern; in fact it is a kind of folk art more than anything else.

The danger of taking a few art courses is that we think we know something. That's not always a good thing. But if I had to put a finger on any particular influence, I would first say 'impressionist,' and perhaps even 'Fauvist.'

As still lifes go, it seems to have a lot of life and motion. I was just telling someone that Vincent van Goght's work appears as if every brushstroke was 'a mad impulse of sheer emotion,' or something. But this painting is perhaps more finely calculated than that.

I suppose I should take the thing back out in the garage and do some more work on it, rather than just sitting around talking about it.

When I get around to it, I've been thinking of painting a man in silhouette--rimmed in moonlight, and with some kind of Rousseau-like magical garden for a setting. I need some kind of art for my blogs, etc.

-louis

Kiss the Earth, by Shirley 'Dee' Neal

c2010

All Rights Reserved


I watched as the sun uncovered the Earth
It touched the highest mountain peaks
Slyly painted oranges, pink with streaks
Tentatively, at first shy and trembling

Then bravely the darkly-frosted thin air
Was banished and dispelled
Longer shadows fell to pale, discordant light
Quivering, dancing, glowing, like candles
Just ships passing in the night

I watched the sun kiss the Earth again
That golden fire, with power to transform
And the world is suddenly visible to all
This simple feat, unspoken miracle
Happens to everyone, every day, every where.

What of us so insignificant?
Comparing a force from without and within
Is it not the same?
Touching another’s life and giving a smile
Warming a heart, sharing in our joy –

Dawn’s transcendental joy is magnificent
Our Earthly boundaries insignificant
To others when we give, to ourselves when we share
The insights and the wealth held within
Of life, and of love, and of experience
I watched the sun kiss the Earth today.

Don't fall down there.

What He Sees.

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved

The rain is falling, gently through the trees
A dove gives a mournful call
I wonder what he sees
Newborn child a-bawling?
Or just the futility of it all.
He told me once, a wise old owl
Very good advice, to get me through it all
The glass is either half-empty or half-full
It says a lot about you
The choices that you call.
The rain is falling, gently through the trees
A chipmunk sits there laughing
I wonder what he sees.

Velocita. The cyclist's mantra.

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved


La mia bici e il mio corpo sono una cosa sola.

Velocita, forza et corragio.

My bike and my body are one.

Speed, force and courage.

My mind controls every muscle, cell, bone, fibre, and tissue.

The very fabric of my being.

Every nerve, every thought, every attitude, sense, and sinew.

Physical, mental, psychological, emotional.

My spirit cannot be conquered. I am alone with the road.

My bike and my body are one. Speed, force and courage.

L’essenza di velocita…

The essence of speed.

Yeah, but what are you really trying to say?

For want of a better term
by Louis B. Shalako
c2010
All Rights Reserved

To a blind man, the world is a dark place.
To a deaf man, the world is a silent place.
And so we can extrapolate –
That perception is reality.
And all of reality is filtered through the senses.
Everything we know is contained inside of our own heads.
And essentially, it exists nowhere else.
If a tree falls in the forest, it makes no sound. No sound.
For there is no one there to hear it —
Yet a million voices speak silently out of the darkness.
All of them whispering at once.
For want of a better term, we call that fantasy. Or a dream, or a delusion.
And the truth is what I believe it to be.
Attitude is everything. I guess it’s all in how you look at it.
The contradictions are easy to see.
But a mistaken assumption will kill you every time.
The important thing, in my opinion,
Is to keep your eyes and ears open;
Stay alert, open up your heart,
Take a deep breath…and empty your thoughts —
Now try to keep an open mind.
And if you speak my name upon the wind, surely I will hear you.

Guitar Practice II. Other Riffs.

Untitled.

The Egg.

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved


One tiny little egg is deposited

Along with a thousand fellows

And it is hidden,

Amongst russet, green, yellow

Many a day must pass

Before the first one cracks

But soon they all must go

Feed they then on grasses

Tender shoots of plants

Some of the young get eaten

And there are those

Before the second dawn are froze

It is a deadly dance

One by one they leave then

Each must follow it’s own uncertain path

One weaves a silken cocoon

And enters chrysalis

He won’t come out too soon—

Until he’s done with this

And so the weeks they pass

The appointed time now comes

The transformation’s done

He crawls out into the light

Out into the warm summer sun

He dries his new-grown wings

And he sees

With golden antennae unfurled

Tasting the currents of the breeze

Becomes aware of the larger world

Now he gives a special call

His mate he hopes to bring

Three days he has, no less and no more

He arises on the wind

Time is short.

It is time to soar.

Wronged.

I know I done wrong
I know I was stupid
I can’t explain it
I was hoping that you could
Why did I leave you?
All those long years ago
How could I hurt you?
Someone must know
I know I done wrong
I know I was stupid
I can’t explain it
I was hoping that you could
Always so full of anger and rage
No one really likes me anymore
Someone must help me—I want to turn the page
Help me rip open the bars of my cage
I know I was a silly fool
But then the darkness took over
Why did I leave you?
All those long years ago
I can’t explain it, but someone must know
How long will it last?
How long will it take, to bury the past?
I know I done wrong
I know I was stupid
I can’t explain it
I was hoping that you could.

The Lord's Prayer, re-dubbed and re-mixed.

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved

(Let’s see you rap this one off you mo’fo’s!)

Our Father
Who art in heaven
I met him
At the Seven-Eleven
Hallowed
Be Thy name
He was playing
A video game
Thy Kingdom come
Thy will be done
Always a loser,
Never havin' no fun
On Earth
As it is in heaven
Thank my stars and the lucky sevens
Give us this day
Our daily bread
Lord I can’t stop
This song in my head
And forgive us
Our trespasses
Sometimes
You even kick our asses
And lead us not
Into temptation
Saints preserve our super nation
The power and the glory
Forever and ever
No more, no less, and maybe never
In the name of the Father
And the Son, and the Holy Spirit
And my momma, and my girl,
And my sister, and my little baby brother
Deliver us from evil
In the name of all my brothers and sisters

Amen.

Halleluyah, my brothers and sisters. Halleluyah.

Amen. Amen.

Amen.

An old sketch of the girl of my dreams.

Untitled.

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010 All Rights Reserved



When you look into my eyes

I wonder just who you see

Your soul fills up the room

And it touches me

You are all that is good

Pure, unsullied, just

You’re really something

Someone I could trust

Someone I could care for,

Help my life make sense

Now, don’t get all tense

I know who I am

What I look like

Where I came from

And where I’m going

Yes, I could

Fall in love with you

If only I could take the risk

For I know you could hurt me

That might not be so bad

Why tell you this?

I don’t want you to get mad

I don’t want you to do anything

Just go on being you

Knowing there is someone

Someone out there like you

Makes my life a little better

Even if I should lose you

Thank you for being who you are.

Ripples on a Pond...

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Right Reserved

Ripples on a pond
A stone, in-thrown
A splash, gurgles around
Rings of effect
Outwards are sown
Unbothered the fishes
Unanswered as yet
Rings ripple outwards
He cares not, the egret
The frog, he does not fret
They're used to getting wet…
The shore is uneven
The pond irregular-shaped
First the wave hits here
And then it hits there
Turtle he submerges
Finally the surge hits
The back of the first little bay
The other end of the pond
Is still quite a ways away
At some point the wave’s reflections
They come back to the middle
Some go all the way across
Before they meet another
And are reflected yet again…
The surface of the pond is all a-jumble
The Polynesian
He is heard to mumble
“That way lies land—
“There’s people there, too—
Instructing the steersman,
Who knows just what to do
Whether it’s smoke on the horizon
Jungle telegraph,
Or some watery rumour mill
He can even tell us
Just exactly how far it is
“Just as a stone maps the pond—"
“The waves chart the sea—"
A bunch of waves reflecting-
Reflecting what they’ve seen.

Untitled. Pen and ink, pencil crayons. By Louis B. Shalako