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.