The Poetry of Ginger Walls
Former Sasquatch Board Member, Ginger Walls is a transcriptionist and
watercolourist. She lives in
Centretown with her husband Kevin Hanes and their cat Panda. Her interests include railway history,
music, ballet and collecting vintage Nancy Drew books.
A bird alone is the
only apparent life
near the broken brown shingle house
on the windswept hill,
broken house with the upstairs gable roof blown off.
In the dark space beyond the empty windows
the ghost who ghosts from room to room
waits in the closet
with a sharpened poker
waiting for you
to open the door.
Late Saturday night in the backyard
a shadow, lockpick in hand
moves silently towards the back door.
Sunny Sunday morning
cut black phone wire
lies on gleaming kitchen floor.
the murderer escapes.
From behind a pillar
in the silent parking garage
a shadow appears, lengthens
The car was found
at the side of a long potholed street
lined with overgrown lots,
abandoned concrete grain elevators
and a tire dump.
There appeared to have been a struggle,
observed only by seagulls circling the landfill
as the sun reflected off the small lapping waves of Lake Erie.
The sidewalk descends into
dingy concrete-walled obscurity
below the black iron railway overpass.
A few dim light bulbs overhead
cannot relieve the chill and clammy blackness
of the dank filth.
Even if there were witnesses within earshot
the pounding reverberation of the streamliner overhead
would obliterate any sound.
Arson, fear, power, light
and light, heat, change.
slim bit of wood
strike against stone,
spark, to create in destroying.
spark is the transformation of matter
a living being,
have discovered the secret
fire without smoke
sends all on a fruitless search for its source.
© 1997-2003 Ginger