I miss those nights.
Where Tasha would play monsters with me under the kitchen table.
Where Bobby would race me out in the garden.
Where Granddaddy would tell me stories about my mum when she was my age.
Where Grandmamma would help me to read as I sat on her lap, covered by a patchwork blanket.
Where Mum would let me have a cookie just before I brushed my teeth.
Where Dad would pick me up and spin me around in the living room.
Where Buster would bark at me until I cuddled him.
Where Gary would purr when I snuck him ham from the fridge.
Where Annie from next door would return the football I kicked over the fence.
Where I always knew, no matter what,
That Mum and Dad would tuck me in, kiss me goodnight,
And say ‘I love you.’
Showing posts with label Brooklyn Nights. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brooklyn Nights. Show all posts
Saturday, 12 May 2012
Brooklyn Nights by Meg Burrows
Brooklyn Nights shy away from me,
I burn too bright for the street lights
and I hold things down too hard for the cement cracks.
Brooklyn Nights keep away from me,
they know I’d influence the nights monster,
I’d throw a tea party and have him all eating the cake.
I burn too bright for the street lights
and I hold things down too hard for the cement cracks.
Brooklyn Nights keep away from me,
they know I’d influence the nights monster,
I’d throw a tea party and have him all eating the cake.
Friday, 11 May 2012
Brooklyn Nights by Lesley Whyte
The room feels sticky, the air conditioning's out again. The windows are thrown open, hoping to tempt in a breeze. The room is still. Across the water, the bright lights of Manhattan, the place where dreams come true. Sitting together in the hot apartment - the apartment where the floor throbs with the bass from downstairs, the apartment where the futon doubles as the master bedroom, the apartment where the bare brick wall is hidden under towers of books - the beers in a bucket of ice and the lights turned down low...well, this is a kind of dream, too.
Brooklyn Nights by Emily Chadwick
The city was quiet, strangely so.
Usually, at this time of night, there would be a dog or two howling across the spaces between the concrete skyscrapers. The rumbling of engines would echo down the emptying streets. Drunken shouts would pulse through the darkness. Periodically, a siren would shatter the sounds, wailing its two-note melody.
But tonight, all was silent.
Fog hung heavy over the river, spilling out over the asphalt like floodwater. The air was thick, moist. Breathing felt like drowning.
The lights in the skyscrapers, usually shining like stars against a smog-grey sky, were dull, if they were lit at all.
It was as though death had visited and swept all the people away.
Of course, that was not the case at all.
The final of Britain’s Got Talent was on.
Usually, at this time of night, there would be a dog or two howling across the spaces between the concrete skyscrapers. The rumbling of engines would echo down the emptying streets. Drunken shouts would pulse through the darkness. Periodically, a siren would shatter the sounds, wailing its two-note melody.
But tonight, all was silent.
Fog hung heavy over the river, spilling out over the asphalt like floodwater. The air was thick, moist. Breathing felt like drowning.
The lights in the skyscrapers, usually shining like stars against a smog-grey sky, were dull, if they were lit at all.
It was as though death had visited and swept all the people away.
Of course, that was not the case at all.
The final of Britain’s Got Talent was on.
Brooklyn Nights by Sam Smith
It’s too claustrophobic. I tend to stay inside when it’s dark. At least in here, I know that something is there. I know where my walls are, know what’s behind them, and know that it will always be there. Go out on to the streets of Brooklyn in morning, walk along Pike Street to Park Slope, don’t talk to anyone. It’s okay. Nothing feels bad apart from the sense of wasting a life in a way that most people who don’t live here think is glamorous but it’s not. The sky is blue.
Go out again at night and find Brooklyn too close for comfort. The glamorous stalk out of their apartments and congregate in the same streets walked earlier that day. The stars are out, but not in the sky. Light pollution from our lives shields the night from our eyes, smearing it a rusty brown. It’s lower than it should be. Who knows if it will stay like that? What if the pollution leaks out into the day? What happens when the ceiling is only so high? It’s too claustrophobic. I tend to stay inside when it’s dark.
Go out again at night and find Brooklyn too close for comfort. The glamorous stalk out of their apartments and congregate in the same streets walked earlier that day. The stars are out, but not in the sky. Light pollution from our lives shields the night from our eyes, smearing it a rusty brown. It’s lower than it should be. Who knows if it will stay like that? What if the pollution leaks out into the day? What happens when the ceiling is only so high? It’s too claustrophobic. I tend to stay inside when it’s dark.
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