Lines

The Brooklyn Theater 1876
a poem by Rob Krabbe

It was always so very crowded there.
The “joint hoppin” and hot like fire.
Ghosts of legends travel the cold halls.
Artful; ethereal and masterful through time,
eternally blessing and cursing the sublime.

The spirits in this place, seek their way home.
For each, the show ended; the curtain torn.
Of players working the stage; stars were born.
The memories of patrons, had a life of their own;
the sounds still echo, like the ghosts in the storm.

Just as the wind blows through the trees,
the applause frantic like the autumn leaves,
the crowd always screamed for more.
The fire breaks out every single night,
audience and players, hundreds galore!
The excitement itself almost burst right through,
the roof the walls and bust open the door.

They lived hard; a time of muscle and brawn.
They played hard in this great haunted hall.
The debauchery burned bright from dusk till dawn.
Never a closing show, or a single curtain call.
The dark spirit of the Brooklyn lives on, and on.
So long ago now, no-one much remembers.
Audience, musicians, players and members.
300 souls were lost, and not much was found.
The night the Brooklyn burned to the ground.
Nothing was left death-cold every ember;
1876, the fifth night of December.

CR 09.29.2021 Rob Krabbe
and NoonAtNight Public (Copied)