Long Bram Poems
Long Bram Poems. Below are the most popular long Bram by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bram poems by poem length and keyword.
The moon reflected on the sea,
A night more beautiful than day.
I wheezed and struggled up the steps
And looked out over Whitby Bay.
I saw the harbour far below,
And heard the splashing of the waves,
I turned around to see the church,
The ruined abbey and the graves.
I thought of Dracula, the Count,
Imagined him and Lucy there,
And then I saw a hulking shape -
But, oh, the menace in that glare.
He showed his fangs and hissed at me;
My feet were rooted to the spot.
I cried for help and waved my arms
At people on a distant yacht.
He lunged and bit into my neck;
I tried to fight but felt so weak.
And that is how I came to die -
And you’re the prey I need to seek…
for Darren's Bram Stoker contest
In the shadowed mountains of Romania, horse-drawn carts travel down dirt roads. On foot, some walk through rolling hills blanketed by fog in a world that's become known for myths and legends. Darkness is associated with the folklore of this mysterious, medieval land. People, some call them cult worshippers, are drawn to wander the hills and valleys nestled in the ancient Carpathian Mountains. Drawn there to envision themselves in the midst of what Bram Stoker's novels describe in great detail. Such is the reputation of this land that's been labeled, Transylvanian Gothic.
in deep dark forests
vampires search for nightly prey
Dracula still lives
Beware if a chill is felt, for wanderers may be dealt a blow, or a bite on the neck. Wildling wolves howl at the blood red moon, a foreshadowing of the dirge, the terror that is said to scourge the land. In the background chords of organ music is heard coming from within moss draped trees and, in the distance is an eerie castle. Its gates should bear a sign reading, "Forbidden! Entering after dark would be a foolish lark for in an ancient vault lies one who feeds in the night on blood."
bats fly from turrets
Transylvanian Gothic
gruesome place at night
gothic villages
undeserved reputation
of vampire legends
Kate and Bram, so in love or so she thought, but he was after Kate’s rich cousin. Laura, was just as greedy for Bram’s striking good looks. Does lightning strike twice for Bram? Will he find happiness with his fiance’s kin? Kate was prettier, confident, sweet. He moves the candle over the treasure and concocts a vicious plot. Laura was guilty of one thing - she coveted what was not hers. Bram’s sin was greater.
WAXING OF CANDLELIGHT
Longing of candlelight - the shadows slim.
A flicker steps downstairs; She’s trembling down.
Kate’s tapered low-light tears, without a hymn.
Green spirit in her phosphorescent gown.*
She remembers Bram’s face, his smile. The bleed
of blush no longer stings - a swan-like snow
running from head to toe; done is the deed.
The late night storm will search - its fury grow.
The strike of lightning hate will court her beau.
He tripped a switch - she fell headlong for him.
The candle burns - the fire’s leaping stairs. Sow
And reap - the pyre-steeple of life and limb.
The separation - vinegar and oil.
Reunited, Kate shrieks - Bram’s on slow boil.
7/30/2021
A BRIAN STRAND SONNET
HMS used
*Green - 1) color 2) new
At Cædmon’s Grave
At Caedmon's Grave
by Michael R. Burch
“Cædmon’s Hymn,” composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Caedmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Caedmon’s verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker’s ghoulish yet evocative Dracula.
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and time blew all around,
I paced those dusk-enamored grounds
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked there, too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Cædmon’s ember,
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet.
I lay this pale garland of words at his feet.
Originally published by The Lyric
Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, Hymn, Whitby, angel, illiterate, cowherd, goatherd, shepherd, monk, gift, blessing, Bede, Carroll, Stoker, first English poem, oldest English poem, Old English, Anglo-Saxon
I am alone in the house.
This is as it should be.
My hands have become idle in their pursuit for comfort, endlessly reaching for a warmth they will not find.
I am alone in this house.
There is a collection of Bram Stoker's works on my nightstand. The book is from Europe. I have never been.
This is as it should be.
My eyes are dry and unresponsive to the words that flicker across my vision. These words compete for a second of my time, a moment to be observed as they were meant to be. They exist only to me and may disappear entirely if my gaze retreats. They cannot exist without a reader, and I cannot compel myself to entertain the notion of being with another’s voice.
I am alone in this house.
This is as is should be.
At the Borgo Pass I met a coach and horse,
And the villagers warned me not to go,
They were worried about a supernatural force,
But I had business in Transylvania, though.
The coach rumbled along the Carpathian mountain road,
Through the lightning and pounding rain,
We arrived at an old, darkened abode,
And I thought this trip was all in "vein".
But then opened the great castle door,
And the Count bid me welcome to his house,
He cast no shadow on the floor,
Where scurried a bat and a mouse.
In the mirror he cast no reflection,
On our dinner he did not dine,
And upon my curious inspection,
He drank no water or wine.
Then late that night I awoke with fright,
As something hovered over my bed,
Then I felt a quick, sharp bite,
From a vampire who's eyes glowed red.
Then cried the children of the night,
As all at once, there shined a beam,
I awoke to see a ray of sunlight,
And realized it was all just a dream.
(This poem was my tribute to "Dracula" by Bram Stoker)
If you look at ol’ Bram Stoker,
Irish writer of Dracula fame,
it can be quite hard to believe
that any remember his name.
At first just a civil servant,
then he managed a London stage,
doing books for Henry Irving,
a great actor of the age.
Then he somehow writes a novel,
of a distant, cruel vampire,
the critics liked the way he wrote,
but the book hardly inspired.
Sales were steady, but most thought it
a good thriller, nothing more,
if you said it was ‘Literary’
their jaws would’ve hit the floor.
But the book kept going steady,
it has never been out of print,
Hollywood put it on the screen,
and the studios made a mint!
It codified a sub-genre,
has defined the vampire’s ways,
when modern minds think of these fiends
they see Dracula to this day.
Henry Irving is long forgotten,
but Stoker we appreciate,
modern horror is in his debt,
you never know who will be great.
Morbid fascination (mine) as covid-19 pandemic...
foments rampant monopoly on bedlam
Wreaking ball (his stick) havoc (think ostensible
civil war scale not seen since Vietnam),
whereby microorganisms jamb
*****sapiens immunity system
complements of gook
resembling green eggs and ham
necessitating Doctor Seuss
to stoke bram
bullying cat in the hat
on a hot tin roof damn
senseless cant be understood
Matthew Scott Harris argot sham
bulls (red dilly), and sallies forth
with neither reason only rhyming flimflam.
All Joe King aside - at any rate,
yours truly, (a generic garden variety reprobate),
not hell bent to receive nasty hate
male courtesy vexatious reader to berate,
cuz unwelcome chide and chime
prompts gnome mad tick versifier
to test (ease silly) to provoke ye to fulminate.
Humanity now fishtails helter skelter
across oblate spheroid courtesy coronavirus
global pandemonium unleashed
expletive maniacal tsunami
(think) metaphorical groundswell
primates hurry scurry to and fro,
hither and yon frenziedly
pell-mell housing random erratic
discombobulated, bobble headed
(simulating) quasi Brownian movements
at warp speed embarked
upon impossible mission.
Here I paraphrase (er... rather plagiarize)
President John F. Kennedy,
whereby he delivered on January 20, 1961
his inaugural address in which he announced
"we shall pay any price, bear any burden,
meet any hardship, support any friend,
oppose any foe to assure the survival
and success of liberty."
Though the then USSR
(Union of Soviet Socialist Republics),
now identified as
union of Soviet socialist republics
helped cook who nurse (and ratchet)
state of political hostility
existed between Soviet bloc countries
and US-led Western powers
from 1945 to 1990.
Our present crisis I aim(ed) to show touché
(pardon mum oddest tee) culinary poetic entree,
how bajillions of people mercilessly
unfairly subjected to influenza like agony
exhibiting following symptoms:
cough, fever, tiredness, difficulty breathing
(severe cases), yet
many met their untimely demise
with prompt care, nonetheless minimal delay
ferried them to awaiting quay
where Charon doth ferry
dead souls across Rivers Styx and Acheron
resignedly where forced to abandon treasures they
must relinquish all trapping he/she did parlay.
"I give you life eternal. Everlasting love. The power of the storm, and the beasts of the earth. Walk with me to be my loving wife forever" Bram Stoker
Time has come for us to slow the pace.
Just relax, enjoy each other's embrace.
Let laughter fill your heart, never be glum.
For us to slow the pace, time has come.
Allow this tuneful rendition to enter your soul,
Let your thoughtwaves take control.
Creating bliss will be our mission.
To enter your soul, allow this tuneful rendition.
Just settle back, close your eyes.
Repose with restful calm, as it implies.
Forget all concerns, keep on track.
Close your eyes, just settle back.
Immerse yourself in my devotion.
Feel the power of my love potion.
Our love for each other will be our wealth.
In my devotion, immerse yourself.
Your face so amazing in this sullen moonlight.
I invisage our future being so bright.
I adore being with you, just lazing.
In this sullen moonlight, your face so amazing.
Your hand in mine, always together.
By each other's side through any weather.
I see the future and a life that's fine.
Aways together, your hand in mine.
Not subdued, take every offered relief.
And in my love, have total belief.
Take every offered relief, not subdued.
With me enjoy respite, in this, our interlude.
I'm Dracula and a creature of the night.
I suck people's blood when I bite.
Vampires don't die, I'll be the Prince of Darkness for eternity.
Getting a stake through my heart or being in sunlight are the only things that can kill me.
I can fly when I turn myself into a bat.
I love to kill and you'd better believe that.
I will drink all of your blood if we come face to face.
People want to kill me because what I do is a disgrace.
When I drink people's blood, I always suck them dry.
A man just put a stake through my heart and now I will die.
(This poem is based on the novel that was written by Bram Stoker.)