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.
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.
Caedmon’s Face
by Michael R. Burch
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 that dusk-enamored ground
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked here too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Caedmon’s ember:
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
***
He wrote here in an English tongue,
a language so unlike our own,
unlike—as father unto son.
But when at last a child is grown.
his heritage is made well-known;
his father’s face becomes his own.
***
He wrote here of the Middle-Earth,
the Maker’s might, man’s lowly birth,
of every thing that God gave worth
suspended under heaven’s roof.
He forged with simple words His truth
and nine lines left remain the proof:
his face was Poetry’s, from youth.
“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, Cædmon, 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 Cædmon’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. Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, hymn, Old English, Anglo-Saxon, oldest English poem, England, Christian, spiritual, angel, poets, poetry, Whitby, Bede, Carroll, Stoker
"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.
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
Caedmon's Hymn
by Michael R. Burch
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 Caedmon'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. "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, Cædmon, 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 Cædmon'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. Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, hymn, angel, inspired, inspiration, inspirational, first English poem, Old English, oldest English poem, Anglo-Saxon, Bede, cowherd, Christian, monk, spiritual, god, sonnet
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
Whitby is a great little town
Nearby Scarborough is too noisy by far
Here at Whitby. you can sit around
On the beach dreaming of castles afar
To Transylvania, to the castle of Bran
Where. I saw a vision of Vlad
Known as the Impaler what a bad lad
Leaving his victims impaled so sad
I suddenly saw the look in his eyes
I scurried away I was shaking inside
Round and round the castles did run
Didn't want my body left hanging I cried
His shoes were muffled by the felt coverings we wore
This Is the tradition when visiting here
Felt his hot breadth on my neck
Nearly stiff with fright never known such fear
Through memories mist his hand appears
Grabbing my jacket he hastened to say
This is nice how much did you pay
When I told him in a low voice, Oww Much.*
were the words that came my way
The spell was broken I could see
Vlad the Impaler was smiling at me
Did I frighten you your face was a scream
Felt like impaling him for all to see
Eyes opened I was back at Whitby sands
Was just a small dream inspired by a plaque
Left to commemorate me a citizen called Bram
Showing the place where I wrote. Dracula.
*oww much a typical Yorkshire expression of surprise at the high cost.
Tg
I am going to admit right up front
I am not a believer in this “New World Order”
In my opinion, it is a conspiracy theory,
Devised by those who are eager to confront,
Of it, frankly, I am more than somewhat weary.
I have heard blather from right-wing extremists
As far back as 50 years ago of a super-government
Being planned by a powerful cabal of power brokers
Closely aligned with international communists
As hard to nail down as fantasies by Bram Stokers.
In truth, we already live in a global society
And nations of like politics have bonded in kind
But national sovereignty is still the prevailing view
In my way of thinking, freedom is still a priority
Though some leaders are of a different mind.
If the world ever succumbs to a “New World Order”
I shall not be around to be a part of it, I know
In any case, I can tell you it is very slow developing
As I said, 50 years ago it was bantered in the corridor
So, it is not something that has come galloping!
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Written April 8, 2022
for "New World Order" poetry contest
sponsored by Robert James Liguori
(An Addingham poem)
‘There! Where every curve
injects another memory.’
Analytic beauty that
nestled in verdant valley
allows the mind to review,
where archaic dry-stone walls
enhance the ancestral ghosts,
impeccable trees, nature’s
guardian to one’s heady days,
inscribed when lovers called.
Now historic brows lost
within the village face,
expressive meadows
from a bygone age did
grace now lay in waste,
every thistle upon
throstle nest cut down
and stone barns redundant.
For cement and brick
replace the gathering blooms,
fertile soil lay under macadam
and house numbers
supersede the hawthorn hedge,
and old ‘Bram’ on horse and cart
daily down moor lane
long gone and dead.
Oh. Them old manifestations
embedded, the labour
of many a village son,
where leaf and wood
do part but once a year,
after seasons of regrowth
give way to winter’s ascetic sun
that rolls across Rombald’s moor.
‘Oh. Yes, the sun, one thing
that man has not yet changed.’
© Harry J Horsman 2021