Long Dracula Poems
Long Dracula Poems. Below are the most popular long Dracula by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dracula poems by poem length and keyword.
Sheesh
I am not a monster like Bela*
I’m just a romantic fella
But this is no good
I see Hollywood
Has decided to slam Cinderella
Ok, some of you have pointed out my mistake and I acknowledge, I was wrong. It was Snow White and not Cinderella they were slamming. But Snow White doesn't rhyme with fella so... : ) I guess I don't know my fairy tales too well. Regardless it is ridiculous.
I know this Limerick sucks but what the hell is going on in this world?
I read this morning that some Hollywood star (?) has come to the decision
that because Prince Charming kissed Cinderella while she was asleep
(under the witches spell) he did so without her permission so this cartoon
is sending a bad message to young boys. I mean, what’s next?
Bambi, because his little rabbit friend’s name is Thumper and
that rhymes with Hump Her? Sheesh.
* Bela Lugosi who portrayed Dracula in the movies
May I dance with you now
as ghosts ride with the breeze,
while black cats with green eyes
stare at us from the trees,
and that wicked old witch
flies up high near the moon?
We'll enjoy the bright lanterns
as we sway and swoon!
This night sky is on fire
with the full moon's eerie glow.
As the spirits surround us,
the darkness will show
silhouettes of the treetops
as roofs hug the sky,
and we'll dance, cheek to cheek,
on this night, you and I.
Dance with me, come in close
while bats swirl all around!
As owls screech, these fangs pierce!
Dracula loves the sound!
The night creatures are watching
while I hold you tight.
and enjoy my sweet blood feast
this Halloween night!
Oh, it's me, don't you see?
Blood will seep, time to weep!
Here I am, perfect scam!
Fangs pierce deep- now you sleep!
All seemed surreal,
As I lay in bed and feel,
Frightened and alarmed,
Thinking that someone is going to cause me harm.
It's very dark. I'm all alone,
No company I'm on my own.
I hear a bang and then a crash,
And then the smash,
Of glass.
I sit upright in bed,
And throw covers over my head.
Instead of getting up to see,
Who is terrifying me?
My imagination is running riot,
Is it Dracula? who's going to bite,
Me on the neck,
To drink my blood.
Oh! Heck. I'm a wreck.
All my sense of reason left,
I am bereft,
Of a logical thought.
I ought,
To go and see.
I wish I had company.
I creep gingerly downstairs,
Fervently saying prayers,
Shaking in my shoes.
Then I heard a meow from my cat,
Sitting on the mat, with his paw on a rat.
Victory wrote all over its face,
Still out of breath from the chase.
There were scratch marks on the door,
A crystal vase shattered on the floor,
Blood from the dead rat,
And a smug grin on the cat.
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
Life is not enigmatic but eerie, life lives on
sucking blood though it’s not Count Dracula;
after sundown you won’t see a thing
even if you don’t cover yourself with a black cloak.
In the dark of the early April morning,
however, you’ll see Persephone coming in black mourning dress
holding a rock folded in a blanket to find the flowers
not yet bloomed.
Dreams she dreamt in the cold and dark pit during the winter
were not of the baby’s face, but the sound of stones crushing
in her womb;
and when corpse covered with the fallen petals that have
never flowered decaying in the womb, gives off a foul smell;
the maggots writhing on the dead in the casket struggle to win
wings and as wings grow, they fly in the air as a swarm of flies.
When the sun, comes driving its golden chariot in the sky
where no flowers ever bloomed all year around, go after
the maidens and draw the bow, dashing arrows thrust
the maidens in their trembling hearts.
As red blood
from the fallen maidens seeps into the river,
Persephone gathers the spirits wandering in the air crying;
then, the night falls, Persephone kisses the baby
on her cheek and puts her down by the riverside;
then, you hear the sound of murmuring water
go with the baby’s cry stepping on shallow water-bed stones.
When the sun that will never rise in the morning
sinks into the horizon; before you finish reading
the letter written on a fallen leaf, blown by the passing wind ,
drifts on the water of no tomorrow.
The night of October thirty first will be here
A cloaked figure in squally wind will appear
The head hooded, a musk the face will wear
A black cat will cross the deserted road near
Won’t see the man’s canine teeth like spear
And his eyes like hers, stone cold that sneer
Dug in the face of Dracula, the Count cavalier
Who will knock on a white door seen clear
Through the diaphanous moonshine veneer
A floating figure will appear there and veer
Hold his stretched hand and say ‘Hallo dear’
The Count will meet the vampire, his peer
They will dance like sprites in hearty cheer
Until the fancy costumes they will finally tear
At the end of the Halloween night’s premiere.
October 16, 2021
Rhyme checked at rhymezone.com
Contest : Halloween Monorhyme Contest
Sponsor : Caren Krutsinger
Eileen has nicknamed me Kenny
Because of my resemblance to Mr. Rogers
Wish I had his piles of dough though
I'd sure be a happy old codger
Methinks she means before his facelift
At least that's what I hope she meant
It made him look like a real different person
Not as charming in any event
So I'll take it that's what she really meant
When Kenny was young and virile
Instead of this ageing singer of songs
Fame can be fleeting and so fragile
Mr. Rogers can still belt out a love song
With than familiar rasp in his voice
For over four decades he been charming us
Was everyone's favourite choice
So I really don't mind the nickname Kenny
A compliment is how I take it
Eileen could have nicknamed me Bela
As Dracula I never would have made it
© Jack Ellison 2013
Halloween setting
How fitting
Greyhound bus like no one has ever seen
Through the back roads, Shortcuts forbidden paths into small towns and major cities
Darkness falls
Passengers don’t have a clue in what’s ahead
Their Greyhound Bus Driver dressed in all black and a touch of red as Dracula
Blood Thirst
Passenger’s outburst
Mysterious reactions throughout the bus
Within the darkness comes a heavy Thunderstorm
Suddenly a swift flash of lightning
Images appear of rising spirits focused in front of the bus on the road
Surprises unexpected, but drew attention causing a chill
Chiller tail without fail
Passenger’s scream and their heart pounded
Noise of heavy chains making a sound
Atmosphere interchange
Moans upon moans heard
The Hound bus has been attacked by all goons
The goons chant, “They want human flesh
Hunger pains agony
Years of wanting, but not getting
Closer, Closer the goons came
Ever so close being almost there
Pondering passenger’s feeling suddenly, surprisingly, and worried
The how, when and if
Trick a treat
Do you have candy to eat?
Halloween sweet in treat.
I began with questions that seemed ordinary,
Were they, but, simple? The self within was wary;
Started with small matters of curiosity,
Birth and death causes and effects seemed paucity...!
I search for my answer in each philosophy,
My question is in each wave of ecosophy;
The quintessence of my birth and my would-be death,
The gesticulation of existential breath...
Quest has doubled and tripled within and out, now,
Each step has full of fresh surprises, anyhow;
Powers, potentials, might, knowledge, and wisdom heights,
Rediscovered revaluations and their fights...
No swords, no battles, no dragons, and Dracula,
My quest is a passing path toward acura;
With fear, sloth, and fake oath I do not feel at ease,
My quest is oriented toward love, joy, and peace...!
Like a root emerging from a seed that travels,
Toward growing into a tree self unravels;
Isn't, yet, my movement, like a wavy-sea yachter?
Or, like, one in a desert, yearning for water...???
30 March 2023
Writing Challenge - 'Q' Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Rhymes Checked At: Rhyme Zone
Syllables Checked At: How Many Syllables
Spoken Word Poetry: JAZZ ALIVE
Man alive, and this ain’t no jive, I’m diggin’ on jazz to stay alive/
East Coast rhythms from the 50’s and 60’s, in the heart of the city, where the music breaths/
Up all night to dig the modern jazz scene, and out of the cool midnight cookin’ shows at the Blue Note/Located at 131west 3rd St. NYC the place to be/
City lights flashing, hipsters, record buying, dressed to the nines in retro threads at dive bars and clubs where the real jazz magic spreads/
Catch the scene, and get hip to the latest with the 50s swingin’ jazz machine/
Bill Evans Trio, Modern Jazz Quartet, Miles Davis, Lester Young – Can You Feel the Beat/ It’s Milestones with Miles/At that recording, Davis’s bebop/hardbop music was manifesting into his future modal thing/
Milt Jackson, Chet Baker’s smooth serenade, Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” in Five Four Time, John Coltrane’s Cascade, Cannonball Adderley, Wynton Kelly’s embrace, Paul Chamers, Jimmy Cobb, all left their trace/
The city never sleeps, no change of pace, play your gig till 2 AM/
Chase the night with grace/catch a cab, hit the jam, Sweet Basil’s swinging where the music never dims/
Women strong and fierce, oh how they loved their jazz men/
Financial support flowed like a sweet refrain/
“This Here, “Dat Dare,” and “Moanin’” what sounds, in Bobby Timmons groove/you know what I mean/
The Tenor Conclave, Hank Mobley, Al Cohn, John Coltrane, Zoot Sims/ Hi-Fi jam sessions to no end/
Max Roach on the scene, Deeds Not Words, his LP/
Abby Lincoln, Helen Humes, Sarah Vaughn, Dinah Washington – jazz voices supreme all greats in their prime/
new record companies popping, day into night: Jazzland, Riverside, Atlantic, Prestige all shining bright/
Philly Joe Jones, Blues for Dracula, man what a scene, what a feeling on Halloween’s Eve, back in the day when Everybody dug jazz, but what happened to the Five Spot Café where the legends would play? /
So dig this, I’m walkin’ to Jazz Alley, Soulmates on my cell I know so well, Ben Webster and Zawinul, their melodies swell/
In this world of music vibes, man, I find my reprieve in modern jazz rhythm and choose to believe in the downbeat of jazz to set me free