Long Stoker Poems
Long Stoker Poems. Below are the most popular long Stoker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stoker poems by poem length and keyword.
"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.)
In chambers of memory, a great vessel rides,
Not steel, nor steam, but spectral, she presides.
A gilded cage, a promise bravely sold,
In every polished plank, a story is foretold.
She is a fragile vase of human grace and pride,
On dark and silent seas, where our illusions hide.
Each passenger, a hope, a fear, a dream in tow,
A gallery of souls, the high and the low.
The Captain is a hand upon the clock’s cold face,
Demanding speed, though time runs out of space.
The rich man is a vault, his wealth a heavy key,
Ignoring the deep warnings of the coming sea.
The third-class stoker, just a single, vital breath,
Unseen, unheard, the engine of life and death.
The iceberg is the Truth, inevitable and vast,
The quiet, crushing weight of choices in the past.
It does not hate, it simply is, a fact so stark and cold,
That shatters the fragile myths the builders had been told.
The moment of the strike, a tremor, then a sound,
The crack of certainty, where no fault was found.
The decks become a stage, a drama stark and clear,
As the ship of our conceit is conquered by our fear.
The band plays on—denial’s lovely, fading tune,
A brave, sweet song beneath a pitiless, dark moon.
Lifeboats, opportunities, are launched with space to spare,
A cruel economy of panic and despair.
And as the bow descends, a final, gasping plea,
The vase is tipped, the waters rush in free.
The decks go vertical, the social order breaks,
The cold, black water claims what the deep ocean takes.
The metaphor goes down, a legend to the core,
A night the soul remembers, forevermore.
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)
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
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.
Three kids to a bed, two beds to a room, three
rooms crowded with flannel long johns and wool
socks. If I was lucky enough maybe they had only
been worn by two or three brothers before me.
No holes was never a guarantee.
Mama had us tucked in tight under hand stitched
quilts made from squares of worn-out clothes that
was deemed no good for anything else. So heavy
that it was impossible to sleep on my back.
Or it would make my toes hurt all night.
Morning would come whenever nature demanded. As
soon as it was light enough to see the bowl of ice
capped water, I could splash a few drops on my face.
On some of those more courageous mornings,
a few of the more important parts.
The sides of the pot-bellied stove could turn as
red as the devil’s hood if the stoker was too generous
with the logs, or go out altogether if it was neglected
for too long. Deep scratches gouged into the floor from
constantly shifting chairs.
A good autumn from the garden, creek banks, and the
woods beyond provided enough to ease the
grumbling of winter stomachs. The occupants of
the chicken coop did their job diligently. As did
the former occupants of the pig pen and the pasture.
By January deep paths cut through waist high snow
to the outhouse, smokehouse, chicken coop
and wood pile. Only three more months until the
grass can be seen again.
The devil's work shall not be
put off till tomorrow
So en-charges many minions
to do his bidding for him
But just who is the charming fella
A shoulder in the shadows
Stoker of the fire a bellow
Or merely a convenient confidence
to call upon when frowned upon
your actions are by other's
A wicker version of oneself to
the power multiple of Six
In my defence it was not neither
me nor i but he who made me do
it
And though i fought him long
and hard i could not find the
strength nor will or faith to
overcome the darker lord
Well that's ok with a twinkle
in his eye said the prosecutor
to the baying congregation
As if what you said rings true
and are as faithful as you say
then be it only left up to god
himself to place his judgement
upon thee
But be prepared heaven help you
if you are not because what depths
of hell awaits you
Because if the devil is all he
is supposedly made out to be
then surely he hates it and takes
it far more personally than god
when his name is used and
taken in vain
If one believes in either or
Damned if do
Damned if don't
Around midnight, in the library I found myself drawn,
to these shelves haunted still by Poe, Stevenson and King,
as a rare, late October storm brews beyond the pane,
bringing life back to the creatures of Shelley and Stoker.
To these shelves, haunted still by Poe, Stevenson and King,
my fingers grasp a book from under the dust and webs,
bringing life back, to the creatures of Shelley and Stoker,
it's well-worn, leather spine just waiting to chill my own.
My fingers grasp a book, from under the dust and webs,
while autumn winds rustle leaves like crisp, yellowed paper,
it's well-worn leather spine, just waiting, to chill my own,
my head, sinking further back into the velvet-lined chair.
While autumn winds rustle, leaves like crisp, yellowed paper,
candlelight flickers dimly across the tattered old pages,
my head sinking further, back into the velvet-lined chair,
where the ghosts of Irving and Dickens will not let me sleep.
Candlelight flickers dimly, across the tattered, old pages,
I, unable to recline, with the shadows thrown by the fire,
where the ghosts, of Irving and Dickens, will not let me sleep,
residents of the dark welcome, and wait to be revisited.
I, unable to recline with the shadows, thrown by the fire,
as a rare, late October storm brews, beyond the pane,
residents of the dark, welcome and wait, to be revisited,
around midnight, in the library, I found myself... drawn.
7/20/19
"I'll be your Joker"
Still a registered voter
Signed up to be an organ donor
And finally became a car owner
I rarely use a controller
When it's time, I'll man up and buy a stroller
As well as panels that are solar
Near and far from areas that are polar
Doesn't matter if I ever get a Range Rover
Or Roadster
I'm barely ever sober
Always been a loner
And stoner
3 months away from another October
If you want to be my Harley Quinn, I'll be your "Joker"
Not no poser
Where are you Scully? This is agent Mulder
Anytime you want, I'll be your shoulder
To lean on
From here to way beyond
For eons
Where's my Marge? I am Homer
I'll be your rock over and over
Since I've gotten nobler
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder
I've seen it so much, I could compile a folder
Life's one giant rollercoaster
It's really revving my motor
All these women giving me a b***r
And then the cold shoulder
As if I am an ogre
I remain a soldier
Drinking high end coffee, no more Folgers
Getting wiser and older
Becoming bolder
As the world gets colder
I'm not feeling dolor
Just multi tasking, while a fire continues to smoulder
Maintaining my composure
Finding closure
Getting closer
To greatness instead of being mediocre
I enjoyed the work I did with several growers
As well as trapping some gophers
Occasionally I'll partake in poker
Even though I'm not the best hoaxer
Once or twice I used a fire stoker
When it came to Mary Jane, I was a doter
A fan of it's fragrance, it's not what I'd call an odor
I consume some products made by Clover
And am usually in places considered remoter
It's time I get a toaster and holster
I don't really need a Flame Thrower
Or to get my face on a most wanted poster
Suit yourself if you want to wear a boater
Or choker
Houses in continual foreclosure
Not always wise to go for the price that is lower
Someday my mind and body will be slower
And one day it'll all be over
10-4 over and out
And now you know, what i'm really about
Not just by word of mouth
As they say don't look a gift horse in the mouth
Regardless of if you had your doubts
By: Dalton Ogletree