"bram" poems - Hello Poetry

Are we not brought up, in stories? Stories of hero worship, dark fearful nights Soft tender tears, hot red lips Fairy Mothers, frightful demons Realms where magic and realism Locked us up for a perpetual inter-play Growing up and ‘living’ a story Is all about the Story teller Fearful ‘Dracula’ who entered my teeny nights Was made up this unpredictable predator By the cousin Story teller, than Bram Stoker, as I learned later Much after ‘Leslie and Richard’ Went their own ways I stayed with the Soul mate; “Bridge across Forever” It was the story that I lived in, Faith blinded, in the Story teller! Teller can make you up and pull you down A hero today is villain tomorrow Abandoned fury; Bereft emotions Erratic desires; Impromptu positions Mix and shake them well Teller can rapt a discerning listener Teller can also cast a spell with the story With made-up faces and un-made-up minds Hewing a profile with vicarious feelings With deceitful facts and illusory events Teller webs a story, you ‘live in’ ‘Make believe’; but beautiful! Then one day, listener grows out of the story Magic fades and sanity sets in Tears turn phony, Lies lay bare “The Gift was kept by my parents” Said the Kid, “not by Santa Clause”. Let that ‘wake up’ not hurt forever Stories are told by Story teller Characters seldom given to testify A beginning and end carefully crafted A long route that can have ‘twists in the tale’ I am learning to listen to stories as ‘Stories’ Not life in essence, every time.

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Jan 13, 2016

Jan 13, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC

KaleshKumarAK

When we ‘grow’, out of the ‘live-in’ Stories

Are we not brought up, in stories? Stories of hero worship, dark fearful nights Soft tender tears, hot red lips Fairy Mothers, frightful demons Realms where magic and realism Locked us up for a perpetual inter-play Growing up and ‘living’ a story Is all about the Story teller Fearful ‘Dracula’ who entered my teeny nights Was made up this unpredictable predator By the cousin Story teller, than Bram Stoker, as I learned later Much after ‘Leslie and Richard’ Went their own ways I stayed with the Soul mate; “Bridge across Forever” It was the story that I lived in, Faith blinded, in the Story teller! Teller can make you up and pull you down A hero today is villain tomorrow Abandoned fury; Bereft emotions Erratic desires; Impromptu positions Mix and shake them well Teller can rapt a discerning listener Teller can also cast a spell with the story With made-up faces and un-made-up minds Hewing a profile with vicarious feelings With deceitful facts and illusory events Teller webs a story, you ‘live in’ ‘Make believe’; but beautiful! Then one day, listener grows out of the story Magic fades and sanity sets in Tears turn phony, Lies lay bare “The Gift was kept by my parents” Said the Kid, “not by Santa Clause”. Let that ‘wake up’ not hurt forever Stories are told by Story teller Characters seldom given to testify A beginning and end carefully crafted A long route that can have ‘twists in the tale’ I am learning to listen to stories as ‘Stories’ Not life in essence, every time.

42

A man split in half, Searching for the arc, That will tell him what to do. Jonze, Ma, or Mr. Brian May, Manhattan, Tokyo or maybe L.A. This little boy has lost a little sight, Maybe of the upcoming and unfolding plight. He knows little of the situation, What will affect his future vocation? Will he fly or will he die, Maybe he'll just end up lying in the sty.

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Aug 19, 2012

Aug 19, 2012 at 8:15 AM UTC

luke-r-e-webster

Bram Dante

A man split in half, Searching for the arc, That will tell him what to do. Jonze, Ma, or Mr. Brian May, Manhattan, Tokyo or maybe L.A. This little boy has lost a little sight, Maybe of the upcoming and unfolding plight. He knows little of the situation, What will affect his future vocation? Will he fly or will he die, Maybe he'll just end up lying in the sty.

11

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, Whitby, Bede, Carroll, Stoker Bede's Death Song (circa 731 AD) ancient Anglo-Saxon/Old English lyric poem loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Facing Death, that inescapable journey, who can be wiser than he who reflects, while breath yet remains, on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains, since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way after his death-day.

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Apr 2, 2020

Apr 2, 2020 at 4:50 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Caedmon’s Face

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, Whitby, Bede, Carroll, Stoker Bede's Death Song (circa 731 AD) ancient Anglo-Saxon/Old English lyric poem loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Facing Death, that inescapable journey, who can be wiser than he who reflects, while breath yet remains, on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains, since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way after his death-day.

39

Last ditch attempts and descents without grace. Darkness was diffusing into ambers. He’d been deteriorating for a while now, slowly, abruptly, and then with the fall of the summer months completely off the other end of the scale. He’d felt it in adrenaline coursing through his veins, known it when spilled liquids seeped into carpets that weren’t his own. But this was it. He faced the final breech of his own standards, or what was left, with bare feet, exposed eyes, all the while knowing he was corrupted. He had brought himself inches away from a descent, drawn himself through the chaos, grasped his gnarled hand around what had held him back, and pulled, pulled his own cold body from the lifeless thud on the floor, pulled himself here, and now his toes curled over the edges of what had been his life. Gathering the last vestiges of his age and time, Bram stepped forwards into unfilled air. Foot first, the ground drawing closer; he watched the atmosphere fly past in kaleidoscope. Like all inevitabilities, the moon extinguished the sunlight, both knowing their places elsewhere.

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Dec 14, 2014

Dec 14, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC

jodie-whitchurch

Last Ditch Attempts

Last ditch attempts and descents without grace. Darkness was diffusing into ambers. He’d been deteriorating for a while now, slowly, abruptly, and then with the fall of the summer months completely off the other end of the scale. He’d felt it in adrenaline coursing through his veins, known it when spilled liquids seeped into carpets that weren’t his own. But this was it. He faced the final breech of his own standards, or what was left, with bare feet, exposed eyes, all the while knowing he was corrupted. He had brought himself inches away from a descent, drawn himself through the chaos, grasped his gnarled hand around what had held him back, and pulled, pulled his own cold body from the lifeless thud on the floor, pulled himself here, and now his toes curled over the edges of what had been his life. Gathering the last vestiges of his age and time, Bram stepped forwards into unfilled air. Foot first, the ground drawing closer; he watched the atmosphere fly past in kaleidoscope. Like all inevitabilities, the moon extinguished the sunlight, both knowing their places elsewhere.

4

“This body is lifeless, cold, and hollow— You cannot know what you ask for, for I, I am the One many men would **** For I am he who walks the night, That which prowls the Darkness, Forsaken by the light, I am he they call the Beast. O my love it is you that I seek— For you to be my loving wife In eternal love and everlasting life— Yet, I cannot put onto you death, For I love you too much to Condemn you, lest take your breath!” --Bram Stoker’s Dracula O my love but I am dead if I Am to walk this Earth never to hold you. T’would be to walk in Hell; a place Where my love cannot reach you. Give me life eternal, let me walk Beside you my Dark Prince. Into you, let me breathe my last breath For if I was to walk this Earth alone T’would surely be death! Then let my love sink into thee— My love; drink of me, come into me and We’ll be together in immortality. Open your eyes and see what I see, Breathe what I breathe. Live with me at my side, as my bride For a love as ours is sure to never die. Inspired by Bram Stoker’s Dracula Creative Writings - Reina J. Morris

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Jun 6, 2013

Jun 6, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC

TheQueensJewel

In Love with a Vampire

“This body is lifeless, cold, and hollow— You cannot know what you ask for, for I, I am the One many men would **** For I am he who walks the night, That which prowls the Darkness, Forsaken by the light, I am he they call the Beast. O my love it is you that I seek— For you to be my loving wife In eternal love and everlasting life— Yet, I cannot put onto you death, For I love you too much to Condemn you, lest take your breath!” --Bram Stoker’s Dracula O my love but I am dead if I Am to walk this Earth never to hold you. T’would be to walk in Hell; a place Where my love cannot reach you. Give me life eternal, let me walk Beside you my Dark Prince. Into you, let me breathe my last breath For if I was to walk this Earth alone T’would surely be death! Then let my love sink into thee— My love; drink of me, come into me and We’ll be together in immortality. Open your eyes and see what I see, Breathe what I breathe. Live with me at my side, as my bride For a love as ours is sure to never die. Inspired by Bram Stoker’s Dracula Creative Writings - Reina J. Morris

32

Time strikes hard like the hammer of a jackknife Cutting through the fabric of your lifeline Entwined in loops, so many one forgets those stories that were once not tales to tell but the life you experienced. And another second passes by And you look all about And you take a deep breathe And the hammer knocks another nail like the infamous stake through the heart of the dead who are living life forever and forever ever mourning the mistake they once made to stop time in place, stop the hammering knocking down the rails, to stop the round and round to live life in one endless night A vampire I am not, but Bram Stoker was a genius, in his writings it was he who caught the stunning beauty that is the tragedy of time.

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Aug 17, 2017

Aug 17, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC

eyal-lavi

Time

Time strikes hard like the hammer of a jackknife Cutting through the fabric of your lifeline Entwined in loops, so many one forgets those stories that were once not tales to tell but the life you experienced. And another second passes by And you look all about And you take a deep breathe And the hammer knocks another nail like the infamous stake through the heart of the dead who are living life forever and forever ever mourning the mistake they once made to stop time in place, stop the hammering knocking down the rails, to stop the round and round to live life in one endless night A vampire I am not, but Bram Stoker was a genius, in his writings it was he who caught the stunning beauty that is the tragedy of time.

8

At Caedmon’s Grave 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 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. “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, first English poem, Anglo-Saxon, Bede, cowherd, monk Bede's Death Song (circa 731 AD) ancient Anglo-Saxon/Old English lyric poem loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Facing Death, that inescapable journey, who can be wiser than he who reflects, while breath yet remains, on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains, since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way after his death-day.

0

Apr 2, 2020

Apr 2, 2020 at 4:19 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

At Caedmon's Grave

At Caedmon’s Grave 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 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. “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, first English poem, Anglo-Saxon, Bede, cowherd, monk Bede's Death Song (circa 731 AD) ancient Anglo-Saxon/Old English lyric poem loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Facing Death, that inescapable journey, who can be wiser than he who reflects, while breath yet remains, on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains, since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way after his death-day.

26

Irony often oozes the blood stain That history will use to paint An honest portrait of erstwhile deeds Or to turn some altered soul to saint Few are those that exist within the mist Who loom larger than the shadow portrays And seldom does a shadow exist undiminished By the dreariest of all darkest days So when seeking blood in passionate resolve There comes a mordant aberration of unheralded stature Rising to fly above mortal attributes into unremitted immortality By assiduous conviction born of monstrous evil of unparalleled scale Born among the Carpathian mountains From the ancient and mysterious Transylvanian forests One who seeks blood for righteous alliterations Not for glory but for the saving grace A quest to alleviate all alien allagory alligned along the meandering memories of non-mordant minded men No imagery conjured by Bram Stoker thru Van Helsing Encompasses the unmitigated reality seen The lifelong - still beating strong - near century long shadow of the denizen of our brightest outlook The creation of circumstance as much as man ( unkind ) made Maybe unheralded by too many For such a knave am I so sorely cursed now... With shame I ...who have always strived to drape myself in the raiment of the eternal optimist Now pay overdue homage to the true and absolute optimist BEN FERENCZ.... Is his name Seek out his story now .. .while he still lives Reach back .. Into those dark, dreary days To share what history gives and you will see what he means when he say's " I'm Right. " For I truly know that he is! Keith w. Fletcher Humbled by the humanity exhibited.

0

Apr 12, 2018

Apr 12, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC

keith-w-fletcher

Transylvanian Knight

Irony often oozes the blood stain That history will use to paint An honest portrait of erstwhile deeds Or to turn some altered soul to saint Few are those that exist within the mist Who loom larger than the shadow portrays And seldom does a shadow exist undiminished By the dreariest of all darkest days So when seeking blood in passionate resolve There comes a mordant aberration of unheralded stature Rising to fly above mortal attributes into unremitted immortality By assiduous conviction born of monstrous evil of unparalleled scale Born among the Carpathian mountains From the ancient and mysterious Transylvanian forests One who seeks blood for righteous alliterations Not for glory but for the saving grace A quest to alleviate all alien allagory alligned along the meandering memories of non-mordant minded men No imagery conjured by Bram Stoker thru Van Helsing Encompasses the unmitigated reality seen The lifelong - still beating strong - near century long shadow of the denizen of our brightest outlook The creation of circumstance as much as man ( unkind ) made Maybe unheralded by too many For such a knave am I so sorely cursed now... With shame I ...who have always strived to drape myself in the raiment of the eternal optimist Now pay overdue homage to the true and absolute optimist BEN FERENCZ.... Is his name Seek out his story now .. .while he still lives Reach back .. Into those dark, dreary days To share what history gives and you will see what he means when he say's " I'm Right. " For I truly know that he is! Keith w. Fletcher Humbled by the humanity exhibited.

40

Sylvia, Jane, Virginia, or Agatha Names plenty there will be. Charlotte, Emily, Mary Wollstonecraft, Classics, everywhere I see. Isaac Asimov, Ernest Hemingway, H.G. Wells and Faulkner, too. Henry James and Charles Dickens And Voltaire with "Candide" swoon. Homer, Shakespeare, and Bram Stoker All around the fire dance With Count Dracula And George Orwell as he reads "Animal Farm." Stephen King and Nora Roberts Still dispute what genre's best. Was it horror, Was it romance That attracted me to them? Was it fantasy, The promise of escaping someplace else? "I have read too many books To believe what I am told." To the ones that came before me, I must thank you for my life. Light, amongst the wondrous pages Of your work, came to my mind. Through the years, I have learned All the bright places are dark, And like Eyre, "I am no bird and no net ensnares me," pal. Was it pride or was it prejudice, Or the "Notes from Underground?" In the "Night" "As I Lay Dying" Oh, a sweet "Farewell to Arms" "On the Road" I learned to find What I loved and let it **** me, And that love that is kept quiet Quickly turns to a tragedy. Through "The Bell Jar" I can see Other people passing by, And, pen in hand, I must write The burning truth for them to find. But heed my words, my fellow writer, This won't be my demise, 'Cause I know why the caged bird sings, And like changing tides I'll rise

0

Jul 7, 2019

Jul 7, 2019 at 1:33 AM UTC

Phantomwriter1231

To the Ones Who Came Before Me

Sylvia, Jane, Virginia, or Agatha Names plenty there will be. Charlotte, Emily, Mary Wollstonecraft, Classics, everywhere I see. Isaac Asimov, Ernest Hemingway, H.G. Wells and Faulkner, too. Henry James and Charles Dickens And Voltaire with "Candide" swoon. Homer, Shakespeare, and Bram Stoker All around the fire dance With Count Dracula And George Orwell as he reads "Animal Farm." Stephen King and Nora Roberts Still dispute what genre's best. Was it horror, Was it romance That attracted me to them? Was it fantasy, The promise of escaping someplace else? "I have read too many books To believe what I am told." To the ones that came before me, I must thank you for my life. Light, amongst the wondrous pages Of your work, came to my mind. Through the years, I have learned All the bright places are dark, And like Eyre, "I am no bird and no net ensnares me," pal. Was it pride or was it prejudice, Or the "Notes from Underground?" In the "Night" "As I Lay Dying" Oh, a sweet "Farewell to Arms" "On the Road" I learned to find What I loved and let it **** me, And that love that is kept quiet Quickly turns to a tragedy. Through "The Bell Jar" I can see Other people passing by, And, pen in hand, I must write The burning truth for them to find. But heed my words, my fellow writer, This won't be my demise, 'Cause I know why the caged bird sings, And like changing tides I'll rise

51

I hope you will consider this letter, this thousandth I’ve written but the first sent to you, as an old friend, as a joy, as an outpouring of my affection. I trust in a warm reception; this has lain in my desk for years, but it speaks for itself and needs no comment; What I’ve wanted to say is that light is light; the snowdrifts in the corner of my building are poetry, frozen and windblown, and I see in them hope for spring; I find myself longing to meet you on a hillside somewhere, green and fertile, and we would embrace as companions who never lost the love of youth. Rather, I’ve wanted to write this openly because with you one must be open. I am up and dressed, live here lonesome sometimes but in spirits both hearty and good. Write to me. Faithfully yours.

0

Apr 3, 2020

Apr 3, 2020 at 1:20 PM UTC

camden_m_jones

Self-Portrait as Bram Stoker’s Valentine’s Day Letter to Walt Whitman (1876)

I hope you will consider this letter, this thousandth I’ve written but the first sent to you, as an old friend, as a joy, as an outpouring of my affection. I trust in a warm reception; this has lain in my desk for years, but it speaks for itself and needs no comment; What I’ve wanted to say is that light is light; the snowdrifts in the corner of my building are poetry, frozen and windblown, and I see in them hope for spring; I find myself longing to meet you on a hillside somewhere, green and fertile, and we would embrace as companions who never lost the love of youth. Rather, I’ve wanted to write this openly because with you one must be open. I am up and dressed, live here lonesome sometimes but in spirits both hearty and good. Write to me. Faithfully yours.

32