Long Centaur Poems
Long Centaur Poems. Below are the most popular long Centaur by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Centaur poems by poem length and keyword.
My mind has become a hoarder’s paradise
As I have gotten older, fat and lazy.
All that I gather collects
Along the halls, across table tops
On every available surface.
Eventually only narrow pathways remain
Through the labyrinth,
Pathways I traverse daily
As I shuffle back and forth
On my habitual ways.
This is the anatomy of a mind calcifying,
Layers and layers of thought and memory
Cemented accretions which then erode
Into the walls of my labyrinth.
Somewhere at the center
I know there is a garden still untouched
By the clutter of this life,
Complete with eye bright centaur
Chiron on his grassy knoll.
Knowing it’s always there
Is all the solace I need.
(9/7/25)
Mr Sagittarius, Man of Fire, among the trees,
Sat down and fashioned arrows out of wood and flint with ease.
Then passing, Lady Libra, who despite her grace and airs,
Was captured by the flame in him, so hid, and watched him there.
His craftsmanship was beautiful, he carved with speed and skill,
She sensed his softer music even though he’d trained to kill.
Our Archer took an arrow, raised his bow and stilled his mind,
The arrow sailed, and punctured through the tree she hid behind.
So here he found our Lady, and was spellbound by her eyes,
As bright as constellations he did not yet recognise.
And she adored his centaur form, admired him head to tail,
And he, enthralled by elegance, quite adored her simple scales.
He loved her constant calmness and she loved his subtle pride,
A love that led to asking if she’d be his balanced bride.
Her answer was immediate, her ‘yes’ was not delayed,
She wanted him forever and her heart was duly weighed.
Orion wed them happily, the Great Bear bore the rings,
The Seven Sisters shone all night to zodiacal kings.
So Mr Sagittarius had his lady by his side,
But nature had dictated they were separate in the sky.
So loving Lady Libra made a necklace for the pain,
Her Archer’s gilded fingertip on a Cassiopeian chain.
She studded it with diamonds for the eight stars of his sign,
She wore it for her centaur so he knew that she was fine.
And even now, the story goes, they spend their days as one,
For stars are never needed when the sky is blessed with Sun.
Then when they have to be apart as pictures of the night,
He lies next to her patient heart, so she shines twice as bright.
As far as ethereal creatures are concerned,
she fell somewhere in between
a wood nymph—
fragile and belligerent—
and a centaur—
untamable and resilient
she is a living, breathing juxtaposition;
far from flawless,
yet infinitely beyond perfect.
She was flawed,
but as an ornate kintsugi vase
cracked to pieces
and sutured back together with gold
Like the Starry Night
with all its textured paint strokes
thrown together through an artist’s insanity
to procure a masterpiece
Like the Sistine Chapel,
her immaculate art
born from bitterness and dark secrets.
Her body is a museum;
Curated through a series of tragic stories
An erratically beautiful display
of the good,
the bad,
and the utterly grotesque.
Her beauty wasn’t meant to be consumed
by savage, hungry eyes
but admired; beheld
with a fastidious delicateness
not unlike that used to cradle a butterfly
that willfully gravitates towards you.
Where life not only gave her lemons,
but squeezed the juice into her eyes
and laughed maniacally,
she, in her ethereal nature,
embraced the burn,
threw them back,
and demanded something different.
And life, too stunned to protest,
simply complied.
And now,
though a series of tragic stories,
she is fragile and belligerent,
untamable and resilient,
terrifying and gentle,
and completely, complexly beautiful.
Everybody has experienced a turning point
It’s a natural part of life; it’s part of growing up
Life is a sleek roller coaster that goes down and up
There’s a Carrefour which we must turn to a point
To pause, think, fathom and reflect upon and to move on
To face a neoteric reality, an ingenious centaur with apron
Unusual or strange events take place all the time where
Nobody is in control; nobody dares to face the bad bear
Life is more than an enigma, a hieroglyph, a mystery
Nobody can really predict anything under the hala tree
One must do his/her best to use the turning point to be
A newer individual, a courageous leader and a brilliant apprentee
Only schlemiels don’t change; only zombies have no hope to be better
It’s scary and sad that the world is following the demented monster.
Copyright © July 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
Centaurs
~*~
In Greek Mythology monsters come in all shapes
sometimes hideous and strange . . . often representing
the dark forces in life, creatures such as Centaurs-- part
human and part horse, they are man's unruly, instinctive
nature, less awesome that demons . . . they still harassed
and haunted humans. They had the head, arms and chest
of a man but the legs and lower half of a powerful horse.
These man-horse beasts led a lustful, drunken and savage life
and were fond of riotous revelries often writhing in fierce battles
with wild brute force . . . raping, killing humans for meat.
The wise Centaur, Chiron was a unique case-- he was learned
in music, medicine, hunting and war. He was friend to Apollo,
and Zeus, loved, admired and honoured by all the great gods.
He was noted for his gentleness and kindness and wisdom. . .
tutor to Greek heroes. When he died Zeus set him in the night sky
as the starry constellation known now as Centaurus.
____________________
June 5, 2013
Poetry/Narrative/Centaurs
Copyright Protected, ID 06-483-485-05
All Rights Reserved, 2013, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Mythological Creatures or Birds
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton, Judged 06/18/2013
Ninth Place
A Scot had once been quite handsomely built
Now with corona did not fit his kilt
Ate all he could find
With more on his mind
Became rotund and his manhood did wilt
Isolation made the fridge his best mate
Yet now he wanted an illicit date
Could not find his willy
Rubbed on some chilly
No growth so he needed to loose some weight
But cakes and pastry were hard to resist
When he tried his knickers got in a twist
Spermatic retention
Or penile extension
For not to miss out on an overdue tryst
The doctor himself was a well endowed man
‘I must help this limp fellow if I can’
Grafted a bone-r
For the new owner
To cool it implanted a vacuum fan
Balls on fire complete with bagpipe and trumpet
He seeks out his most delicate strumpet
But before he can dip it in with pleasure
She takes from her bra a hooker’s tape measure
‘Size does measure but this I won’t lump it’
The surgeon was not a continental medic
Had stuck to feet and inches for the prosthetic
A small mis-understanding
Results fully pending
Outcome detachment on a scale rather epic
The patient was of course not very amused
And not just his Ego was blatantly bruised
A centaur with no application
‘Now I need an ablation’
But the healer threw a wobbly and refused
If I incise once more I have to cut at the root
Give you a mammoplasty you’d look rather cute
Without bothersome ********
No impotency detection
This is a soft solution you cannot refute
At least now flaccidity will focus your hunger
Voluptuous and curvy you’ll look like a stunner
Indulge in cream tart
And if you fart
There’s no one around to make a scared runner
29th April 2020
Zee was a tumultuous force to be taken seriously.
Men trembled in their boots when she was on her way.
The battles she fought with her centaur furiously,
Made other armies quake, run, hide, and pray.
We called her Zee, no one got close enough to know why.
She was muscular, fierce, and mighty in her majestic ways.
One called her Queen Zee once, and I do not lie,
she cut his mouth with a blade with beautiful sun rays.
Zee is here, the warriors will say, and it races through the ranks.
Your blood turns cold when you hear it, for she is frightening.
You wish now that you had battle axes, hatches, and tanks.
Because she and her centaur come into the fray slashing like lightning.
I only saw her once, but I was careful that she not catch my eye.
Her feats of daring are not rumors by an inventive word player.
I ran away in fright, hid in a glen, watched so many of my friends die.
Because they did not believe the stories, of Zee, the ultimate slayer.
Special powers has Zee, known to Joan of Arc and Attila the Hun.
Most of the warriors were easily chased, sliced, and savagely begotten.
For to go into battle against the invincible Zee is clearly quickly no fun.
Seeing her centaur come over the hill that day will never be forgotten.
Feeling tired, back home from work,
you missed your usual train,
the whole day was born to irk,
the events had made it plain.
Your secretary was late,
the 'phone did not stop ringing,
you could not negotiate
the deal that you were longing.
Having had lunch with a bore
you had also paid the bill,
you're as mad as a centaur
and feeling distinctly ill.
Strained and sore, home you arrive
with day's impedimenta,
sound out gravel on the drive,
you hesitate and enter.
You were the first to arise,
although you went to bed last,
and still with sleep in your eyes
you had prepared the breakfast.
You saw him off with a kiss,
handing his brolley and hat,
left alone, like a goddess
facing the single combat.
Beds are made and breakfast cleared,
washing machine is going,
through the house, carpets hoovered,
all this is done while you sing.
You have finished mundane chores
before your young child awakes.
then off to the high street stores,
at the lake play ducks-and-drakes.
Hurry back home yet again
even though your poor limbs ache
feed the cat and the Great Dane,
think of what surprise to bake.
One step, two steps and enter.
house is warm, it feels welcome;
stand stock-still in the centre,
look, everything's dinkum.
Slippers there waiting for you,
all's orderly 'cept yourself,
beyond belief but it's true
the mess has righted itself
Wife's on the sofa in shirk
lying there perfectly still,
doesn't know the meaning of work
and I guess she never will.
"Ballinger's pride will be the death of him,"
Was the last muttering of the old cyclops before
The poison took over. Never trust unicorn bartenders.
Young Gallimay, the town's token centaur,
Walked into this scene:
Serren's body laid across the bar.
Tempest the unicorn bartenders cleaned pint glasses. (All ladee-da.)
Two old frog friends sat in the back with lagers, blinking back at the man/horse.
Tinkerbell whizzed by with the someone's check, pregnant with her 3rd babybell.
A baby albino dire wolf slept soundly at the foot of the hat rack near his hooves.
Gallimay trotted up to the bar right beside the dead body.
"300 doubloons," said Tempest the unicorn bartender.
Gallimay gave her a look like he got hit with a frying pan.
"The dire pup," she clarified, "300 doubloons if you're interested."
Gallimay shook his head and leaned in, "Ma'am I'm here on a tip someone was poisoned to death. A text from this location saying 'I've been poisoned.'"
Gallimay looked at the body next to him
And then back at Tempest.
"What's this guy's story?"
"His name is Serren. He's a regular. Must've fell asleep."
Gallimay nudged the Cyclops' ribs.
"Hey buddy!" The body toppled
Over and hit the ground.
The Centaur took out a walkie from his vest pocket.
"I gotta 10-66 at the Imagine Inn."
"Bloody Mary?" Tempest asked Gallimay.
"Not on the job, thanks."
"No, have you talked to Bloody Mary?"
Tempest pointed her cone towards a woman at the end of the bar
Cloaked in shadows and dripping with blood.
"Mary and Serren were an item for quite awhile," Added Tempest.
Unable to help from over-hearing, Mary waved at them politely.
"Let me call you back, Ballinger," said the scarlet-soaked woman
In a barroom hush.
Outside drives of dude ranches or of hobby farms
Cast statues of horses bred from Cortez' runaways.
They stand in basket planted ferns to camouflage their hooves,
Or rear atop a barn as though to jump into a circus pool.
More at home on green way cityscapes.
A scattered cavalry would save us from ourselves.
With piercing stares, their riders try to rally troops
To rout the rest, leave us solitary soldiers of the field.
Frontage roads and roundabouts
Out flank them and surround them.
Traffic blinded how they might retreat,
Or charge, they wait in disarray.
The only value now a century of late
Is a centaur kind of horsemanship:
One goal between an animal and man.
Graffiti by the day adds to epaulets of pigeon .
Mobs would have them roped and quartered down,
Hauled to salvage parks unseen revision of our past.
To those casting heroes into bronze, "Be discreet,
Bronze lasts longer than human judgements do."