"centaur" poems
The napalan man in a violet cape
descended the stair with a lopsided gait
a wretched procession, subscribers in cue
rattling off as they stream from the pew
sounds and smells from a shadowy place
a catholic priest to gin up base
lanterns strung from bolted doors
cobbled streets and wooden floors
stepping stones and iron bell
fortified by the citadel
hallowed halls and sepulcher
dragon cane for the horse drawn tour
castle turret, archer holes
centaur scribed in chamber bowls
garden columns in courtyard view
the blood ballet and hullabaloo
ancient tombs on warrior grounds
gods and saints who made their rounds
goliath still with battered scythe
knelt in prayer and mummified
battle fires and crowds that roar
gallows, caves, abysmal war
gargoyles flock the terraced slope
pearly gates to bring on hope
serpents, snakes and burning ash
lava bombs and trident clash
mariners drift in absentee
as neptune rises from the Tyrrhenian Sea
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
The centaur; he who
channels two halves together
on an arrow's quill.
© Matthew Harlovic
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I,
Born of Ixion’s and the cloud’s embrace;
With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly,
A steed Thessalian with a human face.
Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase
The leaves, half dead already with affright;
I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race
Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight.
4.4k
The small blue Arab stallion dances on the hill
like a glancing breaker, like a storm rearing in the sky,
In his prick-ears,the wind, that wanderer and spy,
sings of the dunes of Arabia, lion-coloured still.
The small blue stallion poses like a centaur-god,
netting the sun in his sea-spray mane, forgetting
his stalwart mares for a phantom galloping unshod;
changing for a heat-mirage his tall and velvet hill.
3.6k
When Mr. Apollinax visited the United States
His laughter tinkled among the teacups.
I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees,
And of Priapus in the shrubbery
Gaping at the lady in the swing.
In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah’s
He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.
His laughter was submarine and profound
Like the old man of the sea’s
Hidden under coral islands
Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,
Dropping from fingers of surf.
I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair
Or grinning over a screen
With seaweed in its hair.
I heard the beat of centaur’s hoofs over the hard turf
As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.
“He is a charming man”—”But after all what did he mean?”—
“His pointed ears…. He must be unbalanced,”—
“There was something he said that I might have challenged.”
Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. Cheetah
I remember a slice of lemon, and a bitten macaroon.
3.5k
You are a melancholy mermaid,
neither here nor there, pain eats your soul,
I am a centaur of desire,
fallen between man and animal.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 10:40 PM UTC
The morning cigarette,
With a cup of igneous coffee,
On an early winter morning,
Alleviates the morning high,
Like the smoke from molten lava.
The immature ride to the vacant highway,
The zephyr gust from the near mountains,
Touches the juvenile jacket
And through the quietus of nature,
The wings inside sails away.
The green undertone of cannabis,
It's a rational sensation,
With every roll the paper silhouettes,
Like a shotgun of peace,
The buds displace on the white face.
The rejuvenating smoke calibrates,
Through the dry pipes,
And layers the ravenous soul,
Like a honey bee,
Pouring the golden sugar,
Into the barren depth of an empty bowl.
Like a centaur with tenacious wings,
Accelerating with the air,
Feeling every loop of a fresh wound,
Riding from north,
And taking the fear out,
Like a first raindrop to hit the ground.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
Righteous soul
Emerge unscathed
From fires of temptation
Ignore the Hydra
Study the centaur
Link the division between
Destruction and creation
Goddess, queen, princess, witch
God, king, wizard, demon
A demon’s in the way
But the animals are on your side
Says Francis of Assisi
Observe the three in OM
Chant till you come home
Oh, righteous soul
Emerge unscathed
From fires of temptation
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
As she twirls a blood red tulip between her fingers,
dogwood blossoms fall and cling to her hair like snow.
It is deep in Springtime
and midday sunlight filters through new leaves,
making, ever changing, antique lace patterns on her skin.
Teasing my view
I now and then glimpse the efflorescence of her *******
and her body's perfect design.
The Faerie Queen,
strolling, floating, in a wildflower glade amid the newness of the season.
A ****** unknown to her,
through dreamy eyes, I secretly peer, drunk with the vision of her.
Tittled by the nakedness of her toes combing blades of grass,
with her eyes fixed on waxwings in a puddle bath,
she quietly laughs.
Startled, I laugh along with her.
Breaking my silence,
I drop my lyre.
The strings play an eerie dissident chord as I run off to the wood.
My hooves throwing sod,
my hair streaming in the wind.
To the poets who sometimes do not feel inspired, I was inspired to write this poem by falling dogwood petals, and I have always wanted to use the word tittled in a poem
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC
YOUR hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood,
Even where horrible green parrots call and swing.
My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
I knew that horse-play, knew it for a murderous thing.
What wholesome sun has ripened is wholesome food to eat,
And that alone; yet I, being driven half insane
Because of some green wing, gathered old mummy wheat
In the mad abstract dark and ground it grain by grain
And after baked it slowly in an oven; but now
I bring full-flavoured wine out of a barrel found
Where seven Ephesian topers slept and never knew
When Alexander's empire passed, they slept so sound.
Stretch out your limbs and sleep a long Saturnian sleep;
I have loved you better than my soul for all my words,
And there is none so fit to keep a watch and keep
Unwearied eyes upon those horrible green birds.
2k
After the whipping he crawled into bed,
Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping.
How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red!
He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweeping
A black, frayed rag of tattered cloud before
In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed,
Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor
Fat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed.
Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light
Splashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's mouth
Shone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright,
The crooked constellations of the South;
Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars,
The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars.
Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen,
Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of gold
Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again,
Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold,
A black chest bore the skull and bones in white
Above a scrawled "Gunpowder!" By the flames,
Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite,
Hailing their fellows with outrageous names,
The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons.
"Doubloons!" they said. The words crashed gold. "Doubloons!"
2k
Once upon a solitude night in September
I caught the shadow of a stranger
It left me with a puzzled mind and a puzzled heart
Trying to figure it all at once
I kept questioning "Who is he? Is he real? Is he just a lie I make for myself?"
Clueless me, with a soul of a centaur, seeking for a truth
I walked into his shadow, slowly
Didn't know it'll take me to the real shape of someone, someone real
I looked at him
And it felt like epiphany
Once upon an ineffable day in October
The sun was shining and setting blissfully
We talked, he looked at me right in my soul
What a familiar stranger you were
Such a perfect contradiction
Dark and bright
Cold and warm
A serious man and a playful child
I felt like I don't know him but yet it felt like I knew him from the start
He rescued me from deserted, hopeless space where I once belong
And he was no more a stranger to me
Once upon a day in mid-November
The lightning strucked from every stance
Everything seemed to have fallen apart
and the darkest past still run to chase both of us
That's when I knew, even before I realized
that maybe I fell for him
with every pieces that remains
And now, in the end of cold December
I will ask him
To consider being my partner in crime
to help me continue writing our story
It might be blindingly beautiful
It could also be terribly tragic
but maybe
We will be some of the lucky ones
who will one day find a true bliss
Hopefully
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 12:18 AM UTC
SHE might, so noble from head
To great shapely knees
The long flowing line,
Have walked to the altar
Through the holy images
At pallas Athene's Side,
Or been fit spoil for a centaur
Drunk with the unmixed wine.
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Therein lies the fur, filled with running wind,
Milkweed in the scruff, the scent of wild-wood,
Some mystery-hearted forest where pulse begins.
Therein lies the Centaur, satyr, and god-disguised swan,
Ageless wonders prowled upon by an age-old Parthenon.
You broke your wolf’s tooth through those haunches of lore.
Therein lies the fur, filled with barking dust and dandelion war,
With a spine that stretched back to the she-wolf and city-birth,
The peeled nerve of a howl once tremored your Aurelian lips.
Therein lies the serf, hunter, fairer hand, and lord,
From wattles and daub, the wandering-sands of Saracen, or Crusader’s moor.
You kept the path beside to remind that instinct shines as the holiest earth.
Therein lies the fur, the warm, ungovernable peasant of sleep,
Ever prophetic in your skies by eyeshut-trace of the hunting moon,
Twitching at the day’s thousand faces, all asleep in themselves.
Therein lies the soldier, nurse, chaplain, and fell-prayer,
Mange-like war is the whimpering season with its flea-bitten welts of stars.
You struck blind but true at the throat of gas-hissing war.
Therein lies the fur, outracing the rain and the spout,
Nested with more birds and Autumn song than rain,
Your sleeping ear pooled like cool eaves of the barn.
I sing once more like a boy into your unfolded ear.
Listen always for my ancient, choral voice and your chores of play,
And race earback to the sun in the belly-grass of your free-eyed fields.
Leave your last paw mark, torn on the red clay of my hand.
You are forever wrapped in human touch, ageless and aged,
And if ever the dark in madder darkness encroaches,
Leave black eternity to my faithful eyes.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC
the centaur does not always want to run, the centaur
sometimes sits, and accepts what is told to him
one must sit still to learn. But, what the centaur finds
is that when he sits for too long, shackles begin
to be thrown over him, and his muscled arms and legs
strain, break free, and launch away, burning bridges behind him
out of an instinct of hatred for constraints and a wild passion
for freedom- sometimes he forgets that he needs
to cross those bridges again. But it's okay. He'll find a way.
But, sure as hell, he'll learn his lesson, and he won't sit still. It's just as well.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
The right hand that harkened to soothe thy brows
forsooth vanguards the left that spells thy ruin.
She came to thee in nakedness ‘ye saw,
thy yellow grin played her like a clavecin.
Whilom vase filled with posy gently care,
thy indecision maketh poison alack,
from its petals sith thee became a hare
thy hands darketh the ink already black.
A sweven verily haunts the fortress,
swith as the horns of a centaur bleed her
to her I swore fealty my naked mistress,
my lance revealed thy realms of plunder.
In the blood thee spilled, made mirror, there lay,
reflecting a portrait of vile beasts and a man.
The creature that ‘ye bade devour thy prey
is the wolf that one day shall swallow the sun.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 9:24 PM UTC
I've been stung by a wasp on the same part of my heart
so many times that this familiar
disappointment shouldn't hurt anymore.
Gardeners develop callouses on their hands
because nurturing others to life with love
is the hardest thing they will ever do.
I can show you the rough patch of tissue
and muscle, right on the epicardium; I've cut myself open
time and again for others to peer inside, that it has
become automatic, synchronized with each beat
and thump. I don't know how to become close
to people without bleeding for them, but none
yet have been able to withstand the sight of
a brilliant crimson geyser showering
from my chest. If day after day I continue getting stung,
suffering like Prometheus when the eagle tore at his liver,
I know that I'll get rescued like him, too. Only I won't
be looking out for Heracles and a centaur- just a person
with open, calloused hands.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC
Trained by a centaur the grandson of Zeus,
said to wield power in his colossal frame
1(lilium) an' a seven cowhides to shield
(The Bullwark of Thachaens.....or G(ee))
his on screen name,
Responsible for the deaths of (twenty-eight at Troy)
and so many unaccounted Trojan Lords....
Fights (to a draw) Hector as Homer cites
associated with death as his Lily attests
but eventually falls on (own) sword.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
Twigs scraped your bare feet
as you crossed the forest
swarming in bleeding leaves and old scars
in full haste and restlessness.
The scratches on your elbow,
did you get them when you slid
the veins aside and forced your way
out of my mind,
to peer out my eyes?
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
I am your fugitive,
Running to escape my fate.
Underneath the moonlight, I feel safe;
Though, I am still the fool.
My innocence wishes to survive your arrows, centaur; you,
a master of archery.
You haven’t missed one shot on me,
Aimed at my heart, I do not fall.
Aimed at my heart, I do not falter.
Underneath the stars, I feel safe.
I am your fugitive,
Running to escape my mistakes.
Underneath the skies, I have misplaced my loyalty; as such does, the fool.
My heart wishes to love one,
banded with honesty.
That is not you, master of archery.
Aimed at my head, I still think.
Aimed at my head, I still wander;
Away to where I may feel safe.
Jun 30, 2020
Jun 30, 2020 at 10:02 PM UTC
The sun peeks to say hello
As the nocturnal moon decides to hide
From it's opposing foe
Way on the other side.
Colors dance up high
While silhouettes of birds
Dance and play in the sky
More beautiful than words.
Morning has been a time of it's own
Sine the beginning of the world itself;
It's the greatest gift men have known
More magical than wizard, centaur or elf.
Morning is Morning, and nothing else.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 5:28 AM UTC
A time will come for wants and needs
for things we thought by summer trees
when things were odd,but odd to us
is strange and changed and disarranged
the thought of right was surely wrong
yet wrong right now can still belong
and time it still falls from the face
where hands they glide by gentle pace
concealed by a sneer that waits
a centaur, it minds the gates
with children's teeth around his waist
and golden locks down by his face
return once more while still awake
the gray, the old, with ernest hate
to strip the bloom from garden napes
and prune the vines in oddly shapes
to laugh, to cry, to sing once more
and soak in waters they once adored
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
Peers on your window
at night
when you're asleep
and inhales the arch
of your shoulder
barely visible
to the moonlight.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC
A sweaty finger, and blinded eye
Aimlessly wandering amid muffled grunts
Lead me here
And turn me there
Whirring fan, outdoes the sounds
Suddenly deafened by padded walls
Let me guide you around
My fingers in your hand
The world flipped, and was
Turned upside down
When suddenly I,
Was leading around.
Careful,
Touch.
Oh-
Don’t make a sound
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
i’m not compatible
With any codes or formats of the human animal
i’m an identity cannibal
With hungry dementors creeping out my finger holds
i’ll sink my teeth in any other being until i become actual
That’s simply transnational
i’m fictional until proven factual
But what can i truly be called?
i sometimes wonder if i’m an extraterrestrial
Or i could be a disease
You probably wouldn’t even notice
That next to you and inside me too i’m not part of your species
But believe me
If i could be a human i probably would be
Instead of living in the facade of my human personality
Maybe i could be a demigod
A diverging half person while merging with a centaur
Maybe as a child, while meek and mild i was left on the step of a synagogue
And monks and priests prayed over me and summoned up my human parts
Or maybe i’m a deception
And during birth i fell to earth and grew up into a desk job
But late at night when out of sight i transform into an autobot
Tare off my human skin and do some tricks in the parking lot
Or maybe i’m just a person
Who doesn’t really fit into any kind of person list and
Just maybe my ways are little bit reversed and
Maybe next week i’ll send this verse in
Bold letters into the universe and
Just maybe it will send me a tombstone and a hearse and
i’ll just die to the self outside of myself
And become an actual person
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 1:43 AM UTC