Other Fantastic Poetry and Quotes

Our faces are fearsome,
Our bodies gigantic,
Our shimmering talons
Are harder than steel.
We swoop over housetops
In search of a morsel,
A succulent human,
Our favorite meal.

We'll carry you off
If we happen to spy you.
You cannot escape
When we loom overhead.
We're Guffin and Giffin
Unthinkable griffins...
If you hear us shrieking,
Hide under your bed.

- J. Prelutsky

My breath so sharp, my stare so hot
Petrified them on the spot.
Here those hapless knights remain,
Slowly rusting in the rain.

- J. Prelutsky

"Four flying horses swooped down toward us, hooves tucked up, tails flapping idly with the wind, heads held high without regard to aerodynamics, wings slowly beating.
"Had I ever seen anything more beautiful?  Had I ever in my life, here in Everworld, or my real life back in the [real] world, had I ever seen anything to compare?   It made me want to cry for a universe where no such creature existed or could exist."
- April, from Everworld VII - Gateway to the Gods (by K. A. Applegate)

We're courteous, unusual and charming,
We're thoughtful and amazingly sincere.
We only need a little admiration
To fill our lives with happiness and cheer.

I will admit we're rather odd to look at,
Our heads and tails are sometimes out of place,
Occasionally we breath a little fire,
But that should be no reason for disgrace.

The Cockatrice, for instance, is quite useful,
Though small, he has a mortifying glance.
If a mountain's in your way, he'll make it crumble,
His life is filled with danger and romance.

The Unicorn, by contrast, is so gentle
His horn can sweeten clouded pools and springs.
He lives on flowers and cannot be captured
By errant knights, or emperors or kings.

The Manticore is equally appealing,
He jumps about and has a prickly tail.
Three rows of teeth and two superb mustaches,
You'll find him leaping over hill and dale.

Our country is incredibly exciting,
You'd never see a Mushrush back at home,
You couldn't grow a Goose Tree in Chicago,
You'd never find a Hippocamp in Rome.

Where else do serpents have two heads, or seven?
Where else are Centaurs quite so fancy-free?
Would you ever find a Griffin in your garden?
Do your Bishops ever frolic in the sea?

Your zoos are filled with simple things like Tigers,
Menageries like ours are more unique.
We have Ant-Lions, Phoenixes and Dragons,
Our Mermaids are mysterious and chic.

We'll show you flying horses from the heavens,
We'll give you rides on monsters from the sea,
We'll take your hand and walk with you through fables,
Through legends filled with charm and poetry.

Though quite unreal, we're still the best beasts ever,
The fact that we're forgotten makes us weep.
The world that dreamed us cares for us no longer,
Its eyes are dim, its visions are asleep.

But some day Unicorns will be remembered,
And Griffins will again be brave and strong,
A Phoenix will be seen on the horizon
And all forgotton creatures shall belong.

- B. Wersba

Take the horse from the centaur
and you take away the sleek grace,
the strength of harnessed power.
What is left can still run across fields,
after a fashion, but is easily winded;
what is left will therefore erect buildings
to divide the open plains, so he no longer
must face the wide expanse where once
his equine legs raced the winds
and, sometimes, won.

Take the bull from the Minotaur
but what is left will still assemble
a herd for the sake of ruling over it.
What is left will kill for sport,
in an arena thronged with spectators
shouting "Olé!" at each deadly thrust.

Take the fish from the merman:
What is left can still swim,
if only with lots of splashing; gone
is the sleek sliding through waves,
alert to the subtle changes in the current.
What is left will build ships
so he can cross the oceans without
getting his feet wet; what is left won't care
if his boats pollute the seas so he can no
longer breathe, so long as their passage
can keep him from sinking.

Take the goat from the satyr
but what is left will dance out of reach
before you have a chance
to get that Dionysian streak of mischief,
the love of music and wine, the rutting parts
that like to party all the day through.
What is left will still be stubborn and refuse
to give way; what is left will lock horns
and butt heads with anyone who challenges him.

Take the bird from the harpy
but the memory of flying, a constant yearning ache
for skies so tantalizingly distant,
will still remain, as will the established pecking orders,
the bitter squabbling over food and territory,
and the magpie eye that lusts for shiny objects.
What is left will cut down the whole forest
to feather his sprawling urban nest.

At the end of these operations,
tell me:  What is left?  The answer:  Man,
a creature divorced from nature,
who's forgotten whre he came from.

- L. Schimel