Poetry

Dincara's Lair

Welcome to Dincaras Lair,

If you have browsed throughout our site, you would have no doubt encountered some poems along the way.

They have been randomly selected from the collections below and published within the site.

This poetry was written for many purposes, the main one being therapy to let the demons out. Other reasons would be of course love. Love for everything and everyone.

Below, is a randomly selected poem from our collations.

Every day we will pick a random collection and add a button to view it in it's entirity. Some have been put into their correct order, others are a shamble.

This is to keep everyone honest, and means you have to come back tomorrow and see what's on the slab.

Today, being the 20th of July 2019

We have chosen

Dreams

 

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Days of Memory

Days of Memory

In the days of memory
Of dazed states of mind,
In the days of memory,
We almost lost mankind.

Long and horrific was that night.
With the smell of the dying,
And the unforgettable sight,
Of lost children crying.

Mothers were forever wondering,
If their babies were to be born.
Fathers were forever pondering,
If their kin would see a dawn.

All the pain and misery,
Will the teachers tell,
Our children of our world history?
Telling of how it fell.

They never cared of what we were taught.
Now there’s no one left to blame.
Our days are growing short,
We could have lost the eternal flame.

Mothers will tell of the sorrow,
Fathers will tell of the lame.
Both fear tomorrow,
For it holds the same.

In the days of memory,
Of dazed states of mind.
In the days of memory
We lost mankind.
Written somewhere between 1983-86 by Dincara


Dreams

Home fire

He walks past yet another corner,
On the pitch blacked put path.
Almost on the verge of near exhaustion,
He wishes the distance was only half.

The sun is set in the west,
The horizon is encompassed with a red glow.
Darkness is approaching from the east,
The Evening star is beginning to grow.

He passes inns and other abodes,
Then in his heart he feels a yearning.
Before he even turns he can smell it,
And now he sees the Home fire burning.

The journey that took forever,
Is but one world's turning.
He sees their windowed silhouettes,
They wait in patience for his returning.

His footsteps echo upon the path,
His faithful hound barks with delight.
The door opens with arms opened wide,
Happy that their man's home for the night.



Paradise Contradiction

Weeping Willow

Where? Of where are you,
My weeping willow tree?
Is this terrain too rough,
To support one as fragile as thee?
This place is good for others,
Who have the same as your needs.
They live on in harmony,
Throwing into the wind their seeds.
Like a carpet of green,
They spread out for miles,
Surrounding a water hole of rock,
A travellers view captivated for miles.
If only you could see it,
My weeping willow tree,
Your tears would dry up,
To feel so full and so free.


Ramblings

Where's the Wall

Where's the wall I'm trying to find,
So I can drive these thoughts from my mind.
To receive it's pleasure I need the wall,
Then I can see what I'm searching for.

The body craves for it's addictive damage,
Yet the soul creates a new way to manage.
Although the wall is hard and cold to the touch,
The body still desires it's violence too much.

The head becomes numb from the bashing,
Images smashing their way through the crashing.
We continue to stagger through until, thud!
Recognition has the sweet taste of warm blood.

I found the wall I've been searching for,
Why wasn't it there when I looked before.
But the wall is too high as you can see,
That there's nothing of what used to be me.



Serenades to a Priceless Princess

Writings of an Anonymous Poet

To be loved and to love,
Is an achievement in it’s self.
But to be friends as well as lovers,
Is to grasp an impossible wealth.
Rarely will two individual entities;
Without provocation or knowledge of the other,
Come together so smoothly and passively,
As Nature surely goes to its mother.
Yet this united being suffers,
The intolerable pain of persecuting peers.
A once impenetrable piece of marvel,
Now shrouded in uncertainties and fears.
Through all the trauma and torment,
Placed upon the path of this unison,
Like a rubber ball they in turn bounce back,
Enduring the compression and withstanding the expansion.
Alas, the rubber ball can only last,
As long as a rubber ball can.
Are these the writings of an anonymous poet?
Or are they the cries of a mistaken man?



Special

Welcome to My Parlour Said the Spider to the Fly

Welcome to my parlour said the spider to the fly; more aptly "Welcome to my poetry said the writer to the reader. For it as much the case for the fly as it is for the reader. If you were able to flick through the pages then maybe you wouldn't become the spiders next meal, but untangle yourself to fly away.

But. To read the poems in depth, not to browse, but to read as if you were in fact the writer. Then. Then you would see a totally different world indeed.

You will be able to feel the raw emotion. You will be able to sense the fears. Visually seeing all the fantasies. Be entangled in the intrigue.

You can listen to, and hear, differing views on politics, the supernatural, and the ultimate question; are we alone?

You can be swept off your feet with the sweet serenades, and yet then, be brought crashing down by the broken hearts. Only to be lifted back up again with a love song. Be it of a person, country, or just the populace in general.

All in all, you would be caught in the spiders web. Not to become a feeble meal. But. But, maybe. To become a spider yourself.

See the person. See the Spider.
An introduction to my collection, many a year ago.


The Garden

Foreword (The Garden)

Garden is a small shire, within the boundaries of the sinister Nothing. The people, both animated and mortal, keep their shire clean and beautiful. They also protect their shire from natural foes. Life is usually calm and tranquil in this serene shire, known as Garden.

Nothing's infamous tyrant, Natas, wants most, if not all, of Nothing under his total control. He usually leaves Garden alone. That is until he gets bored with his demonic means of entertainment.

The actual land mass, Nothing, is surrounded by a shallow void; namely "Nothing's Void". To the northern tip of Nothing, across it's Void, lies the Ancient Lands. It was there, were the Ancients would wander (and wonder) about. I say used to; as they were all wiped out by an unpleasant plague. The inhabitants of Nothing, were protected from this horrid plague by the sheer vastness of Nothing's Void.

In the following poems and letters, you will have the opportunity of getting to know most of the Inhabitants; most, not all. You will meet the Wanderer, who with the use of his TRIPPER (Time Rectifier in Parallel Places, Envelope Runner), visits the Ancients.

A fact, which you might find startling, is that Garden, Nothing, and their inhabitants actually exist. There is a piece of the Wanderer, in all of us. What's more, Nothing and Garden aren't that far away. Everything has it's good with it's bad.

Everywhere you look, there is a fragment of Nothing in what you see.