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 12th of November 2019

We have chosen

The Garden



Days of Memory


Usually laughter runs through our street,
Carried along by a thousand feet.
Dawn till late,
My, how these times are great!

With a new birth,
There is a lot of mirth
And a fair bit of celebrating.
My, how these times are exhilarating!

But there are the ups and downs
To drown out the joyful sounds.
But we do recover well.
My, how these times are, swell!

Day in, day out,
These times, without a doubt,
Are free of all misery!
But the future, I cannot see.
Written by Dincara 1985-1986 Currently being illustrated by Ettenyl Laeb


Rek Curt

It was totally awesome,
I've never seen so many wheels.
One after the other they came,
Each hot on the other's heels.

Rek Curt reined in the beast,
Bringing it to a slow stop.
Air rushed out from somewhere,
And out the cab Rek did hop.

I followed him into the shop,
'Tis how I learned his name.
I asked all about his life,
He simply replied "trucking's my game."

He told of a wonderful country,
Seen through the trucks windscreens.
Black river sun up to sun down,
Bordered with incredible scenes.

We bade farewell to each other,
With a roar the beast did start.
As the big rig slowly moved off,
There was a strange yearn in my heart.

Paradise Contradiction


Black is to start this game.
The player is to be Mr Hussein.
He moves his pawn into Kuwait,
Hoping that no one will litigate.

But someone has seen his push;
White player is to be Mr Bush.
His pawn forms an alliance with the Saudi's,
Thus using their runways for the coming sorties.

The game is slow but continues,
It's propaganda splashed all over the news.
Officials see the forthcoming wedge,
Black is mindlessly on edge.

Black's name is now mud;
He unleashes the inaccurate SKUD.
Whitels next move is simple and plain;
Swift and brutal with his jet plane.

Black's knight moves to the border,
Officials are crying out for some order.
White retaliates with much the same,
Playing out this deadly game.

When it all comes to the end,
Who is foe, and who is friend?
Players seem to know when it begins,
That in the end no one wins.
March 1991 A.J. Corkery


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

Intended Ploy

Delighted to here your new name,
Another derived of the Gaelic fame.
Righteous and just causes of the same,
Insights revealed for this strange game.
Oh, the game of life has it’s joy,
Night watches this child with it’s toy,
Reaching and twisting with intended ploy,
Once again Mother cries out, OI !!!
Come one and come they all,
Cries through this fleshy wall.
Oh, to dance and gait down the hall,
I know that we shall come this fall.


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

Guidance (A letter from Emalf)

Hi! Doesn't look good, does it?

The Great One, has given me this bitter job. He has given it to me for one reason; that being, whatever happens to Garden, I will still be here. Maybe, just maybe, you'll protect me from the loneliness. The job, as much as I don't want it, is to inform you of the matters at hand. No offence, it's not you, it's the events that I have been told about. They have already commenced.

I've been introduced before. Now it's time to get to know each other a bit better. I'm Emalf, and you are . . . Come on, don't be shy, after all, we may be the only two left. I'd prefer to be friends, instead of two beings, who won't communicate.

There might still be time. I've contacted the Wanderer. He's received the message, but, well, you don't want to know. Well! Whilst staying with his ancestor, his TRIPPER was stolen. Thieves were everywhere in the Ancient days. I did warn him about that.

The Great One, has chosen you, to protect his favourite realm. I have faith in all of His decisions, and in you.

For now, I'll let you think. Guard Garden to the best of your ability. If you ever need guidance and moral support, just look up. You'll find me. I'm always here.