Long Dames Poems
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Many in the limelight aim
Despite diverse back rounds they came
Whether a regular Joe Schmoe
or a ma dames
For stratospheric fame
Sought after imprimatur
like some competitive games
Possibly an ordinary Jonny comb lately
or the common Jimmy James schmuck oh
Maybe known by some handi
capping them as lame
Transcending unsightly infliction
unwilling to let being maim
(This from drafted
scarred acquiring above name)
Yet overcoming any stigma or shame
Proving that prejudice
against bloody carnage
can replaced with pride
against cooling jets fiery angry flame
With self-acceptance
sans love of self would tame.
Strong are her hands,
Darkened by summer’s touch,
Now pale like ghosts in twilight's hush.
Could these be her hands?
Did they dip in scented creams
By tranquil pleasure pools?
Did they bathe in moonlit beams
In serenity’s quiet rules?
Did they drink from wild skies,
Resting upon gentle knees?
Did they roll cigars
Or barter in diamonds with ease?
On the feet of holy Madonnas,
Did they wilt golden blooms?
Is it belladonna's dark blood
That in their palms now looms?
These hands, hunting and bruising,
Swelling like dawn's first light,
Seeking nectar, mixing poisons,
Bringing the day from the night.
What dream seized these hands,
Stretching in distant lands,
A dream of Asia's mystic ways,
Of Khenghavars or Zion's days?
These hands did not sell oranges,
Nor shine at the feet of gods;
They did not wash the diapers
Of blind, heavy children in squads.
They are not hands of cousins,
Nor workers with sweat-streaked brows,
Burned by the factory’s fire,
In the woods where stench endows.
These hands bend backs but do not harm,
Stronger than machines' alarm,
Mightier than a horse's might,
They stir like furnaces alight.
Their flesh sings the Marseillaises,
Never prayers in sanctuaries,
They tighten necks of wicked women,
Crush the hands of noble dames,
Hands stained with guilt and shame.
The glow of these loving hands
Turns the heads of meek sheep;
In their fingers' tasty rings,
The sun sets a ruby deep.
A mark of the common folk
Darkens them like a mother’s breast,
The backs of these hands kissed
By every proud rebel’s quest.
In the great sun of loaded love,
They pale, yet marvelous they stand,
On the bronze of machine guns
Through insurgent Paris grand.
Ah! sometimes, O sacred hands,
In your fists where hearts tremble,
Lips unsobered by your command,
Chains clinking, clear symbols.
And it’s a strange shiver
In our beings when, sometimes,
We seek to unwind you, Angel Hands,
Even if it means making your fingers bleed.
:: 06.05.2024 ::
Coy sideways glances at the man of your dreams
Holding hands in secret so nobody sees
Amazed more girls don’t act the way you do
Sex before marriage – no you want to remain pure
Total commitment to one man in your life
Even when you’re dating you remain so demure
Always ready to see some bedroom action
Never turning sex down its like some fatal attraction
Devotedly he now pursues
Chase begins with eager anticipation
His heart pounding and heavy respiration
Ardour inflamed by her beauty
She’s sublime and sexy, such a cutie
Eureka is his final thought
Dames sure are naughty when they’re caught
Written by 'JaDazzle'
Collaboration between Jan Allison & Darren Watson
14th April 2014
The poem is not written about Eileen Ghali but simply dedicated to her. She has been inspirational in encouraging us to continue our collaborative writing after she read our poem 'Bronte Inspiration'.
If you find this verse slightly apocalyptic, don't despair. We are not there yet. But the trend has started
Mankind, on the brink of change
We're at the cusp, robotics age
Lives, work and love be re-arranged
The world stares down a yet blank page
No, nothing will be as we used to
Computer brains solving all
Insert itself our minds into
Not like a breeze but as a squall
This automation will be scary
When fix your car and buy the food
The changeover rather hairy
"It will be for your own good"
A.I. knows all of your demeanor
More than you're knowing of yourself
To act as guard, assistant, screener
But also master in itself
The jobs be lost. Don't need as many
Good working skills - A.I. is king
They will be gone like U.S. penny
The change is what new age shall bring
Controlled by phones and computers
No longer conscious what we see
Hey, women, men're no longer suitors
As if all guys are swept to sea
Robotics ends the "loving troubles"
Those wanting sex will find it cheap
While marriage heads to utter rubbles
Girls shall be left alone, to weep
The feminism shall be finished
Good wives, be clinging to thy men!
Deranged dames be diminished
Caprice, delusion equals ban
"The intellect grows kids in vitro"
Oh, ladies, time to change your mind
Be meek and loyal, as in retro
Or find yourselves be left behind
Men opt for freedom, solace, money
Them choosing peace is way to go
Build fewer families, unfunny
And populations shrink, not grow
A pension doled to all the living
No jobs be left in one's old field
Expect no longer earn a living
Perhaps a fate to be unsealed
Computers write software and verses
The actors dead to play again
Gene mods avail age reverses
And there will be no more pain
My verse describes the thinnest sliver
Of what is coming down the pike
The Earth beneath our feet shall quiver
Choose to accept it or dislike
January 18, 2026
I dreamt of a bygone past
through a real vision of mind,and
with wide-open eyes: so real
was the lively dream
that all my senses savored
it as long as it lasted...
I traveled in captivity,
abandoned myself
to a journey in remoteness:
I saw impregnable fortressess
and unconquerable castles
on sun-drenched,barren hills;
so great,so immense
was my credibility...
Lush,virgin forests lying beneath
massive and foggy mountains,
making the merry sounds
of sparkling streams
and crackling leaves;
alone in the wildrness
to test the strenght
of my erring spirit:
when I could hear in a sky without clouds:
God's spirit floating on the winds,
and fierce,clashing armies
filling the murky air with death....
I dreamed of lovely dames
riding stallions alongside
young,handsome princes:
I even joined in their frantic cavalcades
through groves of pines and maples,
to find the glimmering meadows
where their bodies united in amorous
and passionate delight...
I dreamt of a mysterious past,
buried with the opaque secret
of the Dark Ages, when innocence
was considered a rare virtue,
elevating itself to a place of blue:
where God listened with joy
to adorn that soul with glory...
There is a quick-witted woman I know with three names; her silhouette is a mystery; she's had multiple fragile frames.
Many have tried and failed to tame her rather long mane, but honestly, they were lame flames.
Her treks motivate her for life’s endless, gruelling games.
Called a traveller but never exploring for fame, she isn't one of those Instagram dames.
Nobody can catch her riddle
runner strides, she won't win any elections; her temper never slides.
But that humour will take you on some rollercoaster rides.
A compass nucleus of fears revives stifled tides.
Some have labelled her a peaceful poet and writer.
This makes her laugh; she's always been an ample fighter.
In her day job, she wrestles with a highlighter.
Glued to a screen, she implores the sky to make her mind lighter.
When she was knee-high, she dreamed of being a screenwriter.
A secret rapper, perhaps she will win a Grammy as a songwriter.
Only time will tell where she will land with a whisky and pen in her hands on another all-nighter.
Oh wonderful jumbleful spring
hormones awakening after winter naps
making bumbling idiots
out of unsuspecting saps
Oh dopey me, I bathed
perfumed, powdered and dusted
picked out slinky sexy things
getting more and more flust’ed
I skipped down the lights
and locked the stairs
let down the dogs and
tripped over my hair
“Dames Javid” I purred
“come sugar me some lip”
as I swiveled my eyelashes
and batted my hip
He tongued on his trip,
as he blew in my eye
then gazed in my ear
and heaved a big sigh
Ah, Springtime, it’s jumbleful
don’t you agree?
Cause pobody’s nerfect,
especially me.
All gorgeous babes, “Made in U.S.”
But minds, oh my god, a mess
Pontificating, pointing fingers
The oozing hurt that screams and lingers
They’re on YouTube and TikTok
To share pain and talk, talk, talk
How no good men are out there
All men are evil, they declare
Who pays, for what, then when and why
Don’t fit the mold? F.U., goodbye
Love’s now transaction, what’s my cut?
Became so common, it’s a rut
Demanding dough at every turn
Big bucks he spends, or else he’ll burn
Capricious, dizzy, double-faced
Girls call for power, to be chased
Cannot accept what men are 'bout
Disliked one word and all’s in doubt
No patience finding kindred soul
So used to play the boss’s role
Surprise-surprise, men walk away
They seek soulmates, not being prey
Someone who’s kind, warm and sweet
With whom to make one’s life complete
The fruits the feminism bears
It’s also truth of life that bares
Be strong and pushy and demand
With dreams of home built on sand
The men are moths and women – flames
Don’t this work well with angry dames?
As age progresses, panic struck
Girls, mend your minds, else out of luck
Traditions worked for thousand years
Embrace them, cast away your fears
To have man’s back and fire going
Instead of nagging have love flowing
Men - simple creatures, fielding calls
For hearty meals and hollow balls
A ‘thank you, darling”, “you’re the best”
Shall stoke romance, preserving zest
Men don’t need much, but not the fight
Home’s place for cuddle and delight
Hey, babes, surrender, get embraced
And may your family be graced
Sept 25, 2025
Big Ben trains hard in the gym,
To prepare for his athletics games,
And, training in Coventry, hymn,
There’s a local interest in games.
“I’ve been able to train 2 to 3 times
a day, 6 days a week, I get the miles
in on the track and do the big [mines],
weights, in the gym. [I’m all smiles].
I’m making sure my body’s in the best
way possible leading into…competition
whether it’s the [Euro Champ’s chest],
the Paralympics, or just [in meet action].”
Ben wheelchair races in class T34,
And in 2015 broke the British record,
For the 100, 200, 400 and 800m door,
Born with CP, suffocated by his cord.
In his teens he took up swimming,
But found he had a chlorine allergy,
So he went into wheelchair racing,
After a British Athletics talent day.
The Euros in Swansea took place,
In 2014, and Ben collected a bronze,
For the 800m which he did deftly ace,
In a time of 1 min 56 + 11 milliseconds.
Next came another Euro, Grosseto,
Two years later. Ben scored thrice,
In the 100, 400 and 800m gusto,
To win bronzes for his thrown dice.
He did participate in the Rio Games,
Saying: “Just being able to call
yourself a Paralympian and, [dames],
being able to be in the Village [tall]
and rub shoulders with some
of the best athletes - that is
something that drives me [on]
everyday.” Coventry’s top biz.
Love can be so hard to find,
I'm on my grind,
distraught.
I make decent money, but
love can be so hard to find.
Booty calls are all I find
confusing my mind,
I seem to always be
one step behind.
I can't find love, so
booty calls are all I find.
Blunt, aggressive, I tell the truth.
I am to cool,
for lame dames that ridicule.
Love can be so cruel..
So I refrain from spitting game, and
Avoid being someones fool...
I strive to find,
but I must be blind,
or last in the line
of loves complex design.
Can someone please explain to me why,
love can be so hard to find....
Jared Pickett
12/7/09
Asavvy1