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I have been underestimated for decades. I have done very well that way.

quote by Helmut Kohl
Added by Lucian Velea
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No Matter What Is Said

It must be awful to feel betrayed,
Or...
Underestimated!
With feelings to vindicate...
What has been laid.

It must be awful to feel betrayed,
Or...
Underestimated!
With feelings to vindicate...
What has been laid.

It doesn't pay to be too sophisticated.
And one day found outdated.
By that which chases away,
Everything to be replaced.

It doesn't pay to be too sophisticated.
And one day found outdated.
By that which chases away,
Everything to be replaced.

It must be awful to feel betrayed,
Or...
Underestimated!
With feelings to vindicate...
What has been laid.
Yes!
It must be awful to feel betrayed,
Or...
Underestimated!
With feelings to vindicate...
What has been laid.
Yes!

Everything today will be replaced.
With changes to be made.
Everything today one day will fade.
No matter what who says.

Everything today will be replaced.
With changes to be made.
Everything today one day will fade.
No matter what who says.

It doesn't pay to be too sophisticated.
And one day found outdated.
By that which chases away,
Everything to be replaced.
And everything will be replaced.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Radiant Nadirs Of The Underestimated

The radiant nadirs of the underestimated,
all these small town upstairs windows at night
where people bloom like flowers,
trout lily, hepatica, wood violet
under the duff of life,
old books and teetering obelisks of magazines,
nobody’s ever going to see
in this hemisphere
unless their clockwise life
has gone down the wrong way
and the world’s been turned
up side down on its head
so you’re compelled to walk on stars
to keep from falling off.
There’s a novelist across the street.
Window to window our apartments stare
blankly at each other
through the dirty winter grime
and the occasional moon
and ambivalent rose of the dawn
after a long sleepless night
when even the dead are appalled by the solitude.
Seven novels and he’s never published a word.
Seven novels. A mouth and a heart
like the Gulf of St. Lawrence
but no Cabot, Cartier, Champlain.
And there’s a poet I know
a mere four blocks away, beautiful,
a wild crazy witch of a woman
among muses that couldn’t hold a black candle
up to the serpent fire she can inspire
in any two lines of a poem
that could take a common garter snake
and give it the wings of a dragon,
a genius who’s laid herself aside to raise a baby
and write in between the cracks of concrete
her crackhead ex keeps trying to pave her with
like a parking lot on a coke binge.
She’s the spearhead of a blade of grass
trying to wound its way through stone
into the light
but it’s not likely
she’s ever going to make it
given the avalanche of circumstance
that waits for her like a mountain on the other side
to come up for air in the middle of a seal hunt.
Unknown geniuses, the gifted secrets
of heretical martyrs and orthodox suicides
like the Sylvia Plaths, the Emily Dickinsons,
the Kafkas, the Rimbauds, the Van Goghs

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Symbols Of A Song

The strength of knowledge and manipulation of words are powerful.
The rhythm of music and the sense of sound are controlling.
When these elements are merged, they form a song.
Two extremes in one mind-blasting theme.

A song is never to be underestimated.
It is symbolic of many aspects of life.

Have you ever tried studying work, hours upon hours;
And forget everything on the day of the exam.
But if you have heard a song at least three times,
You will find that you have memorised almost half of it.
Perhaps if you put your work into song,
It is guaranteed that you will pass any exam.

A song is never to be underestimated.
It is symbolic of many aspects of life.

A song can tap into your emotions;
It can change your mood to positive or negative.
It can influence the words you say and the choices you make.
There is always a message being carried.
Whether it makes the fullest of understanding,
Or if it makes no sense at all.

A song is never to be underestimated.
It is symbolic of many aspects of life.

A song can encourage others to sing along or to dance.
It can boost up worship to God.
It can sooth then motivate others to be cheerful.
It can entertain people and draw them to dance.
This is persuaded by commands in a song,
Or just those soothing music vibes makes you want to move.

A song is never to be underestimated.
It is symbolic of many aspects of life.

poem by SarahLee Emilaire
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She Moves On

I feel good
Its a fine day
The way the sun hits off the runway
A cloud shifts
The plane lifts
She moves on
But feel the bite
Whenever you believe that
Youll be lost and love will find you
When the road bends
And the song ends
She moves on
I know the reason i
Feel so blessed
My heart still splashes
Inside my chest, but she
She is like a top
She cannot stop
She moves on
A sympathetic stranger
Lights a candle in the middle of the night
Her voice cracks
She jumps back
But she moves on
She says ooh my storybook lover
You have underestimated my power
As you shortly will discover
The I fall to my knees
Shake a rattle at the skies
Im afraid that Ill be taken
Abandoned, forsaken
In her cold coffee eyes
She cant sleep now
The moon is red
She fights a fever
She burns in bed
She needs to talk so
We take a walk
Down in the maroon light
She says maybe these emotions are
As near to love as love will ever be
So I agree
Then the moon breaks
She takes the corner thats all she takes
She moves on
She says ooh my storybook lover
You have underestimated my power
As you shortly will discover
Then I fall to my knees
I grow weak, I go slack

[...] Read more

song performed by Paul Simon
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Lives Limited In Meaning

Could this be an estimation,
Underestimated...
To leave,
The mind's eye blind?
And stay myopic.

And could it be decisions,
Are made to make attempts...
To redefine,
These times...
And stay erotic.

For reasons not to find a rhyme,
To give.
And for many to feel more confined,
To live...
Lives that are limited,
In meaning!

Could this be an estimation,
Underestimated...
To leave,
The mind's eye blind?
And stay myopic.

And could it be decisions,
Are made to make attempts...
To redefine,
These times...
And stay erotic.

For many to feel more confined,
To live...
Lives that are limited,
In meaning.

For many to feel more confined,
To live...
Lives that are limited,
In meaning.

Lives limited in meaning,
To give...
Reasons not to find a rhyme,
To live...
Lives limited in meaning!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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When I Lost Myself

There are those who are forever searching and
After many decades have passed lose themselves to another world-
Although with much certainty and disillusionment
I can hardly remember living much of a life in
This world where people walk with confidence and self-assurance everyday-
Memories of nights as a child so young
Hearing voices others did not hear and
Seeing frightening sights others did not see-
Feeling alone although in the midst of myriads of others, afraid to speak,
Fearful to walk the streets others took for granted-
I was only six years old when voices threatened to kill
Would invade my already troubled mind and
I found myself an outcast for reasons I hardly understood-
The purple tree with golden flowers that grew inside of my bedroom-
As strikingly stunning as it was,
I fell to the floor when I tried to climb,
Because it only existed in the fortress of my mind-
My journey to find myself began when I learned to walk-
I learned to scream before I learned to speak-
Decades have passed and memories are evading me-
Walking the same path day by day-
While others are looking for a place in a world I feel I am not a part of,
My journey to find myself continues-
I walk upon a different path and have climbed many mountains
Seeking purple trees and my own garden of Eden-
Or merely for others that would accept and just remotely understand
The person I am and the world I have lost myself to-
Although my spirit at times evades me,
In the back of my mind I know in reality there must be a place for me and
Although at times my only wish is to climb that phantasmal purple tree
Until I reach the sky and disappear within only a moment’s notice
I will not give up the fight- I was born into this world so there must be a place for me-
Many decades have passed and today I see the sunlight peering through the clouds,
Though an outcast, I have a heart, a mind and feelings as does everybody else-
I continue to walk the streets everyday and my visions of purple trees, and
My dogged determination are what makes me unique- and someday people shall
Respect the person that I am and understand that flowers grow on every tree and
Every flower is unique, has its own special scent and every flower is
In its own way- magnificent and beautiful…

poem by Claudia Krizay
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Stranger in Strange Crowd

STRANGER IN STRANGE CROWD

Dreams stranger’s path divide
from crowd’s uneven t[h]read
who's tissue, issues poorly understood, through dread
is left behind, swirls second rate as flotsam on life's tide,
noise windmills, senses silent, life-blood sped,
bled white, so often fearing fear, by wisdom wide,
unblessed, unsteady set sights low instead.

Despite stress, sentiments denied, imagination set aside,
stranger story stores till head heeds heart, until desires well led
fire understanding rich allied with empathy sustaining ride.
Swift Pegasus is supplied
with neither saddle, A to Zed accoutrements life tears to shreds
when vested interests, motives pure collide.

Defy temptations of soft ride
along straight road which, comfort fed,
selects ‘safe way’, too often dreads
free choice, autonomy. Self-pride
corresponds to quest for bread.

Distrust that moment Fortune’s tide
entwines in fickle thread
conformity, convention wed.
Scorn empty homage, those who glide
through vain p[l]ain life, misled.

Survival instinct, safe homestead, a ‘living wage’, priorities
appear, as opportunities to seize as each spins finite set
tripped, snipped, then ripped by Norms with ease.

Far from madding crowd who dares assign
himself true rôle in life, who thinks,
who sifts chaff, grain, drains lees from wine, palms pearls from swine?
Who, intact, acts and interacts, discerning fiction, facts,

opposes expedience, authority which hoodwinks
manipulated herd unheard, which lacks
true overview impartial, thus reacts
rather than responds, its armour: chinks.
On each new generation weigh rigid systems spawned by Fate unkind.
As pawns most men play puppet parts in Time’s relay game of tiddly-winks.

Is search for self through mirrored minds
just base reflection on sight lost?
Insisting on base ‘skills’ man finds
intuitions atrophy - cost

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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No One Remembers Implementing

The signs of these times,
Are all over the place.
They have been there for decades.
Now today someone is sought to blame.

The signs of these times,
Are all over the place.
They have been there for decades.
Now today someone is sought to blame.
The revolving door remains the same.

Those who push are followed,
And those following are themselves also pushed,
To reap from a sowed calamity.
The kind no one remembers implementing.

The kind that sat uninvolved but irritated.
The kind that becomes argumentative,
To state opinion upon unresearched facts.
The kind whose lips flap.

The signs of these times,
Are all over the place.
They have been there for decades.
Now today someone is sought to blame.
The revolving door remains the same.

Those who push are followed,
And those following are themselves also pushed,
To reap from a sowed calamity.
The kind no one remembers implementing.
The kind that becomes argumentative,
To state opinion upon unresearched facts.
The kind whose lips flap.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Future Watch Burma To Syria Conflicts Rising

been watching
the future today...

from past lens astray

Burma as expected
has developed
ethnic problems

with sudden absence
of strict communist
dictatorship firm leash

Burmese are no longer
all brother communists
controlled by the state

past civic grievances
rise from postmortem
state of frozen stasis

past horrors play
on revenge rabid minds
need exercising?

past spectre struggles
post World War II conflicts
leave skeletons in closets

frozen nightmares divisions
war atrocities split Yugoslavia
post familiar communist thaw

emotively haunted people
seem to need to grim settle
past trauma before each

can move on embrace
future possibilities opportunities
in free market societies

when no longer linked
in brotherhood communist
cast iron citizenships

emotively many people
seem to need to settle
the past before they can

move on

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Three Decades

Three decades ago
I was brought here
And today I am
struggling to get there
My three decades
Of strive, mistakes
And amends
And now all I seem
To achieve is my dignity
My dignity which
Has turned my necessity.

poem by Efe Benjamin
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Life Journey Cosmic Leagues Long

a cosmic journey
beginning
with a single step

already on the journey
decades into it speeding
decades from departure

left while
no one
was watching

noticing
everyone drinking
talking

away
life dreams
drunk

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Now Or Never Get It Done

Tell me I have decades to write?
No No I rage against decades blight.
I rage against might have beens.
I rage against could have beens.
Might Could Would empty husks!

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Maddox Table

[ music: natalie merchant/lyric: natalie merchant ]
The legs of maddox kitchen tables
My whole life twisted on a lathe
In a foremans torrent
My first english was
Faster boy if you want your pay
Barking commands
Loud and simple
We could all obey
Then I was forever pulling silvers
Rubbed the sawdust always
Deeper in my eye
Varnish vapor that could linger
On my skin
It held tight
The whine of spinning blades
Still echoes to bother my sleep at night
See that ox
Stamped dead center
On the letter head of the company mail
Four decades a spitting image
Of the animal I portrayed
At maddox table a yoke was carved
For my neck
Sun through the window oil spattered
And in mason jars
Tricked plenty seeds thrive
The standing joke
Around the shop was
With my green thumb
Anythingd grow
My part was to laugh
Show and ornery jig had
Cut it at the knuckle bone
See that ox
Trade mark burned
Into every stick of furniture
From horn to tail
Four decades a spitting image
Of the animal I portrayed
At maddox table a yoke was carved
For my neck
Was tailor made
O my dolly was a weak
Not a burdened girl
Treat her to a piece of vaudville
A wintergarden moving picture show
Bemus point on july sundays
By trolley wed go
To your benefit wes strike or bargain

[...] Read more

song performed by 10000 Maniacs
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On The Disadvantages Of Central Heating

cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod
stove-warmed flatiron slid under
the covers, mornings a damascene-
sealed bizarrerie of fernwork
decades ago now

waking in northwest London, tea
brought up steaming, a Peak Frean
biscuit alongside to be nibbled
as blue gas leaps up singing
decades ago now

damp sheets in Dorset, fog-hung
habitat of bronchitis, of long
hot soaks in the bathtub, of nothing
quite drying out till next summer:
delicious to think of

hassocks pulled in close, toasting-
forks held to coal-glow, strong-minded
small boys and big eager sheepdogs
muscling in on bookish profundities
now quite forgotten

the farmhouse long sold, old friends
dead or lost track of, what's salvaged
is this vivid diminuendo, unfogged
by mere affect, the perishing residue
of pure sensation

poem by Amy Clampitt
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A Mother's Protection

The zebra foal's Mother was wise,
She kept the foal at bay,
So that no other zebra tries
To coax her foal away...
And so they bond the first few days,
Beneath the searing sun
And thus the foal with Mother stays...
Its life has just begun.

Together now and side-by-side,
The two unite with love,
A sight that fills the Lord with pride
As He looks from above...
For love is all that has true worth,
To stand the test of time...
Ask anyone upon this Earth,
They'll tell you it's sublime...

The foal is destined to survive,
If given proper care
And left to live will surely thrive
With Mother standing there...
As decades come, as decades go,
Each zebra roams the land,
Content to see the whole herd grow
The way that God has planned...

Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2012.

The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'A Mother's Protection'.

More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

poem by Denis Martindale
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In Life, In Death

The decades come, the decades go,
Events like blurs fly by
And tracking us, each day we know,
Death makes us hear him sigh...
He won't give up while we still breathe,
He hates the good we do,
Yet loves it when we're forced to grieve,
Though we may battle through...

By faith, yes, faith and faith alone,
This pilgrim soul endures,
Though now it lives here on its own,
This saved soul still adores...
Despite the pain and suffering
That old age brings in spades,
This sacred soul's recovering,
For God's love never fades...

In life, in death, this soul persists,
Rejecting doubts and fears,
Selecting truths, faith still exists,
Despite the lonely years...
How could you know the things I've seen,
The things these ears have heard,
The good and bad and in-between,
The kind and callous word?

But know this now, while Death still haunts,
Eternal life is mine...
Regardless of the way Death taunts,
Its powers I decline...
I'll live this life, God's gracious gift,
Defiant to the end!
Till God gives my saved soul a lift
To meet the Sinners' Friend...

Denis Martindale, copyright, March 2012.

We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...

poem by Denis Martindale
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Zambians Shall Be Free

Zambia won the African Cup of Nations on Sunday the 12th of February 2012,
And, the jubilation of the Zambians were seen all over the country!
For the highly emotional victory was dedicated to,
25 players of their National Team who died in a plane crash nearly two decades ago;
But, the Zambians shall always be free! !
Be, bean, been, beans, being, beings, bee, bees;
But Zambians shall be free!
And like the muse of the African Cup of Nations,
But, they won Ivory Coast on penalties to carry the cup.
Zambians shall be free! !
Shall, hall, ball, tall, call, wall, mall, pall, fall, gall, stall, quall, all;
And, in Libreville they remembered the past.
Zambians shall be free!
And, Zambia won the African Cup of Nations for the first time;
Free, fee, bee, see, tree, three, nee, lee, Lee, gee! !
But in memory of the 25 National Players who died nearly two decades ago,
For this major trophy will remind them always of their hard work towards the games.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Helen Oyibo Onojovwo [ For Your Self Denials, Which Has Made Me What I Am ]

Three decades ago
When you thought
You where going have me
From dad, you faced persecution
And I thought you where
Going to murder me.
,
Two decades ago
When you had me
And it seemed the world
Was coming down on you,
From dad you faced persecution
And I thought you where
Going to abandon me.
.
Years ago when I was goin
To be a man
And the burden was becoming
Too great for you alone,
Me and my sisters,
On your shoulders alone.
And I thought you were going
To give up on us.
But yet, you did not
In your greatest suffering
You never left us to suffer alone,
In your greatest need,
You did not sell us out
Instead you gave us life
And kept us alive
My lioness!
If I were to be born again
I would come through you
You had been more than a father
A mother, a brother, and a sister
All put together
And I'm always proud,
To call you my mother.

poem by Efe Benjamin
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The peter-bird

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter,
And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter,
Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.
So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened,
And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.

Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky
One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices;
Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic--
Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains!
Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders--
These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of the forest.
Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning
Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil;
And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valley
Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror--
"Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!"
Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor,
Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.

One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter,
Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming;
Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that Peter
Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!

Peter got hold of some books--how, I'm unable to tell you;
Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions!
It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend.
Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes;
What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil,
Wrought with a brain, not a hoe--surely 't was hostile to farming!

"Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "that's what's the ruin of
Peter!"

So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple,
Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms,
Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating,
Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
"Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter;
Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him--
Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!

[...] Read more

poem by Eugene Field
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Plight or Hunger

It is not plight or hunger
People are burning with anger
With decades and centuries passing over
They have yet to find shelter or cover

They have no means to find square meals
Someone is there at the top to steal
Their means of livelihood
Their only hope to live nicely in the neighborhood

We have stooped so below
We can’t see others happy or allow
We thrive on coffers business
No worry lines even on face

They have enough patience to tolerate
They know it is futile on their part to relate
Who has time to care for human values?
Their only aim is to deny the legitimate dues

Even sun does not spare them from burning rays
They have to toil hard with hard ways
Their babies cry for the want of milk or food
What else is there to feel so good?

Yet they have lion’s heart
They stand erect and look smart
They have high respect and honor for others
Except few essential things they don’t have to bother

No noise or flutter is created
Babies are silently cremated
River washes their remains silently
They watch it go quietly

I will give full marks to their tolerance
They deserve all kudos and praise hence
Poor are not burden on anybody
They are pulling on this earth for somebody

We may err if they are under estimated
Their position is not understood and clearly stated
They need proper care and attention
If basic values are realized and needs retention

It is not plight or hunger
People are burning with anger
With decades and centuries passing over
They have yet to find shelter or cover

[...] Read more

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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