"Here Made of Gone" for  Isabella Stewart Gardner
Lyrics By Randy Vera
Music By: Randy Vera and Anthony J. Resta  
http://bopnique.com/anthony-j-resta-and-randall-vera-finalists-john-lennon

LYRICS :
Vermeer, Rembrandt, Manet, Degas, from my three thousand year old Chinese KU, I toast you. 

Mrs. Jack, I am your Bronze Eagle. I cut the painting at the frame – thieves by any other name.

Mrs. Jack with handcuffs and *****, I overcame your walls. Your collection’s complete.
Titian's Europa still hangs. The mirror to my:

Piece de la resistance. I’m your creme de la creme. I’m the John with the Procures on the wall in Vermeer’s concert.
Here, made of gone. 

Mrs Jack, I’m your new William James. Through your kindness, you support me, in Dutch Room empty frames.
Like John Singer Sargent, I toil between your walls. I am Vermeer’s "corn flower blue," indescribable. 
The metaphysical: Known unknown!

St Patrick’s Day 1990, I’m in Boston in the Fenway. For my penance, I’ll go to Saint John’s, drop to my knees, and like you, scrub the tiles clean.

Titian's Europa still hangs, the mirror to my: piece de La resistance. I’m your creme de la creme. I’m the John with the Procures on the wall in Vermeer’s concert. Here made of gone. 

Where language fails that where art triumphs. The interloper between camps of reason and dreams. I’m an event not cognition. Like any event stored in canvas, paper, pen ,or ink.

Oh Mrs Jack I so love your "Head Band." I’m also a Redsox fan. I loved the Champagne and donuts, and thank you for the paintings.

I'm walking away from you
With all the scars from what you put me through
Told myself I would never fall for you
But yet I did

Now look at us
Spitting images of our parents
No trust
Told you it would never be like that
We weren't our parents
We were us

Our love was strong
Even though the miles seperated us
We got through it all
Pushed aside our fears
And jumped

But we let insecurites run our lives
Listened to every rumor
Every lie
We just couldn't hold on
Like our parents
Not as strong
As we wanted to be

Now we are both free
But still see our parents
Horrible history

Now that's us
But we tried so hard
To not fall into that catagory

Its like a big brick wall that you
just can't climb.
You gaze up and see its height,
then you give up before you try.
Its like the ticking of a clock,
but not as easily defined.
Because you can track it as much as you want, but you can't change back time.
It's the feeling you get
right before you let go.
It's the butterflies you get
when you jump off love's thin tight
rope.
It's the thoughts you can't block out when you
look in the mirror.
It's almost like the brother, to anger and fear.
It's the feeling you get when you're not sure.
It's everything that falls under the catagory of
insecure.

Getting to know my poet friends
Is more then just the means to an end

I’m learning to navagate this site
What each catagory mean in its own right

Clues to poets you can find
If you only take the time

Since many have no bio to  reveal
Through their poems learned crumbs one can feel

Also who have they chosen as the poet’s they like
Following the clues is like riding a bike

Favorites is a good place to start
These clues are more then a stab in the dark

You can read poetry that has touched them in some special way
While also reading what a new voice has to say

It’s a win win if you ask me
Because I’m rather an open book you see

There are many times when I too hide in plane sight
Those are poems for another night

How does one measure quality.
Through merits.
Deeds done well.
Maybe even smiles extracted from sour hearts.
Should there be requirements.
Standards..
Beyond those most impose anyway.
Whatever may be the case.
Specific or not.
There wasn't a catagory that was left unexplored.
No wound to small.
Insignificance.
Had no home here.
So many gestures..
Went unnoticed.
But never chastised for.
The world began and ended at our doorstep.
To be shown what form a true blessing takes.
Is a present.
Gifted in both terms.
I would be hard pressed to compare.
The night sky has lost a light this day.
Society goes on.
But a single family mourns.
Dominoes cascade..
Rippling actions and consequence into one...
Validation is key.
While others hinder all else.
And Distractions only work so well..
Even sulking seems so frivolous.
On this day.
Beauty is redefined.
As is bravery.
One can only hope to leave..
With half the grace demonstrated today.

My wife, Karen, often stated, "You inherited your family's B S genes." I suppose there is a "bit of truth" in that. Okay, maybe a little more than "a bit." Most would probably take that kind of statement as an insult. However, I would rather consider it as a complement. I like, for the most part,  being placed in the catagory of being a "storyteller."
Throughout my childhood, yes, I was a child at one time,  I was fascinated with poets in the genre of the storytellers like Robert W. Service, a master of poetic storytelling(verse) who  could grab you by the seat of your pants with his tales of the Yukon Territory. Hugh Antoine d'Arcy's The Face Upon the Floor", another classic of verse. And many other poets trying to emulate those writing styles, and having their works instead attributed to those "grand masters."
It is my opinion that most of the newcomers, to this site anyway, have little or no knowledge of these writer's whom I consider the "true raconteurs." Someone will comment that Edgar Allan Poe was a great storyteller. Yes, he was, but he died in 1849, long before the arrival of those that I mentioned in the period(late 19th century to early 20th) .
Over the next day, or two, or three, I plan to post a couple of these early works, and hope you enjoy them as much as I have.

Sincerely,
Richard

ya cook a mean oatmeal
with vanilla & cinnamon
& nutmeg (come to me)
make us laugh while ya
slice onions.. which could be a
catagory in some desperate contest
but more importantly tho
ya let me have Peace...
baby i can
whip up my own
all alone
tasty sumthins
but to not be alone
& still have
Peace
makes me stand
in the hallway
where ya can't see me
&
stare at the side of ya face
&
set my clock
to watch ya
sleep

Can I have your attention,Excuse me please
I ve got a question to ask & need to see who agrees
May I borrow a second?...A piece of your time
To lend me an ear while I bust out a rhyme
--------
While I have your attention its best that we start.....
Forget the introduction.... lets just skip that part
Ever notice how many people...you meet in a day.....
that absolutely blow your mind, make you shake your head & walk away...........
They're the people you see... they're all over the place....
The slower kind of the human race
--------
Let me give some examples.... I have quite a few
They fall into this catagory with the stupid **** that they do

You're driving your car through the center of town... one steps out onto the crosswalk...eyes pointed down
No checkin both both ways before crossing the street.....
Seem to forget cars still hurt despite white lines under their feet .....
Somehow these idiots manage to survive
My guess is pure luck has kept em alive

You constantly see them on the evening news when horrible things happens & they interview fools
Grown *** adults who live without care.....
they say things like " I never thought it could happen around here"
This is usually followed with a "we dont even lock our front door"........
Their town is too pretty & crime only happens to the poor?

Really?
Come on, your kidding me right?
Don't they watch themselves on the news at night......
-------------
How could one think with all that happens today that living so blindly is truly okay?
Maybe they don't listen to themselves speak.
Maybe being too sheltered has made them weak?

We're different for sure...our worlds too far apart
They wouldnt last a day around here....
They lack the streetsmart

I think I've made my point can anybody else agree?
was it decriptive enough, were you able to see?
Have you seen these people?
Do I need to say more........
they're the ones that I can honestly say that I FEEL BAD FOR!!