"fenway" poems
"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.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 6:22 AM UTC
All of a Sudden
I was on my way to work, standing on the corner
waiting for the walk like to flash before crossing
I glanced over my left shoulder to check the traffic
before proceeding forward, when all of a sudden
there you were, a double-take if ever there was
eye-grabbing, breath-taking golden-haired goddess
I could not help but stare at her, even though I audibly
told myself do not stare at her you bumbling fool ...
Ir was 2 am when I awoke in a chilling sweat. The sheets
were soaked as my body was drenched. I had been having
this horrible dream, no nightmare. I was trying to evade
these South Equdorian rebels, who though I was some
sort of spy for the CIA, the FBI, NSC or something.
I had ducked in some heavy brush, when all of a sudden
there you were, the golden goddess I had seen this
morning while waiting to cross the street. You were
signaling to me to stay down, with your finger over
your lips telling me to stay quiet...
Ah Friday night, two tickets to see the Boston Red Sox
at Fenway park. What a way to spend an evening.
A co-worker who I had dated several times had scored
two box seat tickets from her boss at the Bank.
At the end of the 3rd inning, I told Emma I was going
to get us a couple of dogs and beers and strecth my legs
I walked up the ramp to the concession stand and got
in line. I looked over at the next line, when all of a sudden
there you were, this was the third time in 3 days that
we had crossed paths. Coincidence? What's the odds?
Something was going on and I needed to find out
what that something was. I decided I was going to
stop her and ask what was going on. I took my eyes
off of her for only a brief couple of seconds, but when
I looked back, she was nowhere in sight. I mean nowhere...
Gomer LePoet...
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 4:45 PM UTC
Take my hand and run.
Collapse under the blanket that is the night sky and let me count the stars in your eyes.
Listen as I tell you how much you're worth.
My words bear much weight and I fear that I will bury you under them.
Could we collapse under all of this? Under the weight of the words we are afraid to say, the fears what we are afraid to admit out loud.
Do you believe that our fears would swallow us whole; do you think the weight of our feelings will crush us?
Our bones are too brittle to support the heaviness of our feelings.
We stretch ourselves thin, past state lines, past Fenway Park, past the Empire State building, through spotty cell phone reception in the mornings.
We steal precious moments from the time keeper, who waves his finger to remind us that we don’t have much longer.
When we are together late at night I close my eyes and put my ear to your chest, listening to the beat of your heart as the seconds thump on by. I try to memorize its beat for those nights when I am so lonely and you are far from me.
Those nights are the worst. I can picture you laying with me, I can almost feel your arms around me even though you are hundreds of miles away.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
I'm a Yankee in the South
Far from where I was bo-ahn,
Th' other half of this Country stout,
But not where I'd call home.
I talk too fast and walk too fast
And speak with easy grin;
And every word that I say once
I must repeat again!
If you're black you're Black, down he-ah,
and if you're white, you're White;
I don't fit well, I'm mostly brown,
They just don't feel it's right.
I work each Sunday in the sto-ah,
I do the work of three;
Back home I went to Sunday Mass
And Godless they call me.
Godless Yank, I'm rude, I'm cold,
I started the great War -
(Not our Great War, you see, but one
that came somewhat befo-ah).
I've tried their greens, I've tried their grits,
I've had biscuits n' gravy,
Oh what I'd give for chowdah hot
Or some lobstah tasty!
I like my tea, I like it hot,
Not sickly-sweet and iced,
Brew it black and brew it strong -
No sweeter will suffice.
Well, I'm a Yankee in the South,
But I wish I'd never gone.
So in a month I'll pack me up
And home I'll be 'fore long!
I'll eat cannolli in North End,
I'll visit Fenway Pahk,
I'll watch the city glow with light
The minute it gets dahk.
I'll roam the rivers, fields and woods,
All dusted up with snow;
The northern bogs, the stony beaches,
That's what I call home!
I never should have come, I sweah,
I'll never go again;
There's plenty here to tide a girl
A hundred years and ten.
The long-sought day has dawned at last,
And now we'll sally forth,
So clear and a bit chilly, it's
A promise of the North.
We drove and drove and drove again,
And then we drove some mo-ah,
We started out at ten to six,
And now it's half-past ****
And when I'm shovelin' the snow,
Cursing potholes in the road,
I'll think of all the Southern folk
And smile at every load!
Well we're home again, we're home at last,
I won't leave anymo-ah,
I've proved without a doubt there is
Nuthin' to leave it ****
Well, I was a Yankee in the South,
It's not what I'd call nice,
And now I can concretely say
I wouldn't do it twice!
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
I never saw Teddy,
Rudy York was just a coach,
But Fenway was my Mecca
Back when Boston was a
Sad sack team.
I have to laugh,
I traded Yogi,
Traded him,
And Roger Maris
Too,
Traded them for
Tracy Stallard!
What New Englander
Would want a Yank?
Yes Fenway folks
Were not the brightest,
Back before the Sox
Were good.
Now Red Sox nation's
Nation wide,
The Sox are always
In the mix,
After all,
To love a winner,
Isn't strenuous,
I guess.
But,
There was a time,
A half century,
Or so,
Ago,
When,
That legendary jewel,
It didn't seem so small,
At all,
To me,
A kid,
Of only ten.
She was a great,
And green colossus,
Astride Van Ness,
And Brookline Ave.
To get inside,
You'd need your Dad,
And once inside,
She was a mighty
Castle of concrete
And steel,
With boxes for the
Jimmy fund,
Everywhere the eye
Could see,
She was a dark
And dingy cavern,
***** too,
Not much to see,
But when you walked
Into the sunshine,
There was magic
Everywhere.
The famous sign
In center field,
"Hey Bosox, sock one here,"
And just the color of the grass,
That field was perfect,
Everywhere.
Back then
You could get a ticket,
Any time you wanted,
Just drive right up,
What section,
Please?
But now,
She's a celebrity,
She's all sold out,
The whole year through,
But those of us,
With memories,
Don't need a
Reservation,
For we all recall
The ghosts of Fenway Park.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC