Gene Simia Poems

Come with me to the foot of the Cross,
Where the Son of Man redeemed our loss
A man of no import, wealth or fame,
His body strewn on a wooden frame.
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All that I treasure cannot be measured
when I gaze into your eyes,
Like heavenly diamonds that radiate beauty,
through your lips the universe sighs.
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I walked through fields of emerald green along a path of stones,
suddenly a butterfly came to me I was on my way back home.

She fluttered rainbows in the air her eyes so fixed on me,
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I began traveling at the speed of thought
my body weary my consciousness fraught,
with the realization that we are more
than stardust at our very core.
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The Spirit of Christmas
In what we believe,
God's gift to the world
Through Christ we receive.
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How you elude me! How you delude me with the appearance
of knowing your essence!
Your nature, one of succession and progression is at the core of my future position, yet you cry out with infinite regression!
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The Transformation

She was born, shrouded to a world that knew her not,
Her essence, hidden, except to her Creator who sought
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As I look inward, deep introspection revealing my inner vision, My thoughts illuminate my imperfections with precision. My love though distant and seemingly obscure,
unable to upbraid, uphold and endure.

The race I run with Time though long,
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I live to see another day
for which I'm grateful still,
My eyes though old, my body weak
My spirit it cannot kill.
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His name was Andy, oh what a dandy, how he longed to be seen,
His thoughts and feelings, hung on a ceiling, permeated the silkscreen.
His work through repetition of color and addition, give a hint of the machine in all,
But upon introspection, points in the direction that it's just Andy Warhol.
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