Paul Beare Albuquerque, New Mexico

My name is Paul Beare. I was born July 22, 1961 to Bill and Rita Beare in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I graduated in 1979 from West Mesa High School. I am employed at Phillips semiconductors in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I live in Albuquerque with my wife Carol and our three children - John, Matthew and Tamara. I have a notebook that I call "From my pen to the paper." I keep all my poems in it and I hope someday to get it published. I wrote my first in 1981 and my style of writing poetry is free style.

Awaiting His Prey High on the ceiling corner, hanging net strong in its world, eight bitty eyes peer out as it awaits with forbearance for victims. None today, maybe a feasible fly tomorrow. I sleep now. It walks away into the night, lost like my wondering silent mind.

Spells of Doom Thank you would not be enough unless I said it softly to the Lord. For the woman that I came upon saved me from my doomed vision of a solitary man. A vision that made me feel like a beetle hiding under a cold rock near death. I was unable to see the light. I tried to plan my next move for my life, but the hand of time felt like a slow death. Gradually the lovely day with a girl in the sun was fading out. Then as time breaks all spells of doom, my enemy had finally fled. I crept out into the bright warm sun. My aching arms were up like wings to the sky as down by the old oak tree stood the angel of a woman who would set the lonely spell of doom free. The grass under my feet felt so soft now as my angel of a woman and I go walking into the valley of love.

Upon the Gardens of Heaven Daddy its raining again as you sleep face down in the sidewalk gutter across the street from Joe's bar. Broken bottles of whiskey are shattered all around you and make me only wish that a wrong move would cut you blood cold. You begin to stumble back to life as I fly back to heaven with the warm morning sun upon my little wings. I don't want to hear you cry today daddy; mommy says that's the alcohol talking. Mommy and I are doing well daddy with the other angels of fatal deaths upon the gardens of heaven. Long ago, as it is in eternal time, I still remember being four of earth years like other little girls. The bedroom was full of love and laughter as mommy and I read a book when you walked in from work angry one night. You grabbed mommy with your rattlesnake tattooed arm and like a rattler you struck and beat her to death. Then, daddy it was as if you felt you had sympathy for my crying and screaming; you pulled a gun out from the hallway closet and shot my heart of love out for you. I can fly free daddy, but as you are starting to get old, the law will catch you and lock you away until you die and dance in the fires of hell.

All poems Copyright © 1996 Paul Beare. All rights reserved.