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bewary very

So what is there to be very wary of?  I'll tell you.  Come closer so I can whisper it:  "Everything."  That's right, you heard me.  Everything!  Not that I'm paranoid.  Or maybe I am.  Maybe you should be worried that I am.  And maybe it's contagious!  Maybe the mere suggestion can leap to your brain and burrow into your subconscious where you will be subliminally infected.  Maybe it will spread like germs to every surface, on every breath, until it becomes one big whopping flipped-out pandemic of fear.

Great.  Now you've got me paranoid.

Don't you hate when people tell you there's nothing to worry about?  It's all in your head?  Try not to think about it anymore?  Well, too bad, because I'm telling that to you.  Here goes.

There, there, I'm sure everything will be fine.  Or if not, at least you'll know that you were right.  About me being right.  In which case, you should worry.  You should worry a lot.  Especially today, for I am writing this on The Ides Of March!

(Ominous tympanic drum roll.)

Beware.  Of dogs and senators.  Gummy bears and jelly beans (they get stuck in your teeth).  I'm serious.  If there were a season for paranoia, this would be it.  March is synonymous with mania, for one thing.  So hang onto your hats!  Your marbles too.

The Ides are associated with betrayal.  Not to mention daggers.  Here's a good tip:  If ever you're surrounded by politicians wearing togas, run for your life!

Then there's that pesky Hare who might pop out and lead you astray.  The Vernal Equinox, balancing twelve hours of daylight with twelve hours of darkness.  And weeds stirring, plants leaping, life Spring-ing up all over the place!  The weather's often moody, the air shuddery.  It's no wonder you're a wreck.  I'd be too, were I you.

Beware while you can.  It doesn't last long.  Not long at all.  It's much too short, in fact.  Only thirty-one days.  On the thirty-second, just when you feel it is safe to no longer feel safe, you have to turn around and adjust your attitude, accept that it's going to be okay.  I find it all rather confusing.  I wouldn't want to be you.  Try to put yourself in your position.  Think, for example, if there were a giant conspiracy wherein almost everyone else decided to change their clocks by an hour, either forward or back, and nobody told you!  Imagine how you'd feel.  I know the feeling.  It happens to me all the time.  Things keep going on about me of which I haven't a clue!

I don't even know why I'm typing this, or what I'm attempting to say.  And I guess that's as good a reason as any for writing a poem or three.  Here, then, goes nothing . . .

 

 

    BEWARY VERY

 

Do you think me paranoid

To prefer to avoid

The unpleasantries and piffles

The fiddle-faddled miffles

Of come whatever may

At the dawning of the day?

 

Is it really so unbidden

That I'd rather remain hidden

Than face The Unknown

While standing quite alone

Without a single shred

Of sense left in my head?

 

If you stood in my shoes

And just once paid my dues

You might then realize

That I'm less scared than wise

For there's cause to be undary

In this world, bewary very!

 

There are monsters afoot

There are sneaks who may put

Your entire life at risk

With nary a tisk

You must wary very be

Or else — wind up like me.

 

It isn't too much fun

I will caution everyone

To never myself be

For I'm less than what you see

So bewary when you're small

Or you'll never grow as tall.

 

 

    THE MARCH OF TIME

 

In the pinch of an instant

One minute past a tick

When your clock springs forward

Yet the hands seem to stick

And you lose an hour

That you never really gained

And the time is a-wasting

But it wasn't preordained

So you shrug it aside

With a tepid platitude

Like you know where you're going

And you're not being rude

While inside you're a-jitter

And extremely out of whack

For the times are a-changing

And you'd like to get some back.

 

By the blink of an eye

You have aged one more tock

In this vain March of madnesses

Below every rock

Lies the shade of a doubt

Neath the glimmering truth

That you clutch at like sanity

Yet fritter like youth

As it spills through your fingertips

And soaks in the ground

Much like teardrops and rain

But as fleeting as sound

Your whole life is thus wafted

Though your hopes remain strong

For you know in that instant

What you've known all along.

 

With the flick of a sweep

In that small space of Time

One day becomes the morrow

Out of silence rings a chime

Yet nothing really changes

In each second that is spanned

For all the cadent Marches

Set back by Autumn's hand

Whether marked by click or cuckoo

Jarred by gong or ding

However swift or slowly

The pendulum does swing

We all of us are prone

To the passage of this Life

So step to the beat

Of your heart's drum and fife.

 

 

    THE IDES OF MARCH

 

Two tragic fates were born this date

One's death was struck, run out of luck

The other cried, yet lived not died

And would end as horribly.

 

A Roman's name would lead to fame

His path of glory the well-told story

This man's renown became a crown

Which sealed his tragedy.

 

The child aspired to not be mired

In women's work, such toil did shirk

Her dream was art; to paint, her heart

But this was not to be.

 

From Caesar's will his blood did spill

As blades did pierce, his pulse beat fierce

A trusted friend would at the end

Besmirch his loyalty.

 

Lorene did wed a man ill-bred

A craven spouse, the dirty louse

Her faith did wound, her children ruined

And one of them was me.

 

Two lives were led, demises sped

Both left their marks and swam with sharks

In different ages, on distant stages

Applauded by poetry.

 

And so it is said in books still read

On March's Ides heed well the tides

For they may turn, as trust they spurn

From the depths of treachery.

 

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