I hear iambic thumping in my head.

Each time I part my lips I feel some dread.

I wonder if the words that I will speak

Will make me sound like some obnoxious geek.

I cannot seem to quit, though it’s my hope

To speak in prose just like a normal dope.

Perhaps if I can hold my breath inside,

The hiccups in my words will soon subside.

I wonder if this happened to the bard.

He did it once and learned it wasn’t hard,

Then found he didn’t have the will to stop,

Despite his father’s shabby leather strop.

You say you have a great idea for me?

Something called a trochee?

© 2011 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved

Clinging to the walls
Of the hot, dark cave,
We eat every sweet
That you might crave,
Turning the sugars
To acids that file
The rocky walls
Of your cragged smile.

© 2011 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved

Mosses growing sporophytes to launch their spores
She built a sodden capsule
High above the din,
Relying on the sunshine
To shrink the rocket’s skin,
Squeezing all the contents
Until they must explode,
Sending all her babies
To find a new abode.

© 2011 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, 
all rights reserved