Our Love

Should I compare our love to this full moon?
No way! Each month its light takes off alone.
A rose? The petals swoon and fray too soon.
Our aging love is like an old, gray stone.
We share this ever-present weight, too great
To move, too there to notice much, unless
You stumble into it. Your toe’s poor fate
Reminds you to regard what you possess.
The endless sometime flow of rain and tears,
Unfinished kids, dishes, bills, day and night,
The moments snatched from sleep for all these years,
Has rubbed our stone until it’s smooth and right.
Who cares that others don’t discern its shine.
This old, gray stone is only yours and mine.


So many songs, stories, and poems are about the excitement and/or despair of early love. What about lasting love? Does anyone have a favorite text about love that stands the test of time?


For more Poetry Friday visit Linda at TeacherDance.

© Elizabeth Steinglass, 2013, all rights reserved

An Army of Daffodils

Masses of daffodils have taken the hill.
On high they stand in search of enemies.
Whom do they imagine has the will
To move them? Tulips? Hyacinth? Pansies!
And whom on earth do they think they defend?
The house is Tudor, the oaks look fine.
Of course the forsythia count as friend.
They wear the same color, guard the same line.
I pause in the garden across the street,
Unafraid my motives will be mistaken.
Noting the crocuses fallen by my feet,
I open my notebook, raise my pen.
No match for the glaring army before me,
I take a flailing shot, give up, and flee.

© 2012 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved

I know there are no wolves in these cold woods,
no bears, no foxes, no wolves, but I see
the hiding places, fallen trees, small mounds
of dirt, and branches just above my head.
I see the darkness here, but I can’t see
what’s hiding there. I hear the leaves erupt.
I know it is the sound of busy squirrels,
but still my heart suspects it might be wolves.
I’ve heard the stories about wolves and woods,
and children walking far from home alone,
the stories grown-ups told me before bed,
before they said the stories were not true.
I know there are no wolves in these cold woods,
But I am here, and I am full of thoughts.
© 2011 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved
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