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Poetry from Pink Elephants In Paris

  All poems by Mary Lafleur
  Copyright 1997, All rights reserved.
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I Could Fly

I drempt when I was little
I could fly
By thundering down the sidewalk
Flapping hard
Until the air beneath me
Scuttled by
And I was half a mile
Above our yard.

I couldn't see the future
Through the trees
Or know the other dreams
That would come true:
Pink Elephants in Paris
What a tease --
Yet, here we are -- Voila!
Merci Beaucoup!

Getting To There

Going from here and
Getting to there --
We're all of us going
And getting somewhere
We're all of us travelers
With stories to share
While we're going from here
And getting to there.

In the Park

There are pigeons
In the park
And people
In the park
And people
Feeding pigeons
In the park.
There are children
In the park
And parents
In the park
And pigeons
Who are parents
In the park.

Sour Grapes

Sour grapes?
Ils sont tres mavais.
And very bad
To eat
They say:
Ils sont tres mavais a manger.

What's Your Favorite Word?

What's your favorite word
In French?
Qui? Moi? Quelqefois.
It's my favorite word.
Other times
I like Pourquois.

Why do you like
I don't know,
Je ne sais pas.

It's Night

It's night in France
And the stars are out
And no little children
Run about
But in America
Far away
It's bright and noisy --
A busy day.

A Bowl of Hot Chocolate

A bowl of hot chocolate
For dipping my bread
And croissants, more bread
With jam.
We must be in Paris
Eating a breakfast
that's tres Parisienne.


In quaint cafes

In little chairs
Customers sit
Like teddy bears
All in rows
All side by side,
Watching the people
Passing by.
I take a picture of them
Then I scratch my head
And wonder why.

So Many Things

So many things
We've yet to say
Decisions hard to make --
Rebecca's famous
French dessert
Marie's "Let them eat cake!"

Getting caught
Out in the rain
And jugglers
In the square.
Sunday morning
At Notre Dame
And all that
Goes on there.

Sandwiches packed
Full of fries
And Lisa's Dr. Pepper
Bread and Cheese
At Erzi's house --
More bread and cheese
For supper.

Tapestries of unicorns
Sculptures by Picasso
August Rodin
And Sacre Coeur
On the hill
At nightfall.

A novel read
By Hemingway
A birthday celebration --
Who knows
Where things will lead
When we give in
To inspiration?

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