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. Sometimes It's my favorite word. Other times I like Pourquois. Why do you like Pourquois? 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?     back to top