All riddles by Mary Lafleur
Copyright 1996, All rights reserved.
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A Grassy Riddle
A place to play With
grass and trees And maybe a slide and a swing. A place to
sit In the evening breeze And keep an eye on things. What am
I?
A Stoney Riddle
Made by stone Or marble Or
bronze, We were carved By loving hands, Replicas of
those Who lived once In our books And in our lands. What are we?
A geiserly Riddle
My water sprays Up and up and
down, But stays here Going around and around, A little
geiser Here in town. What am
I?
A Fearsome Riddle
Fearsome creatures Made of
stone We sit and stare As you go by, Two by two Or all
alone. We never lived And cannot die. What are we?
A Well-placed Riddle
Over Paris, over Rome We
shine to lead The sailors home. Over America, Still the
same. We've each a place And each a name. What are we?
A Fast Riddle
I run beneath The ground so
fast No one gets in way. They get inside me though And
usually Several times a day. They squish and smush Or sit
relaxed Until I spit them out. Then I run beneath The ground
again With a squeak And a whiny shout. What am I?
A Wandering Riddle
I've wandered through
Paris Since who knows when Carrying ships and food And
men, Dividing the city Left and right, Then slowly
drifting Out of sight. What am I?
A Moving Riddle
I'll tell you a story Without
one word. Everything seen And nothing heard. Watch me
move And see if you see What it's saying To you Through
me. What am I?
A Useful Riddle
I'm the money They use in
France From little shops To banks. Work a little Make a
lot And then say thanks. What am I?
A Famous Riddle
I'm a long loaf of bread And not
too fat. In Paris, I'm famous For sure. Millions
sold. Imagine that! I'm almost as famous As her. What
am I?
A Serious Riddle
At the Louvre Again today They
watch me Watching them this way. I don't smile And they don't
smile. It's more of a Serious artful style Of being quiet Or
maybe shy. Why do they come? And who am I?
A Beautiful Riddle
Pictures made Of colored
glass Tell you stories One by one. Inside and out We're
beautiful, Especially in The morning sun. What are we?
A Towering Riddle
My flying buttresses Really
don't fly Though my twin towers Are towering And
quasimodo, Hunching by, Covers his ears And with a cry
hells "Oh, the bells! The bells!" And I'm sorry They're so
overpowering. And who am I?
