The Poetry of...
Bernard Shaw
Paramount Poetry proudly welcomes the unique talent
of Bernard Shaw to our pages. Now living in Austria, Bernard is originally from the UK.
He is 69 years of age and a Parkinson patient. He says:
"I pass my time mainly with coffee house visits a favourite pasttime
here in Austria. I sit for hours browsing the web, and I spend much time
playing with words, the results of which you see here."
He has spoken German for the last thirty four years and says "If my English should seem strange its because it`s easier for me sometimes to speak German."
P.P. thinks his English is very well expressed and is extremely pleased to have appealed to people of all ages, nationalities and experiences.
Enjoy Bernard's work below, as his "playing with words" brings poetry, and one or two other things, to life! Unique stuff...
MY FRONT ROOM.
There's been a battle in my front room.
The shovel fought against the broom.
You should have heard my old arm chair.
It said, 'Go on Lads, I don't care.'
A picture of Lord Kitchener upon the wall,
'Let out a hearty rallying call,'
Your country needs you, That's the stuff.
The Aspidistra said, 'She'd had enough.'
The Sofa cried with piercing shriek.
'You are making my old springs squeak.
It's bad enough to watch you fight,
I'm sure to have a very rough night.'
The light shade called, 'That's enough from you,
You need re-stuffing you silly old Moo.'
The Tele in the corner has the hump,
It's got four legs and cannot jump.
It in turn had a go at the books upon the shelves.
But they held knowledge and could defend themselves.
Even the Carpet on the floor was mad,
Its colours were the same as the Wallpaper had.
But the curtains had the best time of all,
They kept telling the windows they were having a ball.
The Clock upon the mantel-piece,
Said 'It's time I think to call the Police.'
But what do you know as I entered the room,
All was quiet as shovel kissed broom.
Bernard Shaw.
ROUGH NIGHTS.
Now do you think that this is right,
I have to get up in the middle of the night.
There is no reason why I shouldn't.
But my poor wife, wishes that I wouldn't.
Now what do you think that I should do.
Should I come and talk to you.
I once talked things over with the Sand Man.
If he can't help me, then who can.
There are many things to discuss with you,
Such as why my Pyjamas are not new.
Or we could talk about my pillow case,
And the reason why it frames my face.
Now about my sheets so gleaming white.
Must they crumple at my sight.
Then of course there is the bed.
Never a tear for me it's shed.
And on the floor the chamber pot.
Should I use it, should I not.
As you may see, I have problems galore.
The Wife is blessed with a very loud snore.
Its enough you know to make me weep,
How can she have such a wonderful sleep?
I must get up, I'm fully awake,
I think I'll go and have some cake.
I might even make a cup of tea,
And wake the wife to share it with me.
My life at night is never a bore,
Not with the Wife's very loud snore.
So just bear with me for tonight,
As the Wife snores with all her might.
Bernard Shaw.
GOSSIPS.
Some twenty houses all in a row.
They gossip all day long you know.
As I go past the garden gates,
To visit the pub and see my mates.
The windows whisper, 'There he goes,
No wonder he's got such a shiny red nose.'
'He's the biggest boozer in the road,
He even beats old Mother Joad,
She can down a pint of gin,
And ask for more with a silly grin.'
The chimneys you can hear above them all,
There he goes, He's heading for a fall.
Why cant he drink his beer at home,
But a pints not the same without its foam.
Even the roofs pour on the oil,
It really makes my poor blood boil.
My own front door gives me no peace,
Threatens to go and call the Police.
I've even thought of moving away.
It matters not what others say.
But I always seem to be in the wrong.
Perhaps the beer is a little too strong.
You know I don't want to leave my road.
My drinking doesn't bother Mrs. Joad.
As for the houses, what do you think,
Do they have to pay for what I drink.
You know if the windows weren't so clean.
They wouldn't know where I have been.
I'm going to get Parliament to make a law,
That windows are not to be cleaned anymore.
Then perhaps I can drink my beer in peace.
With my front door threatening to call the Police.
Bernard Shaw.
MY CLOTHES ETCETERA.
I looked in my wardrobe the other day.
I wanted to hear what my clothes had to say.
My best blue suit, the one with the stripes.
Said, 'Hop it you, you give me the gripes.'
My overcoat, I only bought it last Spring,
Said, 'Leave me in peace, You stupid thing.'
You should have heard what my blue jeans said,
'Don't wake us up we just gone to bed.'
I next looked to see if my trousers were in place.
They cried out, 'Hey you go and wash your face.'
Next I inspected my chest of drawers.
Where my underwear is laid out in sets of fours.
Four pants, four vests and four shirts,
Said don't iron us again, it burns and that hurts.
I'm not going to my wardrobe again,
I'll go abroad, perhaps to Spain.
There I'll buy me some new clothes.
You can have the others,
I've finished with those.
Bernard Shaw.
MUSIC
It's the finest music in the land.
Sung by a choir, that's not very grand.
The one you can hear singing top note,
Is a Black and White Billy or Mountain Goat.
No one reads music, that's not of much use.
Conducting is usually done by the Goose.
The Chickens and Ducks Keep well in Tune,
Our Farm Dog howls by the light of the moon.
The Cows you know start off with a moo,
That's the signal for the Owls too-whit and too-who.
The Sow with her Piglets, begins to grunt.
The Fox joins in and leaves the Hunt.
The Horses are good and give a loud neigh,
Not to be left out the Donkeys bray.
I've not mentioned the Birds of the air,
Wonderful how they all do their share.
The Cats of course are masters of this art,
And with their Kittens all take part.
The Cockerel is perhaps a little too loud,
But then again he is rather proud.
This choir of mine is very well trained,
Only the Church has of yet complained.
We sing our praises to Him on high,
The Poor Old Vicar, can only sigh.
His congregation consists of but few,
I'll help with my choir, How about YOU.
Bernard Shaw.
THE BANK
I went to the Bank to borrow some money,
The Manager said, 'Please don't be funny.
What securities can you offer to me,
Money you know doesn't grow on a tree.
I have no collateral that's for sure,
I need fifty quid, I'll ask for no more.
I said to the Manager, its not my fault,
If you have no more money in your vault.
It's a very poor bank, you must agree,
That has no cash for a man like me.
My credit you know has always been good,
Today there's a horse, running at Goodwood.
The Bookie told me to come and see you,
He said you'd be good for a pound or two
So Mr. Bank Manager, how about some tick,
Even twenty pounds would do the trick.
I'm no good at begging, I must not steal,
Just lend me a tenner, come make it a deal.
And if I win, you can rest assured,
I'll tell you about racing, You wont be bored.
And perhaps if I win, A large amount,
With you I might even open an account
Click here for more of Bernard's stunning writing!
This work is Copyright © 1999 by Bernard Shaw
It must not be copied without the expressed permission of the author.
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Email: jonathan@poeticjustice.co.uk
