Too Late
By Lila Broadhurst
Too Late now my friend to look over your shoulder, The hay in the meadow is reaped; And the little white lamb that was frisky in spring Is matured to an old eyed sheep.
Where were you when the sunsets were splendid, And the sun shone warmly on golden corn, When the berry hung heavy in ripe profusion, And shrouded in blossom was the sturdy hawthorn?
And why did you ne'er take yourself to the meadows When they rippled with grasses and blossomy flowers, Or stroll o'er the moors 'mongst the caps of blue heather, Or climb o'er the crags like sentinel towers?
You considered more urgent your plan for success, Struck out with a zeal to accomplish the prize, Gazing now at the world from your ivory tower Everything that you worked for at last realized.
Too late now my friend to look for that pathway That leads to those beauteous places of youth, You cannot go back, o'er grown is the track, As time on has flown to bitterest truth.
And time like a warrior mocks mere man, And stints on doling out each his span, Though mellowed with wisdom, you can't turn the tide, The true jewels of life, you yourself have denied.
Love Poem
By Lila Broadhurst
Look, oh look at me my Love, my own sweet Love: Put your warm strong fingers to this heart of mine, And feel the flutterings therein - The wild sweet flutterings of passions dove That expands to mortal limits, rapture devine.
Such joy you give me my Love, My own, my precious one; Fires of wildest ecstasy run riot in my veins; Why, I was dead Until with nectared kiss, for me you won
A paradisic rebirth - loosed those chains That bound me to all common things; Thence opened up a sphere, That never a word on earth could frame - It was too wholly pure.
Herein is my heart surrendered; Sweet with gentle love, and tender: Listen, do you hear it speaking? Singing, sighing of its passion: Pausing, running in its beating
In a wild excited fashion. Oh my Love, my own, my beauteous one; Entwine this life within your own - For I am won.
Bedtime
By Lila Broardhurst
Tell me about the times dad When you were a little lad: About the games you played dad, And all the fun you had.
Tell me about the pit ponies dad, And I'll promise not to cry; Tell me about my mother dad Why did she have to die?
Tell me about the soldiers dad Who went marching off to war, With tanks and guns and bayonets; And never came home no more.,
Tell me what God looks like dad;
How can he be everywhere?
And if He's as high as the heavens dad
Are you sure he can hear me up there?
Why do you cry at that photo dad, Is it 'cause I'm not on? Is it a wedding photo dad? Show me which one's mum.
Tell me another story dad About cowboys and Indians red; And why were the Indians shot dad If all that they wanted was bread?
Tell me about the sea dad, About pirates and shipwreaks and pearls; And are you glad you got me dad Do you like little boys more than girls?
I'm glad that I got you dad, 'Cause I love you through and through; You're the bestest dad there is dad: Goodnight - and God bless you.
The Stream
By Lila broadhurst
There was a walk I used to take Beside a meandering stream, Where just once more, for old times sake, I'd love to walk again.
To stroll along its grassy bank Beneath a summer sky; Or sit beside its mossy flank To watch it ripple by.
There, as a child, I used to play, Or idly pass the time away; Watch the busy dragonfly, And snowy clouds sail slowly by.
It was a magic world to me And those joys live on in my memory, And move my heart, those paths to take, Just once again, for old times sake.
Armageddon
Lila Broadhurst
They said it could never happen, It would never happen said they, For they could never contemplate The dawning of that day When someone, sometime, somewhere, gave, Their first and their last O.K.
They said there was strength in numbers, And forewarned was to be forearmed, That the 'other side' couldn't be trusted, Their true face was masked o'er with charm.
They said we should always be ready, And 'power' was the answer to all, Great nations by force were kept steady, And would stand strong and proud to the call.
And the children of peace the world over, Beat their hearts, and poured grief through salt tears, And preached love, and each sister and brother Joined hands, and sang of their worst fears,
But they said it would never happen; "Strength is our fortress" their vow, And who would dare press that first button? But someone, somewhere did, and - POW!
Bus Queue Gossip
by Lila Broadhurst
"Ooh mi bunions are killin' me Mary, An' this corsets geein me gyp - Well just y'look there at that fairy, 'E's a rivit stuck straight through 'is lip!
Meks y'wonder wotever this world's comin' to - Is your Kevin still courtin' that lass? 'Er wi t'air colours o't rainbow - Poor lad, y'can see she's no class.
Did ya'ear o' Kath Fergusans 'usband? Dropped dead 'e did, t'end o' last week; 'E went eft f'r a bit o' black pudding' - An' slumped dead as a do-do in t'street.
She soon took t'wind ert o' that poor chaps sails Wi 'er Irish temper an' all; She's a face on 'er 'ard as a bag o'nails - An' they reckon she's thick wi' that Paul.
She cracks on 'e does bits o'lectrical jobs - Well 'e lights up 'er life that's f'sure; She's bin mekin sheeps eyes at my Cyril, and Rob; An' they reckon she's mustard, next door.
Did y'know Annie Arkwright's expectin' agen? 'Er 'usband's a great gormy dream; By my recknin this one'll mek it they've ten - One more an' they'll 'ave a full team.
Well, I don't know, it's a right t'do - Oh thank God, t'bus's comin' at last; Come on then Mary, I'll sit next to you - Grab this bag while I find mi bus pass.
Fickle People
by Lila Broadhurst
Oh I'm sick of the nicey-nice people With silver words on their tongue, Raising their whitewashed eyebrows On a world that is all 'gone wrong'.
And I'm sick of the pretty people With their pretty houses and lives, With their pretty children, and pretty cars, And pretty, pretty wives.
I'm sick of the goody-good people With their anthems of 'charity', All pious sweet until they retreat To their mansions of Luxury.
And I'm sick of the people hell bent to impress, They bore me, they bore me, they bore me - Pathetic shells full of emptiness, And silently rattling 'adore me'
Ten thousand goody-good pretty and nice I would more than gladly sacrifice, For just one genuine heart of oak; The boast of old England - the humble folk.