Biography of Lizzy Tomlinson
Widow, mother and carer. Looked after disabled husband until his death from cancer in 2004. Stay at home looking after adult autistic daughter and teenage daughter. Started writing rhyme in January 2006 for memorials. Takes a lighter view on life now. Likes writing, gaming, my computer and being with my girls.
Lizzy Tomlinson Poems
Fairground, Big sound, Music everywhere. Great rides,
A beautiful, fair maiden, Sat in the moonlit bay, Of a far off, distant land, She silently, did pray.
My greatest love is chocolate. I know it makes you fat. But think of chocolates lovely taste, I can put up with that.
Angels up above me, I wonder, can I ask. If you'd do me a favour And perform a special task.
Lying awake in my bed, I got an awful fright, Passing by the window, Went a colourful, bright light.
I've just lost my mother, Most people wouldn't care. But what happens when I need her? And she just isn't there.
From My Bed.
Here she comes. the big fat lump, Her clothes come off and then she'll thump, Her backside on my protesting frame, I'm straining now. It's such a shame.
The wife is standing ower there, Wondering what she's gonna wear, Since she's ta'en the time and care, Doing up her bloody hair.
She took her daughters into town, For things for them to wear. On reaching the department store, Their joy turned to despair.
Funerals, they are a chance, for folk to say 'Goodbye', I came to your funeral and Mum, I cannot lie. I had to stand and listen, it made me feel real sick, It was all about our father. I felt I'd had a kick.
Looking in the mirror, What's that, that I see? Oh, bloody hell, it is my face, That's staring back at me.
These are three little rhymes made up in 1998 fror home made 'Father's Day' cards that the kids and I made for their dad. I'm wishing for my father, (Who ain't really that bad) ,
The burglar hides behind the shed, He waits until we're all in bed. And when he knows we're fast asleep. Up to the window, he does creep.
Up the alley, down the lane, through the streets, he follows Jane.
Going into the kitchen,
Fills one with dismay,
'Cause the worktops,
They need clearing,
About twenty times a day.
Neither of ones children,
Ever stop and think,
To pick up a cloth,
Wipe up their mess,