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,
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) ,
I've just lost my mother, Most people wouldn't care. But what happens when I need her? And she just isn't there.
My greatest love is chocolate. I know it makes you fat. But think of chocolates lovely taste, I can put up with that.
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.
Deep inside the woods, at night, Appeared a fairy, bathed in light, Her grace was magical to see, As she tiptoed there, beneath the tree,
A beautiful, fair maiden, Sat in the moonlit bay, Of a far off, distant land, She silently, did pray.
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.
Years ago, when I was small, I often wished that I was tall. Like the hippy who walked along the street, Her boots, I wanted on my feet.
Verruca'd feet, Ingrown toes, Hairy legs, Wart on nose.
Going into the kitchen, Fills one with dismay, 'Cause the worktops, They need clearing,
Tie my cloak, don my hat, Grab my broom, pick up the cat, Outside, sit astride the stick, Holding tight, 'cause it is quick,
It's whistling here, It's howling there, Round the building, Up the stair.
She took her daughters into town, For things for them to wear. On reaching the department store, Their joy turned to despair.
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,