Sun’s glint on Aberdeen sea

Gentle wink in dad’s eye

He is there, somewhere


©️ Liz Mackenzie



Grampian landscape
granite glint in sunlit shards
city, seashore, home

©️ Liz Mackenzie

Things I have left behind

I have left behind the

spring in my step

clambering over rocks

the triumph of hilltops

I have left behind questions

not worth an answer

niggles and annoyances

and petty people

I have left behind memories

that don’t belong in today

and clutter my brain

like too many books

I have left behind vanity

that made me mind

what people thought

become more me

© Liz Mackenzie 

Ode to a non-native New Zealander, or You wouldn’t have found that in my mother’s fruit salad

A few weeks ago, in my creative writing class, a bowl of fruit and vegetables was passed round the room. We were asked to choose one and write a poem about it. This was what I wrote.

Sensuous Eastern gooseberry borne to new land

of sheep, hokey pokey and fierce rugby men.

Bite through prickle tickle stubborn skin to

green glistened luscious sheen, clean.

Your sliver slips oyster like, without the

repulsion. Bold beside brash orange,

dazzled yellow-gold tooth sharp citrus

or perfect heart all brisk pippy red.

How might you have burst into staid

fruit salad (tinned) with carnation trim.

© Liz Mackenzie

The Orphan

Last week’s challenge in the Creative Writing group, which is focusing on poetry this term, was to write a poem about an ordinary, everyday object. I had an immediate thought as to what I wanted to write, and this is the result.

The Orphan

Dust mites whir and spin

As shards of light

Sharp as glass, slice

At darkness.

The hand, slim, reaches

Within, mindless

Of my sunken eyes


Musty, cloud black home

I’m alone; The Orphan

Hope lost in fust

All light gone.

Never to become

The thrice cooked chip

Victoria Wood Spud-u-like

Nor mash, croquette

Or humble crisp.

Cast aside, a reject

Barren on compost heap.

And yet, and yet

I reach to wink

Of light, and fight

Create a micro

Tuber world for grand

Underground feast.

Next time you see

That lost potato

You overlook

STOP, and think.

© Liz Mackenzie

Footnote: oddly, when we were paired up in class to see what we’d produced from this writing challenge, both of us had used the idea of potatoes.