The artist preparing the illustration for her mom’s poem On Bad Days

ON BAD DAYS Illustration

But, the talk of the town?

That’s certainly me

I can make a snow fort and

a good cup of tea!

From Gadget Snow Pants a poem by Heather Grace Stewart in The Groovy Granny

Dust bunnies and dress-up and adults who are sillier than their kids and have more energy too: that’s what you’ll find in Heather Grace Stewart’s new and colorful collection of poems for big kids and their little ones, The Groovy Granny, a mother-daughter collaboration.  Heather wrote the poems and Kayla did the illustrations.

The Groovy Granny is a collection of sixteen poems.  I particularly liked Adults Are Funny. I remember a time when my son was a toddler and he told our neighbor, Gussy, that he had to wear his sweater because “Mama’s cold.”



Healther Grace Stewart, all rights reserved


Adults are funny,

don’t you thinK?

When they’re thirsty

they get you a drink.


When they’re cold

they get you a sweater.

When meeting a stranger

they’ll talk about weather.


When they’re tired

they say:

“Get your sleep!”

Have you noticed the strange things

they eat?


What odd expressions!

Instead of: “We’ll see.”

It’s: “Well cross that bridge

when we come to it.”

(SO confusing to me!)


Adults and clothes?

They buy new stuff

with passion,

then, the very next year,

it all goes out of fashion.


I’m glad I’m a kid.

Adults are funny.

I just want to be one

so I can make money!



Heather blogs at Where the Butterflies Go

and A Children’s Poetry Place

All poetry, art work, and photographs are the exclusive copyrighted property of Heather Grace Stewart, posted here with permission.


Many poet-bloggers already know Heather from Morning’s (formerly Jingle) fun poet-blogger community activities, Thursday Poet’s Rally and The Gooseberry Garden Picnic (formerly Poetry Potluck). I haven’t had time recently to join the fun. I don’t think Heather has either, but if you are a poet-blogger and you have time, you might enjoy getting involved.


The city Habah lives in is old, not as old as the eastern cities from which her family and their neighbors came. No. This is not an ancient city. Just an old city. Old for this so-called new world.

The gutters in Habah’s neighborhood overflow with tears. The smell in the air is not the perfume of gardens filled with roses and jasmine. It is the scent of cabbage and rice with underlying notes of hard labor, long hours, and a quietly restrained desperation. This flawed part of the old city is Habah’s whole world. As such, no matter its poverty and imperfections in the eyes of others, she deems it beautiful.

Habah knows her world as something magical. Her beloved city groans and pulses under a ceiling that has stolen its blue from the turquoise sea. Its stars scintillate in the night sky and protect her from dream demons. And, while Habah doesn’t remember her father or know where he is, she knows that by some exquisite metaphysics they gaze at the same moon each evening. Of the many gifts received with gratitude from the city, the only one missing is the ultimate bliss of her father’s presence.


Habah’s mother’s store is among the many magical elements of Habah’s world. It sits between Yúsuf’s Dry Goods Store and Badi’s Oriental Café. It is a small store, maybe five-hundred square feet. It is lively with the aroma of Mocha Sanani from Yemen, the spicy scents of cinnamon, cardamom, sumac and the smell of the chamomile tea her mother drinks constantly. The floor is a simple hard-packed dirt covered with saw dust.

The shelves are busy with packages of her mother’s hand-crafted Turkish delight and her grandmother’s coveted quince jam. There are spices and sesame seeds freshly ground into za’atar and majool dates neatly stuffed with black walnuts. The glowing old-gold of thyme honey, the pink sapphire of pickled radishes, and the bright garnet of tomato sauces are stored in jars and glasses of many sizes and varied origins. They stud the shelves like gems in a bracelet. The rich notes of malachite peak from pistachio-studded confections that rest next to the semi-precious pastels of kufeta, sugared almonds.

A glass-topped display case protects their most valued treasures. Right now it holds amulets of amethyst and lapis set in gold, a rare ancient text in Aramaic, two hand painted water jugs from the Lebanon, mystical crystals dug from some unknown geology and other things that spark the eye, remind the body of its hungers, or speak to the soul.

At the end of the display case there is a small desk. The desk has a small drawer that holds a small box with their money. Everything is diminutive like her mother and grandmother who stand a scant four feet. Habah is undersized as well. Nine years-old and shoulder-high to most of her classmates, it is already clear that she too will grow to be a delicate wisp of fairy-dream. “Nothing wrong with small,” said her mother’s brother, Ammu Dani, a poor attempt at accepting his own lack of height and girth. “Fine boned,” is what her mother, Laila, said. “We are a fine boned people, and that is exactly because we are fine-minded and true-hearted.” Laila believed that how you  manifest in this world is what you are in your mind and heart.


Closing the door to the house behind her, Habah went skipping to the store until she knew she was close enough for her mother to see her. Then she walked slowly like a civilized person.

Today is a big day. Today they expect a delivery from the other side. When she was little, Habah thought “the other side” meant that place you came from when you were born and returned to when you died. Eventually she learned it meant just another earthy place, the one that they emigrated from long before she could remember. Ammu Dani said it lay oceans away. Now that she was older she understood that the packages they got each month were sent from dusty villages, places where prophets and angels had once walked unrecognized among men and women too preoccupied with worldly things. At least that’s what Laila had told her and what Habah believes.

Laila and Habah are never able to predict what each month’s shipment will bring. It might be a rock or a crystal, a dried flower or a salted fish. It might be a dead saint’s relic: a hallowed piece of bone or lock of hair. Her mother treated whatever came with equal reverence when she made them at home in her display case. Once the shipment was of a Turkish coffee cup, etched gold on the outside and lined with the purest white china. It came with a golden spoon and sat on an old pock-marked ebony tray. The wonders flowed from east to west, month upon month, year after year.


Habah arrived at the shop to find a large man holding a package of rough cloth tied with white string. She wondered if it was their package. He looked down from his great height and smiled at her as if he knew her. Inside her mind, Habah talked to herself, “He has eyes like dark cocoa with a dash of warm cinnamon.”

The big man and Laila exchanged a glance. “I want you to go home, Habah. Go home and help your grandmother with her baking.” “Why?” Habah whined, “I want to help you.” All week at school, Habah looked forward to Saturdays and helping her mother in the shop. “We will meet you at home. First, I need some time with this gentleman.” “We?” thought Habah.

Though Habah chaffed at being sent home, she did as she was told. “I’m being sent home because of this man,” she thought. “Who is he?” He reminded her of a Romani Gypsy she’d read about in a story once. She felt unaccountably safe in his presence. She wanted to talk to him, to perhaps curl-up and cuddle on his lap, and relish the scent of him that seemed oddly familiar, a comforting combination of her grandmother’s stewed lamb, strong coffee, and winds from foreign places.

When Habah got home, her grandmother had yet to start the baking. She was in the basement going through the contents of a battered black trunk. She pulled two fading sepia photographs from it. One is of Laila with a dark man who looks like he could be the brother of the man Habah met in the store.

Habah drew herself up. She knew it. She knew it! Everyone must come to her city. It was the center of the earth. She’d always known it: that one day the beloved city would toss from its secret depths and wide connections that singular precious missing bliss, the ultimate bliss, long fated and so longingly awaited. Habah did not care by what occult means the ultimate bliss had finally arrived, only that he had. Tonight – after dinner – they would stand together at her window and feast on the moon.

Other fiction samples are: Senjora Ortega’s Frijoles, Time of Orphaning, and Charlie’s Legacy.

 © Short Story ~ Jamie Dedes, 2011 all rights reserved; This short story is fiction and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is coincidence. Also published in The Cottage Reader and The BeZine. Photo credit ~ Brooklyn Memories/Old Brooklyn


A fish with a feline-sized appetite … A strip poker swindling bear … A land where all the letters of the alphabet spell well together… A man with an uncanny photographic ability … And (of course) a candy store in space. MORE [BIG DOODLE HEAD]

When Aleza Freeman (author) and Howard Freeman (illustrator) put their heads and their talents together after the birth of their son, Evan, there was another birth in the family: a publishing company, Big Doodle Head with a cute book of poems and drawings for “kids & the kid at heart”, Candy Store at the Edge of the Galaxy.

Some readers here will recognize Aleza as one of the poets in our online poetry community. She’s a former official of Jingle Poetry, which sponsored Poetry Potluck. (That effort has transitioned now to The Gooseberry Garden, sponsoring the weekly Poetry Picnic.)

Aleza says,  “As new parents, Howard and I set out to create a book that our son will love, not only now, but even as he grows older. We hope our book sparks the imagination of all who read it, or at the very least makes them smile. Candy Store at the Edge of the Galaxy is an edgy 36-page full-color paperback for young readers. It features twelve quirky poems with drawings encouraging imagination, friendship, tolerance and general silliness.”

Here’s one sample from the book:


Just kickin’ it

in my mother’s womb.

Been here some time.

I’ve run out of room.


The accommodations

are all-inclusive,

comfy, snuggly,

and exclusive.


The days passed by

I grew and grew

now nine months later

I’m almost due.


Though it’s quiet and

warm and cozy inside, 

it’s time to prepare 

for a wild ride.

© 2011 Big Doodle Head, LLC

Aleza says that Big Doodle Head is just getting started. She and hubby Howard are working on several more books and a musical soundtrack.

Candy Store at the Edge of the Galaxy is available from online retailers including Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com.


Among the features is
my review of
Jane Hershfield’s
Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry


Dilys Wood

Dilys Wood is poet, editor and convenor of Second Light Network of Women Poets. She has edited four anthologies of women’s poetry, mainly with Myra Schneider and has published two collections of poetry, Women Come to a Death and Antarctica.




Dilys Woods 

I founded Second Light (SLN), a network of over 300 women poets aged over forty, in 1994. We followed this forteen years later with ARTEMISpoetry, a journal for women’s poetry.

The best feedback for me is that a group of members have met informally or that two members are exchanging poems. Other good news is of members’ successes in national competitions and enthusiastic reports of our annual events, including a poetry competition, two-day festivals in London (Spring and Autumn), and an residential course.

SLN events are supportive. The tone is constructive.There is no put-down for those over 50, over 70, or over 90. We welcome younger women poets as Associate Members.

The inspiration for Second Light was that vibrant, exciting work is absolutely not sex or age-related. Probably all serious editors and organisers know this, but some number-crunchers are obsessed with youth, trendiness, or any kind of gimic. There may be reverence for famous older poets, but the pattern of women’s lives may mean that a woman may be a ‘new poet’, just starting to publish, at any time up to old age.

The other aspect of SLN’s work – aspiration – was latent in the original mission and has flourished because so many members are talented and ambitious.We play to these strengths by choosing distinguished poets to lead workshops and to contribute to ARTEMISpoetry. We also regularly interview and review for the magazine important women poets not born in/living in the UK.

Five anthologies and three individual collections show-case members’ work. Each member may post a poem and CV details on our website (www.secondlightlive.co.uk). ARTEMISpoetry – open to any woman poet to submit – carries many poems and we offer far more reviews of women’s collections than most magazines.

For more details of SLN see our website HERE.

%d bloggers like this: