prose poetry

“Barbie Doll”–in honor of my mother

/ Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

Barbara Lewis Duke, pretty, petite, blue-eyed and blond, my

mother, one fearless, controlling woman. Long after Mom’s

death, Dad said, “Barbara was afraid of absolutely on one

and nothing.” They married late, 34 & 38. He adored her

unconditionally. She filled my life with horses, music, love,

cornfields, hay rides, books, and ambition. Whatever she felt she

had missed, my sister and I were going to possess: books,

piano lessons, a college education. Her father, who died long

before I was born, loved fancy, fast horses. So did she. During

my preschool, croupy years, she quieted my hysterical night

coughing with stories of run away horses pulling her in a wagon.

With less than one hundred pounds and lots of determination,

she stopped them, a tiny Barbie Doll flying across the Missouri

River Bottom, strong, willful, free.

Note: This was first published in an anthology and later in my poetry memoir, “On the Rim of Wonder.” My mom loved the color pink and roses, had a rose garden. In the summer there were always crystal bowls on the dining table with roses floating. Today I have roses floating in two stemmed crystal bowls in my kitchen.

Langston Hughes in Uzbekistan

/ Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

It’s 1932.

Movie roles promised to 22 Black Americans.

“Black and White” in the

Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic.

Treated like royalty, wined, dined, at

their own expense.

Hughes–ridiculous script. All went

home except Hughes. He stayed,

traveled, saw cotton grown from Aral

Sea water–now no water, desolate

desert.

In Tashkent, Uzbeks, Turkmen, Tartars

honored him, flowers, fruit.

No English.

He met a Red Army Captain from

high Pamir Mountains. Hughes

described him, Black with Oriental eyes.

Hughes called him Yeah Man.

He called Hughes Yang Zoon.

Weeks together never understanding

each other’s words.

Hughes’ poetry book

“The Weary Blues” first

American book translated to

Uzbek. Original English version

lost. He describes this new place:

“Look: here

Is a country

Where everyone shines.”

Note: You can find a version of this book translated into English from Uzbek by Muhabbat Bakeava and Kevin Young.

A Tribute to My Mother

/ Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

Barbie Doll

Barbara Lewis Duke, pretty, petite, blue eyed and blond, my

mother, one fearless, controlling woman. Long after Mom’s

death, Dad said, “Barbara was afraid of absolutely no one

and nothing.” They married late, 34 and 38. He adored her

unconditionally. She filled my life with horses, music, love,

cornfields, hay rides, books, ambition. Whatever she felt she

had missed, my sister and I were going to possess: books,

piano lessons, a college education. Her father, who died long

before I was born, loved fancy, fast horses. So did she. During

my preschool, croupy years, she quieted my hysterical night

coughing with stories of run away horses pulling her in a wagon.

With less than one hundred pounds and lots of determination,

she stopped them, a tiny Barbie Doll flying across the Missouri

River Bottom, strong, willful, free.

Note: This poem about my mother has been published in at least one anthology and my book of poetry. My mother loved roses, had a rose garden. I now grow roses too.

Walking in Pasadena Near Rose Bowl

/ Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

Fearless little bird with chocolate brown head runs beside me

on the road. At the intersection I circle to the left, following

a familiar route. The heavy tree canopy here always astonishes.

It’s almost like walking in a forest.

The architectural variety amazes: mid-century modern, Spanish,

colonial, ranch, the smallest I am guessing contains 3500 sq. ft. One

house encompasses an entire city block, fronted with heavy, high

fences and metal gates. Privacy obsessed.

I’m watching my time. I don’t want to be late for singing

practice. I take a new route, perhaps a shortcut. It’s

120 degrees of a circle. Not quite a regular street,

not quite an alley, a combination–fronts of a few houses

and the backside of others. At one place it angles more;

I come to a three story stone fortress with intricate

geometrical designs vertically running up and down

the walls. No windows. A sign says, “No trespassing.”

Realization hits me. This is the other side of a house

I saw last year through a gap in a wall on another street.

Three ladies, strangers, asked me about it, told me they’d

heard it was the creation of a famous architect. I researched,

asked others, no one knew. Back then, I tried to find the front,

failed. Now I’m looking at it, wonderstruck. It appears abandoned,

an architectural wonder belonging to another time and place.

Time to rush, a bit lost, I look at my phone map, finish the loop,

find a familiar street, walk faster. Then I see a large, white, colonial house,

weeds knee high, black shutters hanging askew. Here it is abandoned

in the midst of multi-million dollar houses. I wonder what the neighbors

think. Walking on I hear water rushing, peer through the hedges–a stream

runs downhill from the side of this huge brown house at least 100 feet

and gurgles in a pool behind the bushes. Hurrying, I stop in front of one

of my favorite houses, a one-story, tan, Spanish style, small compared

to the others nearby. I take a photo of the tree in front by the sidewalk,

its impressive girth impossible to ignore.

Finally, I’m near my destination, walking in front of The Gamble House,

a tourist destination made famous by the movie, “Back to the Future”,

a structure I see at least twice a week.

Perfect Spring Day

/ Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

They tell writers, “Never ever use cliches.”

Sometimes I question that. When you

word a cliche, nearly everyone knows

exactly what you mean. For example:

This is a perfect spring day:

-birdsong wafting here and there,

mostly mockingbirds except for those

irredescent, orange-throated

hummingbirds at their feeder

-wind singing through the pines

-open windows for a change; it’s

75 degrees and sunny

-magenta and scarlet bougainvillea

climbing the garden wall

-white and lavender lantana

outdoing themselves with

spread and bloom

-geraniums in full flower

-mint growing so fast and tall

I already need to trim it.

I lounge on the patio reading

another novel, drinking rosewater

lassi, munching mixed nuts.

I feel gratitude for this

perfect spring day.

Nostalgia

/ Juliana Lightle / 1 Comment

Today is the first day of National Poetry Month. I am committing myself to write a poem a day. Here is the first one for the month.

Easter yesterday made me sad,

remembering children, grandson,

egg dying, egg hunting, family

together, laughter, joy.

Found photos of my family,

I, a child, dressed in Easter finery,

a family tradition. Dad bought us

corsages to wear every Easter,

pretty dresses in spring colors–

my favorite a pink dress trimmed

in scarlet, a unique combination

explained why I liked it so much,

felt special wearing it.

Today I wear pink and orange

together, admire the deep purple

and red bougainvillea, scarlet rosebuds,

snowy freeway daisies,

shining in the sun and wonder

will I live long enough to teach

a great grandchild to color

Easter eggs.

Barbie Doll– a poem about my mother

/ Juliana Lightle / 1 Comment

Barbara Lewis Duke, pretty, petite, blue-eyed and blond, my

mother, one fearless, controlling woman. Long after Mom’s

death, Dad said, “Barbara was afraid of absolutely no one

and nothing.” They married late, 34 and 38. He adored her

unconditionally. She filled my life with horses, music, love,

cornfields, hayrides, ambition. Whatever she felt she

had missed, my sister and I were going to possess: books,

piano lessons, a college education. Her father, who died long

before I was born, loved fancy, fast horses. So did she. During

my preschool, croupy years, she quieted my hysterical night

coughing with stories of runaway horses pulling her in a wagon.

With less than one hundred pounds and lots of determination,

she stopped them, a tiny Barbie Doll flying across the Missouri

River Bottom, strong, willful, free.

My mother many, many years later with Dad. I took a photo of a photo I have hanging in the hall–the sun reflecting in the windows.

In Honor of My Father

/ Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

The Nap

He lays on his back on the cold, hard, blue linoleum floor after

the midday dinner of homegrown roast beef, potatoes, wilted

lettuce salad, hot coffee, coconut topped cake.  His left arm

forms a right angle at the elbow as the back of his wrist rests

on his forehead, touching the slight curliness of his not quite

black hair.  His left leg stretched out straight, right one drawn

up, knee jutting out.  The sleeves of his worn, pale blue dress

shirt rolled up; his overalls show signs of wear and washing.

Every day after dinner he naps in the same spot in this same

position for exactly fifteen minutes before returning to the field.

 

My father.

 

Seventeen years after his death, one day as I napped, slowly

driving off, astonishment stuck.  There I lay exactly as my

father used to so many years ago, my left arm forming a right

angle, wrist on my forehead, left leg stretched out straight, right

one drawn up, knee jutting out.  I remember not just in heart

and mind.

 

The body always knows.

 

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Taken at the top of Mt. Evans in Colorado when I was a child.

 

 

My Mother–Barbie Doll

/ Juliana Lightle / 1 Comment

Barbara Lewis Duke, pretty petite, blue-eyed and blond, my mother, one fearless, controlling woman.  Long after Mother’s death, Dad said, “Barbara was afraid of absolutely no one and nothing.”  They married late:  34 and 38.  He adored her unconditionally.  She filled my life with horses, music, love, cornfields, hay rides,      books, ambition.  Whatever she felt she had missed, I was going to possess:  piano lessons, a college education.  Her father, who died long before I was born, loved                 fancy, fast horses.  So did she.  During my preschool, croupy years, she quieted my hysterical night coughing with stories of run aways horses pulling her in a wagon.      With less than one hundred pounds and lots of determination, she stopped them,               a tiny Barbie Doll flying across the Missouri River Bottom, strong, willful, free.

Note:  this poem is in my book “On the Rim of Wonder” and was also recently published in “Inside and Out”, a collection of writings by women.  It is available on Amazon and published by the Story Circle Network.

Addendum:  My mother loved horses and flowers.  When I look at the flowers around my house I think of my mother.  And, yes, I have horses.  The following photos are dedicated to my mother’s memory.

 

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My mother’s mother and father.

 

Sunday Poem–Choose

/ Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

“Most people are about as happy as they

make up their minds to be.”  Abraham Lincoln

 

When I was twenty something, I chose happiness, not the sappy, syrupy, cheery, but a deeper joy of cherishing the small, the unique, the everyday, smiling with sunsets, the song of the mockingbird in spring, horses running free, the nearly invisible bobcat climbing the canyon wall, the taste of fine coffee at the first wakeful moments in the morning, cooking for friends, taking a “property walk” with my grandson, laughing with the teenagers I teach.  I am driven to do little–obsessions, compulsions do not run me.  I choose.  Choose life, choose joy, or choose whining, choose lamenting.  Choose!!  Be who you want to be; do what you want to do.

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Note:  this is a poem from my book, “On the Rim of Wonder”.