Madeleine Johnson is an actress, filmmaker and writer from Portland, Oregon. She attributes her appreciation for many of the best things in life—black coffee, dinner parties, roadtrips, rock music, laughing til you cry, trashy tv, pop art—to her late, great mother. Madeleine’s blog, Dear Mama, is a collection of letters written to her mother since her passing early last year. Madeleine is currently living in Los Angeles.
This selection of poems is the second in a three-part series featuring Madeleine’s work.
April 24, 2015
Dear Mama,
I am nervous to raise my kids
In this world of iPads and disconnect
The kids I nanny prefer Grand Theft Auto to their treehouse and trampoline
Do you remember how my hair was never brushed?
How the soles of my feet were hardened on the pavement,
Only occasionally slipping into shoes?
How the weeds and wildflowers in our yard became a crown,
The mud became coffee,
The wheelbarrow a taxi cab?
We dug a hole to China,
And then Disneyland, for practicality
And you never told us that the rocks from our archaeology mission
Weren’t diamonds.
I don’t want to raise my little Me’s in this keyboard wasteland.
April 24, 2015
Dear Mama,
The sign above the 101 screams
“Severe Drought”
And my cracked lips search for
The home in my memory
Time to put down roots elsewhere
Anywhere more alive
July 21, 2015
Dear Mama,
It’s late July and we talk about
National parks and wine bottles
Butter knives and bee stings
The slightest hint of morning in the middle of the night
It’s late July and we talk about
Honesty
It’s late July and the kids talk about
Summer as emotion
Too permanent for its state
Not knowing its fickle nature
It’s late July and we talk about
Bliss things and bad luck things
As if an audience can hear
P.S. wish you were here
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