Barack Obama’s Strange Poem to his ‘Pop’

Barack Obama & Frank Marshall Davis
Barack Obama wrote a curious poem, entitled “Pop,” when he was in his late teens, or some speculate that Frank Marshall Davis wrote it for him. The contents of the poem do not fit the man that he publicly acknowledges as his father, the student, Barack Obama of Kenya. It has been assumed to be about his Grandfather, Stanley Dunham, but Obama called Dunham “Gramps” and not “Pop.”

In the video “Dreams from my Real Father,” directed by Joel Gilbert, the argument is made that Obama’s real father was the well-known communist agitator, Frank Marshall Davis, who was a writer and a poet. Davis was Obama’s childhood mentor. The poem appears to fit Frank Marshall Davis better than Barack Obama, the Kenyan, or Stanley Dunham.

Frank Marshall Davis was also a drug dealer, pornographer, bisexual libertine and self-admitted pedophile. This has given rise to speculation that the references in the poem to mutual “amber stains” on their shorts and “makes me smell his smell, coming from me” is actually reference to the sight and smell of semen.

Obama’s Mother, Ann Dunham,
in Photos, attributed to F.M. Davis
Davis is said to have been a source of drugs for Obama. In his biographical pornographic book, “Sex Rebel,” he describes how he and his wife seduced a 13-year old girl named “Anne,” who some think may have been Obama’s Mother, Ann Dunham, though Dunham was several years older than that, when her family moved to Hawaii in 1960. Davis could have exaggerated her youth to enhance prurient interest.

Frank Marshall Davis was himself mentored by a famous singer, named Paul Robeson, who was a communist and an earlier black messiah figure. Robeson was called “The Great Forerunner” (of other black Messiahs). He was invited to be be the vice-presidential candidate for the New Progressive Party in 1948 by founder Henry Wallace. However, Wallace had to drop out of the race when his connection to a Rasputin-like occult guru in the Soviet Union was exposed.

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks             
(neat=straight whiskey)
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I'm sure he's unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he's still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He's so unhappy, to which he replies . . .
But I don't care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,       
(mirror for a line of cocaine?)
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink, my                    
("shink" can mean in urban slang to become awkward.)
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; 'cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop's black-framed glasses
And know he's laughing too.

-- Barack Obama

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