Just a Girl Lost 2

Just a girl lost~ Here I share bits & pieces of me, in poetry, prose, music & posts from writers who inspire me.


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Dog Days are Done by Florence and the Machine

#1.  This is a GREAT SONG!!!  It’s by Florence and the Machine.  I heard it while driving. 

That’s the only way I hear ‘new’ music nowadays

#2.  Weird, when I was a teenager,

I used to be the one who found stuff before anyone else, well,  a few elses.

It’s hard ‘growing up’.  Meaning, I can’t sit and listen to music all day.

It’s hard growing up, meaning,

I’m not really grown up, just in a different dimension.

Make sense?

THIS SONG kinda sums it up.

As I was listening to it I was thinking,

Damn them, for being so happy, not fair.

I wonder what it feels like?

And then I thought, what if I could make myself

and those around me happy?

I thought, what if I could decide to be happy?

and make this song come true?

What a dream, a beautiful, wonderful, perfect dream of HAPPY!!!

I hope you love it as much as I do.

@justagirllost

 

 

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The Blue Dream

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I promised I would write my dreams,

since I’m not inspired right now to write anything

about Love or Life or Living.

I have been dreaming lately and that is a rarity.

I mean that i am ‘remembering’ my dreams.

I know that we all dream, blah, blah, blah.

I just lately have had some memorable dreams

as in BRIGH COLORS

and STRANGE SITUATIONS.

In this dream, I’ll call it ‘The Blue Dream’, I am in a HUGE, MASSIVE, meandering house.

This huge house is apparently being ‘given’ to me and my children.

(my children’s ages vary and morph as the dream progresses)

In the process of moving in, the former tenants have left a LOT OF STUFF, weird stuff and the former tenants (picture The Brady Bunch times 10) the Brady Bunch are ‘helping’ me clean-up.

As they help me clean up they are also finding things they had forgotten and are happily taking them home.

This house is HUGE and one room has a red puppet theater and a white baby bed and lots of baby toys just lying around.

It’s night and the room is bluish in hue with lights dancing off the walls.

There are people pulling wallpaper off, sawing, hammering, nailing, taking paneling off, putting things in bags.

We move on into the kitchen.  The kitchen is a jumble of carpentry, hardware, sawdust, no table or anything, just a weird metallic, greenish, harsh, undone, uninviting mess.

There’s white stuff everywhere.

Like, that white stuff on walls and ceilings, crumbly and powdery white.

There’s drawers lying on the floor filled with CRAP.

You know, that junk drawer you just throw little pieces of crap into.  There are drawers scattered and tossed and filled with utensils and forks, knives, spoons, corn-cob holders, different colored rubber bands, tacks, tacks, tacks, little nails and all the little things you need to stick things to the wall.  BORING.

I march/slither/slide upstairs, downstairs, all around, seeing rooms with bunk beds, seeing into bathrooms with clothes hanging everywhere and toothbrushes, toothpaste, pictures, children’s paintings, all sorts of things just everywhere.  Stuff left behind, not worthy of keeping, but the Brady’s were realizing that there was some pretty cool stuff they’d left behind and so as I’m seeing into these rooms, I’m seeing the Brady’s picking up, sorting thru, laughing about, holding onto all this stuff they had forgotten about.  They’re finding treasure as I’m tearing down to move in and it’s a chaotic mess.  NOISE and MESS and NOISE and ripping and tearing and running thru the house.

I turn and step into an elevator.  It’s a brown elevator.  Wood with scratches in it.  I step in hesitantly, I know I’m going down, I know I have to get in, but also I decide in this dream that I am NOT going to be stuck in this elevator.  (I am SO CLAUSTROPHOBIC. As a child I wasn’t in the least, but as an adult, I am)

Suddenly, I come to a STOP.  I’m at a dead end.  No where to go forward. I step out of the elevator and am a bit relived because my lucid dreaming worked!

A cul-de-sac in the hallway.  I’m standing in a hallway.  I look to my right and I see sitting on a wooden crate a blond girl, about 5 or 6, wearing yellow shorts and top.  She has pigtails and is just sitting quietly, solemnly on the crate in the cul-de-sac staring at me. Not moving, just staring at me.

I need the bathroom.

I turn suddenly and look straight ahead.  I’m looking in a mirror.  I’m in a bathroom.

I’m standing in a narrow, white enamel on the wall, white sink, light bulb hanging down with a pull string, bathroom.

I look in the mirror and I’m COMPLETELY BLUE.  I’m covered in blue.  Painted blue.  A cobalt blue.  My hair is a mess, all frizzy and sticking out and BLUE.  My skin is blue.  My gown is blue.  My feet are blue!  I look at the girl and feel confusion, I know I have to keep going.  I look down the hallway.

I hear people laughing and I know there is a party going on.

I turn and find some stairs.

I go down these dingy, dark stairs.  The whole house is falling apart/being redone.  It’s got a 70’s vibe. The party room.  Paneling, blue and green furniture, not too well lit.  It’s dim, like a dying sun yellow.

It’s a party and everyone is happy and laughing and talking, but the colors and smell and feeling all say dank, dark, slime, oppressive.

I step into the room and see everyone dressed in groovy polyester pantsuits and dresses, chunky shoes and puffy hair.  I see our neighbor from across the street.  Miss Bea.

She and her husband, Mr. Andy, were my second parents.  They had 4 kids, the youngest girl was a year younger than me and my best friend, my sister almost.  We spent everyday together. Our mom’s would drink coffee and talk and we would play.  We practically lived together. 

Miss Bea.

She looks beautiful.

She’s smiling and laughing, wearing a lovely dress and she’s young.

I’m surprised to see her there because she’s dead.

She tells me that she’s with her daughter.

Her first pregnancy was a miscarriage, they named her Susan, and I’d always felt a sadness from her when she thought about Susan.  I loved Miss Bea.  She was very quiet, tiny.  Didn’t drive a car.  Her husband drove her everywhere. 

Miss Bea, my sweet, mysterious, very kind, never raised her voice, LOVED romance novels, smoked like a chimney, my mom’s best friend, my second mom was telling me she was happy and with her daughter. 

I was uncomfortable the whole time, of course, I’m in disarray.  My hair is a mess and I’m covered in blue! I turned to look around …

I woke up.

That’s it.

That’s my Blue Dream.

 

*image, Death and the Mirror, James Christensen

@justagirllost2

 

 

 


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When a Lifetime of Reality isn’t Real, then what…

I was perusing my drafts tonight, looking for some snarky poetry for a friend, and I came across this. 

I know I wrote this.  The strange thing is that I don’t remember writing it.  I usually remember everything I write because I only write when my emotions are all emotional.  I’m either up, up, up or low, low, low.  I’m not an inbetween writer.  I wrote the title, When a Lifetime of Reality isn’t Real, then what… 

So, as I’m reading this, I’m thinking, “What was I going thru?  dealing with?”  It must have been something epic because like I said, I only write when compelled to do so, as in COMPELLED.  hmmmmm… I’m seriously curious.  I don’t believe in split personalities, yet it feels like someone else wrote this. curiouser and curiouser

Lately, I haven’t felt much like writing.  I’ve been dreaming a lot though.  A LOT. 

Maybe I should just write my dreams when I’m uninspired.  Huh, LIGHT BULB MOMENT!!!  lol   

I will be doing that. I’ll start writing my dreams on here.  Starting tomorrow!

Until then, I’ll leave you with my mysterious missive from last March.

Peace and Love to you all, even the haters (as our Marvelous President Donald Trump likes to say)  😉

Niki

 

 

 

what am I supposed to feel?

Numb  Stunned  Shocked  Disbelieving

Disillusioned   Duped  Distraught

Anger  Rage in Dreams Betrayed  Pain holds sway, a dirge to play, fast fading, Faith torn stripped tattered sways fast against Mind, Flesh & Bone.   Pain, like a Hawk, Claws Sink Deep Beneath Bone & Flesh, Spellbound Screaming Mind Blown Feeling Bits & Pieces Flowing Fleeing Gently Bleeding every Poisonous Drop of Pain.

No more crying in the rain.  No more Fantasy Falling to the Pain

Washed Up Brain Dead  Soul  Fucked  Back Run

Unfind

Rewind  Ahead my Steps No Turning Back  Time’s  Destined Path to Find  Life  

Unbound Unblind to Truth  this Life Unblind I find  Heart  I See  I Know

I Breathe  I  Soar  Beyond the Veil   I See Black Sky I Know It’s Name

UnBlue Pilled   Eyes  Wide  Open   Black Pitch  Death Trap  Matrix

 

Hopeless   Betrayed  Played

Lost

Sickened  Saddened  Broken  Ashamed

Hollow Hurt

Afraid  Exposed  Alarmed  Haunted

Wide Awake  Wired  Electric  Chaotic  Alive

Murderous  Livid  Repulsed  Revulsion Burning  Hate

White Hot  Hate

….

I’m Blown away by the the ease with which we hop, skipped & goose stepped into a red, white, and blue Looking Glass of Hell on Earth.

I’m more like ‘a-ha’ , ok, this must be ‘IT’

‘IT’ is finally here, for me at least.  ‘IT’ has always been waiting for me to ‘See’

I do now, I finally see…

I felt ‘IT’ about 16 years ago?   It’s hard to remember exactly.

I just know I felt it one day.

Like a quiet sonic boom, deep in me.

I felt like everything was real, but temporary.

Like a way station, forever fated and planned, an in between purgatory of sorts.

That’s how it felt, a purgatory, not deprived of anything, just my pride and being able to call anything my own.

It was grey, miserable, yet I had my family, my children, all that mattered, except for my own identity or home.

The second time I felt it was about 13 years ago.  Chloe was a new baby.

I was standing in the middle of the kids and my room.  Just standing there in a funk.  Single mom, living at home, sharing a room and way, way off the mark of where I thought my life, our lives, would and should be.   Feeling angry, mad, disgusted, embarrassed, ashamed, guilty.  Like a great, big L O S E R.  A disappointment to myself, dependent on my family, resentful at the shame time, bratty.  Just a mess of poor me and A LOT of growing up to do.

I felt it, this feeling like I was in a waiting room.

I’ve always had a nagging, uneasy voice, a whisper deep within me, within my soul

It sounds crazy, but it’s been there for so long.  Telling me to wait, just wait.

God, sounds bizarre reading it, but I swear, the voice was there.

I ‘heard’ it telling me something was coming, in the far, far distant future,

but IT was coming and life would never be the same as anyone knew it.  I FELT it, it never went away.

I let it go.

I don’t obsess over things I can’t change.

I didn’t feel anything but a complete certainty, a truth inside me, a calm

and I just said, “Ok.” and moved on with my days.

Have you ever had that happen?

I don’t know what they would call it.  

I know many people believe in psychic abilities, mediums, esp, etc.   I don’t.

I’m Catholic and I was raised to never mess with any kinds of occult things.

 

I don’t even read my horoscope.

 

@justagirllost2

*photo mine

 


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George Soros is a part of The New World Order

I first posted this in November 2016, during the U.S. presidential elections.
Soros was gunning for a Hillary win, but by the grace of God, she lost and now things are in motion to bring down a worldwide cartel of sex traffickers and criminals beyond even his evil control.
Unfortunately, evil never sleeps and neither can those of us fighting for good.
I’m reposting this and hope that it enlightens and informs.
 
Have a blessed day!
Niki 💕
~
 

The Media Has Scrubbed The Internet Of This Video Exposing Soros

This old video exposing the real George Soros has been virtually scrubbed from the internet. Until now.

Spread this everywhere.

Soros is directly funding the anti-Trump protests happening right now across the country. This treasonous bastard needs to be arrested. Let the people know who is really pulling the strings behind the left’s relentless attack on this country.

“I cannot and do not look at the social consequences of what I do.”

George Soros

 

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*CLICK link below and read

George Soros Can Be Charged With Treason and Sedition

 


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When Tolerance of Evil becomes a Virtue it is Time for Intolerance

 

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A PLEA FOR INTOLERANCE

by Venerable Fulton J. Sheen

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America, it is said, is suffering from intolerance.  It is not.  It is suffering from tolerance: tolerance of right and wrong, truth and error, virtue and evil, Christ and chaos. Our country is not nearly so much overrun with the bigoted as it is overrun with the broadminded.

The man who can make up his mind in an orderly way, as a man might make up his bed, is called a bigot; but a man who cannot make up his mind, any more than he can make up for lost time, is called tolerant and broadminded.

A bigoted man is one who refuses to accept a reason for anything; a broadminded man is one who will accept anything for a reason—providing it is not a good reason. It is true that there is a demand for precision, exactness, and definiteness, but it is only for precision in scientific measurement, not in logic.

The breakdown that has produced this unnatural broadmindedness is mental, not moral.

The evidence for this statement is threefold:

the tendency to settle issues not by arguments but by words,

the unqualified willingness to accept the authority of anyone on the subject of religion, and,

lastly, the love of novelty.  

Voltaire boasted that if he could find but ten wicked words a day he could crush the “infamy” of Christianity. He found the ten words daily, and even a daily dozen, but he never found an argument, and so the words went the way of all words and the thing, Christianity, survived. Today, no one advances even a poor argument to prove that there is no God, but they are legion who think they have sealed up the heavens when they used the word “anthropomorphism.” This word is just a sample of the catalogue of names which serve as the excuse for those who are too lazy to think. One moment’s reflection would tell them that one can no more get rid of God by calling Him “anthropomorphic” than he can get rid of a sore throat by calling it “streptococci.” As regards the use of the term “anthropomorphism,” I cannot see that its use in theology is less justified than the use in physics of the term “organism,” which the new physicists are so fond of employing.

Not only does the substitution of words for argument betray the existence of this false tolerance, but also the readiness of many minds to accept as an authority in any field an individual who becomes a famous authority in one particular field.

Another evidence of the breakdown of reason that has produced this weird fungus of broad‐mindedness is the passion for novelty, as opposed to the love of truth.

Belief in the moral law are considered passing fashions. The latest thing in this new tolerance is considered the true thing, as if truth were a fashion, like the hat, instead of an institution, like a head.

At the present moment, in psychology the fashion runs towards Behaviorism, as in philosophy it runs towards Temporalism. And that it is not objective validity which dictates the success of a modern philosophical theory, is borne out by the statement a celebrated space‐time philosopher of England made to the writer a few years ago, when he was asked where he got his system. ʺFrom my imagination,ʺ he answered. Upon being challenged that the imagination was not the proper faculty for a philosopher to use, he retorted:  ʺIt is, if the success of your philosophical system depends not on the truth that is in it, but on its novelty.ʺ

In that statement is the final argument for modern broad‐mindedness: truth is novelty, and hence  ʺtruthʺ  changes with the passing fancies of the moment.

Truth does grow, but it grows homogeneously, like an acorn into an oak; it does not swing in the breeze, like a weathercock.

The nature of certain things is fixed, and none more so than the nature of truth. Truth maybe contradicted a thousand times, but that only proves that it is strong enough to survive a thousand assaults.

But for any one to say, ʺSome say this, some say that, therefore there is no truth,ʺ is about as logical as it would have been for Columbus, who heard some say, ʺThe earth is round,ʺ  and other say, ʺThe earth is flat,ʺ to conclude: ʺTherefore there is no earth at all.ʺ

The giggling giddiness of novelty, the sentimental restlessness of a mind unhinged, and the unnatural fear of a good dose of hard thinking, all conjoin to produce a group of sophomoric latitudinarians who think there is no difference between God as Cause and God as a ʺmental projectionʺ; who equate Christ and Buddha, St. Paul and John Dewey, and then enlarge their broad‐mindedness into a sweeping synthesis that says not only that one Christian sect is just as good as another, but even that one world‐religion is just as good as another.

The great god  ʺProgressʺ is then enthroned on the altars of fashion, and as the hectic worshipers are asked,  ʺProgress towards what?ʺ The tolerant answer comes back,  ʺMore progress.ʺ

All the while sane men are wondering how there can be progress without direction and how there can be direction without a fixed point. And because they speak of a ʺfixed point,ʺ they are said to be behind the times, when really they are beyond the times mentally and spiritually.

In the face of this false broad‐mindedness, what the world needs is intolerance. The mass of people have kept up hard and fast distinctions between dollars and cents, battleships and cruisers,  ʺYou owe meʺ and  ʺI owe you,ʺ but they seem to have lost entirely the faculty of distinguishing between the good and the bad, the right and the wrong.

The best indication of this is the frequent misuse of the terms ʺtoleranceʺ and ʺintolerance.ʺ

There are some minds that believe that intolerance is always wrong, because they make  ʺintoleranceʺ  mean hate, narrow‐ mindedness, and bigotry. These same minds believe that tolerance is always right because, for them, it means charity, broad‐mindedness, American good nature. ‐‐‐

What is tolerance?

Tolerance is an attitude of reasoned patience towards evil, and a forbearance that restrains us from showing anger or inflicting punishment. But what is more important than the definition is the field of its application.

The important point here is this: Tolerance applies only to persons, but never to truth. Intolerance applies only to truth, but never to persons. Tolerance applies to the erring; intolerance to the error.

What has just been said here will clarify that which was said at the beginning of this chapter, namely, that America is suffering not so much from intolerance, which is bigotry, as it is from tolerance, which is indifference to truth and error, and a philosophical nonchalance that has been interpreted as broad‐mindedness.

Greater tolerance, of course, is desirable, for there can never be too much charity shown to persons who differ with us.

Charity, then, must be shown to persons, and particularly to those outside the fold who by charity must be led back, that there may be one fold and one Shepherd. Thus far tolerance, but no farther. Tolerance does not apply to truth or principles. About these things we must be intolerant, and for this kind of intolerance, so much needed to rouse us from sentimental gush,

I make a plea.

Intolerance of this kind is the foundation of all stability. The government must be intolerant about malicious propaganda, and during the World War it made an index of forbidden books to defend national stability, as the Church, who is in constant warfare with error, made her index of forbidden books to defend the permanency of Christʹs life in the souls of men.

The government during the war was intolerant about the national heretics who refused to accept her principles concerning the necessity of democratic institutions, and took physical means to enforce such principles.

The soldiers who went to war were intolerant about the principles they were fighting for, in the same way that a gardener must be intolerant about the weeds that grow in his garden.

The Supreme Court of the United States is intolerant about any private interpretation of the first principle of the Constitution that every man is entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and the particular citizen who would interpret ʺlibertyʺ in even such a small way as meaning the privilege to ʺgoʺ on a red traffic‐light, would find himself very soon in a cell where there were no lights, not even the yellow — the color of the timid souls who know not whether to stop or go.

And if we admit intolerance about the foundations of a government that at best looks after manʹs body, why not admit intolerance about the foundations of a government that looks after the eternal destiny of the spirit of man?

On all sides we hear it said today,  ʺThe modern world wants a religion without dogmas,ʺ which betrays how little thinking goes with that label, for he who says he wants a religion without dogmas is stating a dogma, and a dogma that is harder to justify than many dogmas of faith.

A dogma is a true thought, and a religion without dogmas is a religion without thought, or a back without a backbone.

All sciences have dogmas. ʺWashington is the capital of the United Statesʺ is a dogma of geography. ʺWater is composed of two atoms of hydrogen and one of oxygenʺ is a dogma of chemistry. Should we be broad‐minded and say that Washington is a sea in Switzerland? Should we be broad‐minded and say that H2O is a symbol for sulfuric acid?

We cannot verify all the dogmas of science, history, and literature, and therefore we are to take many of them on the testimony of others. I believe Professor Eddington, for example, when he tells me that ʺEinsteinʹs law of gravitation asserts that ten principal coefficients of curvature are zero in empty space,ʺ just as I do not believe Dr. Harry Elmer Barnes when he tells me that ʺthe cockroach has lived substantially unchanged on the earth for fifty million years.ʺ  I accept Dr. Eddingtonʹs testimony because, by his learning and his published works, he has proved that he knows something about Einstein. I do not accept Dr. Barnesʹs testimony about cockroaches because he has never qualified in the eyes of the modern world as a cockroach specialist. In other words, I sift testimony and accept it on reason.

I then accept these truths — truths which I cannot prove, as was Professor Eddingtonʹs statement about Einstein — and these truths become dogmas. There can thus be dogmas of religion as well as dogmas of science, and both of them can be revealed, the one by God, the other by man. Not only that — these fundamental dogmas, like the first principles [elements] of Euclid, can be used as raw material for thinking, and just as one scientific fact can be used as the basis of another, so one dogma can be used as the basis for another. But in order to begin thinking on a first dogma, one must be identified with it either in time or in principle.

The truth is divine; the heretic is human.

Right is right if nobody is right, and wrong is wrong if everybody is wrong.

~

  • Entire article here:  http://www.northamericanmartyrs.org/pdf/Plea-for-

Intolerance.pdf

~

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~

©justagirllost2


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Obama’s Poetry

Although Barack Obama is one of my least favorite humans on this planet, I found this article about his poetry quite fascinating.  His two poems are very different in style.  The poem ‘Pop’ definitely seems autobiographical and I felt it to be a bit disturbing also, some people may not see it that way.

I hope you enjoy this post of an article by Dr. Eowyn of The D. C. Clothesline and that you find it as interesting as I did.

@justagirllost2

~

Obama’s disturbing poem on man-boy relationship

When Barack Obama was a 19-year-old student at Occidental College, he published two poems in the Spring 1982 issue of Occidental’s literary magazine, Feast. One is the cringe-worthy “Underground” about “apes that eat figs.” The other poem, “Pop,” is much more interesting, biographical, and disturbing.

“Pop”

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks

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,
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 shrink, my
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.

The poem reads autobiographical — about a young Obama’s relationship with a much older man whom he calls Pop. In his article for WND on March 7, 2012, Dr. Jack Cashill singles out this passage from the poem:

“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;”

Cashill writes that the most innocent explanation for the “amber stain” on the shorts of Pop and young Obama or “his smell, coming/ From me” is that Pop got the teenaged Obama drunk, and they both spilled whiskey (Seagrams) on themselves. But that interpretation does not explain why the spill is specifically on their shorts and not on their shirts or how Pop’s smell is also on (“from”) Obama.

 

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A marriage and family therapist who blogs under the tag “Neo-Neocon” senses a darker relationship. She writes:

“The lines that begin ‘points out the same amber stain…Makes me smell his smell, coming/From me’ may be describing outright sexual abuse. But perhaps not; we don’t know, and we’ll never know. But there is no question that the poem is describing a boundary violation on several levels: this child feels invaded—perhaps even taken over—by this man, and is fighting against that sensation.

[…] The poem describes a boundary violation that is both physical and mental.The physical is obvious: he is forced to hug the man who repels him, and as he does so he feels himself shrinking. But the violation is mental, too; earlier in the poem, Obama has described “Pop” as a person who has actually gotten into his brain, and whom he wishes to eliminate from it:

as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a 
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.

This mental and emotional usurpation of the young Obama is echoed in the last image of the poem, in which the boy sees his own tiny image framed in ‘Pop’s’ eyeglasses.
 The poem describes a struggle against an attempt at identity takeover, a rejection of being reduced to a reflection in the eyes of the stronger, older, more experienced mentor, who has tried to make Obama over in his own image:

I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses…

The sight is chilling to Obama, who is trying to break free. One wonders if he ever fully succeeded.”

So who was Pop?

There were two older men in teen Obama’s life:

  1. His maternal grandfather, Stanley Armour Dunham, with whom Obama had lived from age 10 to 18 in Honolulu. When Obama was ten years old, his mom, Stanley Ann Dunham, had sent him back to Hawaii to live with her parents while she remained in Indonesia.

2. Frank Marshall Davis, a black long-time friend of Stanley Armour Dunham, whom Dunham had introduced to young Obama to be the latter’s African-American mentor. Davis was a member of the American Communist Party, a writer of poetry and books, including the pornographic novel, Sex Rebel: Black, using the pseudonym “Bob Greene.” Cashill states that there is no doubt Davis wrote Sex Rebel because Davis admitted as much in his memoir, Livin’ the Blues: “I could not then truthfully deny that this book, which came out in 1968 as a Greenleaf Classic, was mine.”

During the presidential campaign season in 2008, I read Sex Rebel, which is out of print, by borrowing the book from the library of the University of California, Berkeley. I therefore can testify from having read the book that Sex Rebel is an account of the unorthodox sexual exploits of a black man “Bob Greene”. Those sexual exploits included marrying a white woman (just as Davis himself did, which was uncommon in the 1960s); “swinging” or wife-swapping with other couples; picking up prospective couples in public parks; sexual orgies; voyeurism; exhibitionism; bisexualism (Greene wrote that “under certain circumstances I am bisexual”); and the seduction by “Greene” and his white wife of a 13-year-old girl named Anne.

(It is the pedophilia that has prompted increasing speculation on the net that “Anne” was actually Stanley Ann Dunham, Obama’s mother; and that Frank Marshall Davis had sired Obama. That’s the reason why Obama conceals his birth certificate. This is the subject of a documentary movie that will come out this summer. For more information, go here.)

Joel Gilbert, the maker of the documentary “Dreams From My Real Father,” has uncovered handwritten letters by Davis to Margaret Burroughs, the well-known African-American artist, in which Davis refers to his book “Sex Rebel: Black” as his “thoroughly erotic autobiography.” Davis had a sexual affair with Burroughs which, Davis explains, was included in the novel autobiography. [Read more,here.]

In the introduction to Sex Rebel, an alleged Ph.D. named Dale Gordon goes further. He describes the pseudonymous author, Bob Greene, as having “strong homosexual tendencies in his personality.”

There are those, like Rebecca Mead of The New Yorker, who say “Pop” is a “loving if slightly jaded portrait of Obama’s maternal grandfather.”

But both Jack Cashill and Neo-Neocon point out that Obama, in his memoirDreams From My Father, called Stanley Armour Dunham not “Pop” but “Gramps.”

There are other reasons pointing to Frank Marshall Davis as “Pop”:

1. “Pop” wrote poetry: Dunham was a life-long furniture salesman whose literary efforts, if any, were confined to making up dirty limericks. In contrast, Davis had written several books of poetry — Black Man’s Verse (1935), I Am the American Negro (1937), Through Sepia Eyes (1938), 47th Street (1948), Awakening and Other Poems (1978).

2. A line in Obama’s poem “he switches channels, recites an old poem/ He wrote before his mother died” also points to Davis as “Pop”. Dunham’s mother died when he was 8 years old, whereas Davis’ mother died when he was 20 and already established as a poet of promise.

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3. In his memoir Dreams From My FatherObama’s description of a seedy and dissipated older man named Frank is strikingly similar to “Pop” in his poem:

“…by the time I met Frank [Obama was around nine years old] he must have been pushing eighty, with a big dewlapped face and an ill-kempt gray Afro that made him look like an old, shaggy-maned lion. He would read us his poetry whenever we stopped by his house, sharing whiskey with gramps out of an emptied jelly jar. As the night wore on, the two of them would solicit my help in composing dirty limericks. Eventually, the conservation would turn to laments about women.

“They’ll drive you to drink, boy,” Frank would tell me soberly. “And if you let ‘em, they’ll drive you into your grave.”

I was intrigued by the old Frank, with his books and whiskey breath and the hint of hard-earned knowledge behind the hooded eyes. The visits to his house always left me feeling vaguely uncomfortable, though, as if I were witnessing some complicated, unspoken transaction between the two men, a transaction I couldn’t fully understand….”

4. Davis fits the “seedy old man” description more than Dunham:Born in 1905, Davis was 56 years older than Obama and would be 66 years old when Obama was ten. Born in 1918, Dunham was 43 years older than Obama and would be a youngish 53 years old when Obama was ten.

Here are some photos I’ve found of Stanley Armour Dunham and Frank Marshall Davis. Decide for yourself which man better fits the physical description of Pop in Obama’s poem: “dark watery eyes”; “ears that hang with heavy lobes”; “thick, oily neck”; “broad back”; “black-framed glasses”.

Stanley Armour Dunham with child Obama (l); Dunham with 19-year-old Obama (r)

Frank Marshall Davis as a young man (l); as an old man (r)

Whether Pop was Davis or Dunham, this much is certain: His relationship with young Obama, as the latter described it in the poem “Pop,” was creepy and disturbingly suggestive of pederasty.

~Eowyn

Dr. Eowyn is a regular contributor to The D.C. Clothesline and the Editor of Fellowship of the Minds.

*Links below to more articles about Obama’s poetry.

The first is from PBS.org., the second from The New Yorker and the third from the Huffington Post.

I always try to present other sources when one source leans more left or right politically.

https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/government-elections-politics/choice-2012/artifact-one-barack-obamas-pop/

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2007/07/02/obama-poet

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/steven-barrieanthony/obamas-poetry_b_44271.html