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Here is the whole poem again from post #64:

‘37 Horizontal Cameos’:

# 21. Madeline

Twice annually
Madeline shopped in Paris and Rome;
Each year
A new WHITE Cadillac CONVERTIBLE
Her new penthouse apartment
Included four originals by Matisse
And had been the birthplace
Of six Broadway hits;
She was available by appointment
Only to select white Gentiles
Well rated in DUN & BRADSTREET
She was hospitalized
For a year at thirty-two
Because of a nervous breakdown
When her maid
Angry at being fired
Called her a floozy.

(’Black Moods - Uncollected and Unpublished Poems: Horizontal Cameos: 37 Portraits’, pg 220)

Here is another poem from the same book that is likely about Ann Dunham:

# 2. Anne

In the gangling hours
Thin, adolescent hours
Before night runs softly
Away into the west
Anne rises wearily
From her tired bed
And sleeps
Sitting in a chair

(Black Moods – Uncollected and Unpublished Poems: Horizontal Cameos: 37 Portraits, pg 212)

Twice annually
Madeline shopped in Paris and Rome;

______________________________________

NO PROOF WHATSOEVER SHE EVER SHOPPED IN PARIS AND ROME... A FASHION ICON SHE WAS NOT

Each year
A new WHITE Cadillac CONVERTIBLE

________________________________________

COULD BE ANYONE

________________________________________
Her new penthouse apartment
Included four originals by Matisse
And had been the birthplace
Of six Broadway hits;
______________________________________________
NO EVIDENCE WHATSOEVER THAT SHE EVER HAD A FANCY PENTHOUSE APARTMENT BUT PLENTY OF EVIDENCE SHE DIDN’T. HER ADDRESSES SPEAK FOR THEMSELVES

___________________________________________________

She was available by appointment
Only to select white Gentiles
Well rated in DUN & BRADSTREET

________________________________________

NO WAY DOES THIS APPLY TO MADELYN DUNHAM

She was hospitalized
For a year at thirty-two
Because of a nervous breakdown
________________________________________________
WHERE IS THE PRROOF? NO PROOF WHATSOEVER THAT SHE HAD A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN AT THE AGE OF 32 IN 1954 WHEN STANLEY ANNE WAS 12 YEARS OLD.

_____________________________________________
When her maid
Angry at being fired
Called her a floozy.
_____________________________________
NO PROOF MADELYN EVER HAD A MAID AND SHE SEEMED MORE LIKE A GOODY TWO SHOES THAN A FLOOZY.

(’Black Moods - Uncollected and Unpublished Poems: Horizontal Cameos: 37 Portraits’, pg 220)
___________________________________________________________
Here is another poem from the same book that is likely about Ann Dunham:

__________________________________________________
PLEASE DON’T STATE THAT AS FACT, YOU ARE ONLY GUESSING IT IS ABOUT STANLEY ANNE DUNHAM THOUGH IT COULD BE. WHAT YEAR WAS IT WRITTEN? AND BY THE WAY, WHAT A STUPID, MEANINGLESS NOTHING POEM.

# 2. Anne

In the gangling hours
Thin, adolescent hours
Before night runs softly
Away into the west
Anne rises wearily
From her tired bed
And sleeps
Sitting in a chair

I find this one written by the halfrican, Marxist , Kenyan, homo, smelly fly attracting, jug eared fool who is squatting in the White House far more interesting:

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 shink, 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

...... who is Pop? It definitely is not Sr. He called Stanley Dunham Gramps... or did he?

Have you read his book Sex Rebel? Two years after Sex Rebel was published, Stanley Armour Dunham—a decade-long friend of Davis—introduced him to Barry. The late 60s had been the end for Davis’s family life. The year after Sex Rebel came out, Davis’ son left home and joined the Air Force. After years of marital difficulties described in Davis’ FBI files, his wealthy wife Helen Canfield Davis, whose own sexual escapades are described extensively in the book, finally divorced Davis in 1970. Oddly enough, that was the same year that Stanley Anne shipped Barry’s sorry a$$ home from Indonesia and dumped him on Madelyn and Stanely.

Take note of this part......and think about it. If you read ‘Dreams” you will see the connection:

“Married or not, Davis’s fun and games continued unabated after moving to Hawaii in 1948. After his escapade with “Dot” and “Lloyd”, Davis describes group sex and voyeurism at “the Green Goose, a bar in Honolulu’s ‘Little Harlem’ on Smith Street, then operated by one of my friends.” Smith Street was Honolulu’s one and only slice of the ghetto scenes so prevalent in Mainland inner cities.

Obama’s relationship with Davis would last from age nine to eighteen and is described in chapters four and five of Obama’s autobiography, “Dreams from my Father.” Obama describes gramp’s other black male friends but is not particularly impressed with them.
He then writes:
“There was one exception; a poet named Frank who lived in a dilapidated house in a run-down section of Waikiki….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 conversation 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 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. The same thing I felt whenever gramps took me downtown to one of his favorite bars, in Honolulu’s red light district….usually I would sit at the bar, my legs dangling from the high stool, blowing bubbles into my drink and looking at the pornographic art on the walls—the phosphorescent women on animal skins, the Disney characters in compromising positions….”

Unless you have read Sex Rebel, you cannot ever know what a truly sick, perverted man Frank Marshall Davis was.