blackmail press 35

Larry Jaffe

United States of America

Taipari O Maraea - Penny Howard

index

Jaffe is an internationally known and an award winning writer, author and poet and founder of 'Poets Beyond Borders' (a group dedicated to human rights and reform) and iSpeax his personal writing forum. Jaffe impacts audiences and readers with a rich emotional range, masterfully crafted, written from the heart and soul with clarity and understanding. Jaffe has read his work in such distinguished locations as the Japanese American Museum, the Hammer Museum, the Museum of Tolerance, the Jewish Museum and the Museum of Literature in Prague and the Dylan Thomas Centre in Wales. Jaffe uses the uses the aesthetic power of poetry to bring understanding to the world. He was the 2007 recipient of the Saint Hill Art Festival’s Lifetime of Creativity Award, the first time given to a poet.

Nexus

I

This is my nexus

My birth my death

My beginning

My end

My infinity

II

Sitting

at the nexus

of freedom

– tuned essence

a spiritual semaphore signals

we are free!

III

At the nexus

Of freedom

Spirits gather

For final tour

On Thursday

We all go free

– they smile

It is not yet known

which Thursday

only that it will

be a Thursday.

Pockets full of Dreams

I will line my pockets

with your dreams

These pockets

Once torn and holey

Now sanctuary

To the holiest

Of vows

– Your imagination

I will stuff my pockets

with your dreams

Thoughts

Of spirit ethereal

Tethered to nuances

Of reality

Combine

– In poetic dance

I will pack my pockets

with your deams

These pockets

Now lined

With gold

Are invincible

Unbreakable

– Our bond

I will fill my pockets

with your dreams

Watching

Your dreams

And hopes

Blossom

With your smiles

– Into daylight

My pockets filled

with your dreams

I walk on down the road

I Never Appreciated Bukowski

I don’t know why

I never appreciated

Charles Bukowski

I just didn’t

I never got to call him

Charles,

Charlie

or Chuck

I never called him anything

I never got

to hang

out with his words

I just never appreciated

Charles Bukowski

Perhaps he was too raw for me

But that makes no sense

I invented

Unprotected Poetry

how could anyone

or anything

be too raw for me?

Perhaps something more sinister

Maybe I was told

He was an aging revolutionary

But I love revolutionaries

Aging or otherwise

Maybe Bukowski

was pawned off to me

as some sort of freak

vomiting on his shoes

Glass houses

is all I can say

I don’t tolerate drunks

all that well

maybe this was it

—Nevertheless

Today I discovered a Bukowski

left hidden behind his ancient art

I appreciate Henry Charles Bukowski

and call him Hank

Slaver

Slavery tastes of fear and feels as if someone barbwired your soul – taste the brutality

Slaver

sees animals not people

relies on a coarse compass

to guide his moral deficit

Slaver

sells angels for the highest price

hawks humanity without a license

never apprehended

Slaver

inoculates cruelty

stretches his frailty

with manacles of pain

Slaver

drowns his subjects with drugs

weaving a chain of tears

in December bleakness

Slaver

trades souls and hearts

shackles humanity

for shekels stained with tears

Remove the chains

Remove the tears

Remove the fears

Remove the chains

Remove the tears

Remove the fears

Remove the chains

Remove the tears

Remove the fears