blackmail press 35
Larry Jaffe
United States of America

Taipari O Maraea - Penny Howard
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.


This is my nexus
My birth my death
My beginning
My end
My infinity


at the nexus
of freedom

– tuned essence
a spiritual semaphore signals
we are free!


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

Of spirit ethereal
Tethered to nuances
Of reality
– In poetic dance

I will pack my pockets
with your deams

These pockets
Now lined
With gold
Are invincible
– Our bond

I will fill my pockets
with your dreams

Your dreams
And hopes
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
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


Today I discovered a Bukowski
left hidden behind his ancient art

I appreciate Henry Charles Bukowski
and call him Hank


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

sees animals not people
relies on a coarse compass
to guide his moral deficit

sells angels for the highest price
hawks humanity without a license
never apprehended

inoculates cruelty
stretches his frailty
with manacles of pain

drowns his subjects with drugs
weaving a chain of tears
in December bleakness

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