Larry Jaffe

Jaffe Anti-Bio

Jaffe says he was born on a mountaintop in the South Bronx (despite statements to the contrary and that there are no mountains in the Bronx), in the shadow of Yankee Stadium. From the time he could walk he either was going to play baseball, hoops or be a poet or writer. Either that or is the spiritual reincarnation of Davy Crockett he just couldn’t make up his mind. He felt he had that mountaintop thing in common with Crockett and his folks once bought him a coonskin cap that he felt ridiculous in, thus took off on this peculiar tangent. He is the product of his own dreams born and bred from Eastern European stock of Russia and Romania. He has decided that he no longer believe in biographies, and adamantly poses “Why must I trot out lists of places I have appeared and places I have been published or tell you about my childhood dreams to be a beatnik when I grew-up, If you want to know who I am read my poetry, It’s all in there. The air is letters, I breathe them in and simply breathe out poetry.
Jaffe has been featured in poetry venues and festivals both throughout the U.S. and abroad. He is very active in the poetry community hosting the very hot ultra chic weekly PoeticLicense series at Zen Restaurant in Silverlake, California. (www.poetix.net <http://www.poetix.net/> ).
Jaffe is also a featured poet for Daimler/Chrysler’s Spirit in the Words poetry program. His web sites have won numerous awards (www.lgjaffe.com <http://www.lgjaffe.com/> ) and feels one of his best creations is the poets4peace site at www.poets4peace.com <http://www.poets4peace.com/> .
Each month Jaffe writes a poetry column for www.about.com <http://www.about.com/> as the socal poetspondent for their Museletter.
He is the International Readings Coordinator for the United Nations Dialog Amongst Civilizations through Poetry project (http://www.dialoguepoetry.org <http://www.dialoguepoetry.org/> ). And has spearheaded organizing poetry hosts around the world. He was recently named Artistic Director, Poetry Series for the Autry Museum of Western Heritage. http://www.autry-museum.org/

E-mail Larry at "Larry Jaffe" <poetix@netzero>

Listening to Ani DiFranco in the rain

It is chilly Saturday afternoon
Los Angeles overcast as only
this city knows how.

There is nothing like the
cloudy gloom of a
city built on sunshine
to get you down.

But maybe the rain makes
you feel alive with thoughts
of spring and memories
still too painful
to be forgotten.

I listen to the rain
on Saturday afternoon
wondering when
pessimism replaced
the optimistic soul.

Ani DiFranco sings lonely
using clouds
as microphones.

And I listen to Ani
and the rain
thinking the three of us
make a fine pair…

Thinking of apples

And when you think of me
do you think of apples
that first raw bite
juice dribbling
down your chin?

Do I put you
in the mood
for apples
sweet and tart
simultaneously?

Apples are symbols
of adventure
for us heroes.

All Wallets Are Not Created Equal

Dedicated to the memory of Amadou Diallo
executed by four members of the
New York City Police Department on Feb. 4, 1999

He was not rich enough
to stop bullets
his wallet not sufficiently loaded
with credit cards and
membership cards
to exclusive country clubs
to ultimately protect him.

No draped American flag
clothed his body
only a shiny immigrant suit
a dusty wallet within
a green card
but no green backs.

His wallet not rich enough
with Caucasian stock
just pictures of family pride
protecting his heritage.

His wallet not prosperous enough
to shield him
from copper
jacketed slugs.

He was not wearing
a three-piece designer suit
with bulletproof vest

But with appeals of surrender
he lifted arms wide
receiving a 41-gun salute

NYPD black and blue.

Eagerly eating pasta

I sit at rectangular table.
It is glass with black legs.
It was not made for dining.
It really is a coffee table.
I eat here anyway.

For some reason unknown to even me
I am comfortable eating there bent over
my fork to my mouth
hovering over my plate
eating pasta and thinking of you.

With the first forkful
as silly as this sounds
I think first of your eyes
and then immediately
of your lips.

I can almost feel
you eating with me
even though I know
you sleep
far off in another world.

I take another bite
and continue
to think of you.

To the beautiful woman with dancing knees

I sit in front of you
watching carefully
from eyes
poised in the back
of my head
my first glanced
encompassed
a universe designed
by Rimbaud
and painted
by Chagall,
a beautiful woman
with dancing knees.

And I wonder
do you wear hats?

Because beautiful women
with faces shaped like
delicious apples
should come
chapeau equipped
millinery framing
the beauty
for the beholder.

Hats do not cover
beautiful women
they simply accessorize
already striking features
formed in divine conspiracy
with renown makers
of women’s genes
and other dancing apparel.

Hats are merely toys
to a woman like you.

Breakfast without blues

It is morning
and I wish we were having
breakfast together
instead of different time zones

It is so hard to digest life
without you
I almost feel
stranded in a parallel universe
that sees in but cannot see out.

And there is no magic gate
to our coming together
only the meeting of minds
in some new age galaxy
that often feels more real
than this one.

I watch you dressed in black
eating corn flakes or eggs
and delicately sipping your
coffee around smiles
of your thoughts of me.

For some reason
this gives me
uncommon pleasure
and smiling
I hold your hand.

Dark rosary

The dark rosary
of your lips
prays till dawn
for eternal forgiveness.
I am not the father
who bequeathed you
or the one that held
your hand on the
merry go round
that fateful day
in October when you
looked into eyes
that were yet to be seen
and felt my passion
like a chord to
your soul.
Your mother
saw you standing
there one-fourth naked
three-fourths angel
I of course was
hidden in shadows
despairing at never
seeing your eyes.
You broke
the complicated braid
that bound our lips
with sweet waters
happiness.
I stood at our
gravesite
wondering where
to put the flowers.

Racial Indigestion

They sat on velvet thrones
these modern day Saint Peters
holding court
at the basilica of America
processing my relatives
in the grand arcade of Ellis Island
changing my people’s names
to eliminate their history
in signatures of disapproval.

They sought our strengths
and wanted our wealth
but not our dignity
or birthright.

There could be
no culture clashing colors
to meld with principles of
Americanized democracy
In a homogenized society
where my ancestors
were processed white.

My great grandmother Pesche
was suddenly inscribed as Pauline;
how nice that sounded
without the tinges
of the ghetto she escaped
leaving her heritage
to wake up in America
with a new solid identity.

All the world is this
Western European stage
processing my ancestors
and bleeding our past
into their gene pool and
their record books.

It gives me racial indigestion
to wonder where
my ancestors have gone.

It gives me racial indigestion
as these words bleed
from eye sockets clogged with tears
from eyes blinded with rage
and these anthems that
weave lies into
stars and stripes.

Solace of an arched eyebrow

Are those your eyes?

Do they remember
everything they have seen?

Do they (your eyes) remember me
running from mad Russian pogrom
chased to the ends of eternity
and herded onto ghettos
of ethnic humiliation;
quarantined and isolated.

You tell me that
the word ghetto
was born in Italy
where Jews were
restricted to the island of Gheto
off the coast of Venice
and forced to live
on reservations
of their own discontent
near end of the 15th Century.

They became earth’s first commuters
walking across water
to mind their own businesses
in the inner city.

I no longer have time
for derivations as I am chased from
one end of a continent
to another
locked in living torment
of holocaust memories.
I now live in my own
personal private ghetto.

And then I see
your eyebrows arch
as you look at me.

It is there I find solace
just beneath the
arch of your right eyebrow
framing a most perfect eye
that looks so deeply
inside of me.

Locks turn
doors open
and peace
becomes me.

Langston Hughes Weary Blues

Langston Hughes sings them
weary blues and my heart just wants
to break at his lines.

Notes on why I cannot share
the beauty of this moment with you.

A man gives up his life
For a cause.
For his art.
For his heart.

They cannot see
the relentless struggle within
that tours his every emotion
and battles his sanity.

He has given up everything
for this one moment
of eternity.

He is seen as willful
and shortsighted
to not plan his
future economically
one retirement fund
at a time.

Your eyes see him with extreme
prejudice leave no room
for his existence or reality.

Some folks see through
rose-colored glasses
others through
estranged illusions
and cataracts.

He looks.

In memory of love

In faded barracks
of olive drab memory
casualties of a more
ethereal war
are quietly found.

In shadowed corridors
untread for lifetimes
locked and forgotten
doorways
strain against distant call.

A memory of love
once all consuming
brave as conquistador
conquering the unknown
and then just as
suddenly starving
a skeleton.

Still longing for that joy
yet feelings of battlement
precludes such appearance
wearing such suffering gaily
as if that is retribution enough.

Predisposed to lack of wonder
a numbness sets in
and eats at intestines that
connect the heart to life.

Lying on wounded blanket
that covers the ankles
of love.

In faded backtracks
hiding elements of desire
on principle not belief.
hiding once again.

Not so distant eyes

I need to look into
someone’s eyes
profess love
organic and natural.

Feel the fire in
pit of soul
burning without
consuming.

Feel what passion does
to inspiration
sensation
and soul.

Loving someone
not mean
to my eyes
fingers or lips
is all I ask.

I mourn
your intellect
willing it to touch me
with finely tendrilled
thought.

Waiting by the Mirror

I stand looking at the mirror
observing the shadow
cast by your reflection.

I wait alone
the sun has stopped shining
yet there is still shadow.

I do not understand the loneliness
that beckons from distant
street corners.

A woman with cigarette
dangling from rubied lips
asks me if I want to dance.

I stumble across her feet.

I don’t smoke I say.

She looks at me disdainfully.

I wonder what treachery
has been crossed as
I stand by the mirror waiting
hoping to see your
reflection in my eyes.

Blank stares
and personas beware
are what I discover.

The phone does not ring
despite hopes of pregnant pauses
or relevant moments together
sharing coffeehouse eclairs
something sweet that
does not wither the soul.

I wait feverishly by the mirror
hoping against hope you
will rescue my demise
from winsome strangers
wooing my heart.

I await miracles
seriously considering
converting to any religion
claiming my heart.

My neck so weighed down
by crucifixes and stars and
trinkets from unnamed gods
I can no longer lift my head.

I kneel by the mirror
waiting slowly waiting.

This moment of kiss

In this one screeching second
eternity halts
suddenly
releasing its hold on humanity.

In this moment of kiss
one does not
merely look into eyes
windows to the soul
but walks through the gateway;
the kiss
the doorway
between souls.

This moment of kiss
like no other
elemental bonding
linking of lips
in tribute of two
tied of heart.

In this moment of kiss.
memories are held captive
transforming melancholy
to spontaneous joy.

In this moment of kiss.

© Copyright 2001, lgjaffe.
All Right Reserved. Printed By Permission.