Poetizing spontaneously without combusting
  • The poetizing begins

    The poetizing begins

  • The poet contemplates

    The poet contemplates

Let’s Dance


Warm Wet Winds

The Scars that Words Leave

The Scars that Words Leave.jpg

I Am Soul

I Am Soul.jpg

Ode to My Friend Andrik


Miles Showed Me His Trumpet

Bruni-MilesMiles Showed Me His Trumpet
By Larry Jaffe

Painting by the wondrous Bruni Sablan

Miles Davis lived around the block from me
deep in the upper west side of Manhattan island.

He played like one man could be an island
living for his horn that paid his daily bread
living in this house made of gingerbread, on
West 77th Street while I lived on West 76th.

I would see him every now and again going
into that brownstone that his horn built.

— I got to meet Miles.

Walked round the block, walked round
the clock where Miles stood outside his
homestead just proud as peacock.

He told me how much he liked San Francisco women
because their bottoms were so round not flat
from riding subways all days, he said with smile.

Nudging me, guy hood joke “You know what I mean.”

We went inside past the New York façade
into his musical domain —
headquarters for lonely horn players.

The purity of Miles’ trumpet leans into me
he sings it blue. My eyes tear uncontrollably.

He has touched melodies that riff with magic,
I escape ego with this horn. It is evolution of life
in notes counterpoint. My fingers feel broken,
wanting to make the same sounds with words
— that staccato lip thing that merges horn with man.

— Miles showed me his trumpet
in this house of sugar coated dreams.

When I was a kid I dreamed of playing trumpet
but I wore braces on my teeth… they said I would
cut my lips to ribbons and bleed on my horn.

I looked up with tears and thought Miles,

Miles always bleeds on his horn

© 2013 LGjaffe

Reapproaching 9/11

Reapproaching 9-11 r



chainsI see your prejudice
Can you see mine?

In hidden corners
of our mind lurks the evil
that defeats good hearts

This reactive mind
does not think
it plays with the soul
into masquerading fears
into prejudice

I see your prejudice
Can you see mine?

© 2013 LGjaffe

I Found Tomorrow

Signpost of TimeI lost yesterday
And found tomorrow

It was hidden
Slightly luminescent
But obscured by the past

A future unbridled
Beckoned me
But where was it


Where was my destiny

Hidden in a corn field
Surrounded by butterflies
Lost in deep sorrow

So concealed I could not fathom
Its location

There was no GPS reading
To discover it

My tomorrow
I shouted
And beseeched
The audience
Had they hidden it
Was it in a purse
Or a pocket

Was it driven like a dagger
Into my heart

I want my tomorrow
I want it so bad
To escape today

I want it so bad
To live forever
Surrounded by a tomorrow
That never comes

© 2013 LGjaffe

Arise Slaves

broken shacklesARISE SLAVES

Are we not all slaves?
beholden to work and ruler
that only take
or give too much
from self-proclaimed divinity
declaring dependence
when what we really seek
is independence?

Are we not all slaves?
to thoughts and notions
taking umbrage
at verbal onslaughts
and physical manifestation
and now dethroned
from the pinnacle
we mourn our destiny
venturing in denial.

Are we not all slaves?
to our own ignorance
of people and places
losing bearing
and orientation
to a secretive compass
that controls the stars
our supposed eternity

Are we not all slaves?
waiving impotent rights
to a lesser champion
when the one we seek
resides within us
calling out
to break these chains
of betrayal.

Are we not all slaves?
pounding doors
rattling chains
and manacles
as fashion statement
mutated fetters confining
spirit and imagination.

Are we not all slaves?
to fad, desire, peers
and pressures.

Slowly relieving themselves
of these tentacles
of uncivilization
unfolds and blooms.

© 2013 lgjaffe

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