Some better photographs, detailed descriptions,
and more small art-prints, as requested.
TO FIND...
Prices, shipping & handling cost
Order Forms and procedeures...
just click on the "Buy It" buttons.
You won't actually be buying at this point,
but you will be able to check-out the cost
and ordering procedures.
...And a little something about the artist:
m.l. "Mike" Farahay, born in Dayton, Ohio, raised
from Nashville, TN to Gardena, CA, graduating HS
from Worthington, OH; and attending college at
Columbus School of Art, Ohio University, Sinclair
Comm. Col., Dayton, OH., Olympic Col.,
Bremerton, WA., and Southern State at
Fincastle, OH, grad SCL 1984. Majored in
Sculpture, Drawing & Design with minors in
Geology, English, & Education.
After homesteading and working in Alaska for
some ten years, our family returned to southern
Ohio(initially in 1971, and permanently in 1978)
to the beautiful foothills of the Appalacians
where our families have their longest histories.
Exhibitions have been in Dayton, OH.,
Anchorage, AK. & The Adams Co. Art Gallery of
The Murphin Ridge Inn, Adams Co., OH.
The shop and studio are located in home at;
2100 Big Woods Rd., Seaman, Ohio 45679.
Telephone (937) 386 - 2060
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...From top row, left to right:
Cedar Car, Cedar Tricycle, Cedar Wagon
...bottom row:
Two Cedar Treasure Chest
all hand carved, constructed, detailed,
and hand finished by the artist.
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"The GO-MOBILE"
Item No. 2
CEDAR CAR
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Push me CYCLE
Item No. 4
CEDAR TRICYCLE
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The COASTER WAGON
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Item No. (1)
LUCKY CEDAR HEART
Each "Lucky Cedar Heart" is selectively cut from aromatic
Cedar wood to capture the best, possible combination of
wood-grain and color from that particular piece of wood.
Each wood-burned drawing is, also, selectively designed and
burn-carved into the wood specially for that piece of wood.
So, all Cedar Hearts are unique to themselves, and no two
will look alike... Some will be lighter, some will be darker,
some will have a little more drawing, and some will have a
little less. Each "Lucky" Cedar Heart will be Date-Numbered
and signed by the artist, M.L. Farahay.
Approximate Size =
5 1/2" high X 5" wide X 3/8" thick.
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Item No. 3
CEDAR OWL
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Additional Art-Prints...
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A longer version to include "The O'Dome" story on
page 5-1/2 plus page seven is available at additional
cost. This is listed as Item No. 41.
THE BOOK 2, "Farahay's from The Heron's View"
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Another longer version to include the erotic page 8,
but not including "The O'Dome" story from
page 5-1/2 into and through page 7, is also available.
This is listed as Item No. 42.
THE BOOK 3, "Farahay's from The Heron's View".
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The final longest version includes all of the above of
pages one through eight.
This longest version is listed as Item No. 43.
THE BOOK 4, "Farahay's from The Heron's View".
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PLEASE, sign the Guestbook at the end of this or any
of the other eight pages. I sincerely would like to read
what you have to say... THANK YOU.
( 1a )
pussy willows bud
on pond's mud edge, frogs croak bass...
notes the heron knows
( 1b )
( 1g )
Love your Spirit's life for adventure
Love your heart to brave the vast unknown
Love your bones with peaceful completeness
Love your Soul to know its own way Home
Let us leave the banks of the oceans
Let us leave the beaches of the sea
Let us leave the rains of the forest
Let us leave the shadows of the trees
Lure us to walk the green, grassy plains
Lure us to trek over desert sands
Lure us to wade the creeks of valleys
Lure us to swim the rivers undamed
Lead us through reeds of the marshy flats
Lead us to sprays of youthful fountains
Lead us up and down brown, rolling hills
Lead us o'er tops of rocky mountains
Lift us with colors of the rainbow
Lift us with music through storms wet lace
Lift us through atmospheres of silence
Lift us into the vacuums of space
Launch us on past stars and galaxies
Launch us through gaseous explosions
Launch us into the void of black holes
Launch us through whirlpools of implosion
Leaven us in linear "X"-ation
Leaven beyond imagination
Leaven us through-out the universe
Leaven us with great expectation
Love your Spirit's life for adventure
Love your heart to brave the vast unknown
Love your bones with peaceful completeness
Love your Soul to know the "Right" way Home
( 1h )
... art and writings by m.l. farahay
(except where noted otherwise)
copyrights from 1959 on...
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What hand be that what swept the floor?
What hand hath tripped the latch I left ajar?
What hand be that so full the kettle filled
And tilled the field whilst I was gone?
What hand be that what tend the stock
And tied the shocks and not complain?
What hand be that what mend the fence
And nurse the lame, and must' picked up
A half again of things that hadn't ought
Oe'r here, so free, been left to lay'n?
What hand be that, what hand be that
What in a spark and want of hope
Did light the tallow, candle flame?
What hand be that what brush' aside a tear
And fruitful things did find to do?
What hand be that whilst fear the heart
Oe'r here so free did trickle through?
What hand be that, what hand be that I ask,
Again, so stead'ed in the early hour,
Did then begin to tremble like
Wind blown leaf on bud'ed flower?
What hand be that what in the night
Did right to shade the eye from bolt of light?
What hand be that what sought the door and caught
The ear to hear the nearing cannon roar?
What hand be that what searched twixt shell and tree
And through the early morning light for me,
And nursed in days a thousand other wounds
A thousand tears too late and years too soon
Oe'r here so free came stumbling on my fate?
What hand be that what swept the floor?
What hand hath tripped the latch I left ajar?
What hand be that so full the kettle filled
And tilled the field for me whilst I was gone?
What hand be that… what hand be that?
…That hand be Maiden, Wife and Mothers' and
All what fold in prayer for you and me,
Unfurled the tattered flag and wrenched
Away from hell with pain and sacrifice
Oe'r here so free our Country's victory.
What hand be that, what hand be that…
What hand be that, I ask, again?
What hand be that so full the kettle filled
And tilled the field for me whilst I be gone…
What plants a frond upon the grave
And bears the duty of the brave?
What hand be that what bears the pain
And paves the way beyond the grave
Oe'r here so free for peace and liberty?
What hand be that doth till the fields for thee?
by m.l. farahay copyright 1981.
( 6x )
Shouted at like boot-camp soldiers,
they bear the brunt of daily battles.
Without weapons, camouflage or armor,
they expose themselves as targets
and brave-off hostile blows with kindness,
fighting each life's enemy with grace,
sustaining hope with nurturing.
They lift and clean, and groom and feed
whom, once, were healthy beings caring
for themselves and others, till trauma, age,
and all their terrorist attack
good bodies, minds and moral spirits
to cleave the sick, war-torn, and addled life.
They are the Nurses' Aides who nurse.
The Nurse is more the distant Doctor,
who, now, no longer nurse but work the Aides
and fill out lengthy forms with facts,
administers the medications,
then sits around to chew the fat and watch
courageous Aides go brave their work.
( 3X )
DISAPPEARING
A short trip out of Farmington, New Mexico
The other morning, as I was driving up Largo Canyon into the sunrise, a single coyote came trotting out from the tumbleweed and cedar scrub onto the road in front of me. She paused, looked my way for a second, then continued on across the wash disappearing back into the landscape
as if she had never existed.
I was hauling contaminated earth out of an oil company's "Trunk Pit", across the back country, up and over Angel's Peak, and to the local, commercial land farm to be cleaned. Moving eighty thousand pounds down two ruts of dry, quick, sand, called County road, can be tricky. If you miss the lane by a hair, or slow too much, you can sink, right along with your load, disappearing into the desert floor, almost,
as if you had never existed.
I had just dumped a load, picked-up another of clean fill for the return, and crested the peak to start my descent, when a Golden eagle came up, off of the ground from beside me. He flapped his wings slowly but powerfully gaining altitude. He quickly secured the air-wash being pushed ahead into the pale, blue sky by the blunt nose of my Western Star. He hung in the air in front of me and rode the crest of the wave for what seemed like an eternity. Twice he looked back as if he was checking to see if I was following his lead correctly. He would gently sweep in a slow arc to the left, then back to the right, again, just barely staying within the parameters of the cresting air.
I could see every detail of his form flying there before me. This was beautiful. I was exhilarated, uplifted, and I am still riding the crest of the wave he left for me. This, too, except for the ugly stain left on my windshield before he disappeared into the noonday sun, would have been just
as if he had never existed.
Nature is, by herself, far too beautiful for me to feel I am a part that belongs to her. The closest thing, I think, I could ever come to being, would be to become a wart on her hindquarters! I think these modern forms of chemical and electromechanical aids to ease our work have automated my alienation.
The sun sets about seven-p.m. around here this time of year. I was making my last trip back across the wash-board ruts of the Largo roads when a doe, with fawn following, bounded out from the amber light of that seven-p.m. sunset and across the road a ways in front of me. I thought of my own family, as the two cleared the scrub-brush and rock by my height with nearly every bound and disappeared into the dusk
as if they had never existed.
My exhaust pipes rapped with the deep, resonant sounds of twenty-two hundred rpm, as I reached for a lower gear to slow myself just a little more than usual. Maybe, some day, I'll come to a stop altogether and attempt to rejoin nature and her critters; but not now, not quite just yet, please? I, and I hope we all, have many more loads to haul. Maybe, the best we can do for now is to just slow down and be a little more cautious with whatever it is we have yet to carry. Before it, or they, or we all leave an ugly stain, instead of just disappearing from here, gracefully,
as if we had never existed.
( 1c )
cool, wet rains drop down
on hot, fertile grounds to grow
rainbows in flowers
( 1d )
( 1e )
RIVER and WIND
I remember a glass smooth, warm river.
She flowed gentle over my cold, young skin -
A soothing balm wrapped 'round my shivers
Gently tugging, tugging to draw me in,
Then push me out to gasp on sterile beach.
With small, wet waves, she laid her kiss on me.
'Fore to floods, she suckled this hungry leach
With lure of full, rolling swells, selflessly -
Gently tugging, tugging to help me reach
Wet nourishment with curiosity.
Spring rains came flooding with broiling madness.
Enjoined by wind, with flotsam they whipped me.
In spoil, I cried, while their tears wept sadness -
Gently tugging, tugging to assure me,
No child of rain's complaint could stay their flow.
Her mate, the wind, swept Summer heat to lay
Hot her moisture and magnify her glow.
From slumber, I woke to wade in their play -
Gently tugging, tugging so I ought' know
How river loves wind and wind her waters.
I remember a glass smooth, warm river
Adorned red-orange with Autumn's daughter...
To move with the wind and be lifes' giver -
Gently tugging, tugging to tempt me in
Sharing mother river and father wind.
The wind into Winter fell cold and still.
It's chill froze the tears of the river in
A shell binding both, death's test of their will -
Gently tugging, tugging to draw me in...
To dance on Spring-ice with river and wind
( 1f )
The Letter of The Law… The successful appeal of the written message usually has universally recognized subject matter presented in a style best emphasizing the emotional and visionary pictures an author desires to direct attention to while not restricting the capabilities of his or her writing to be abstractly interpreted by the readers into their own imaginative and personal experience.
Like original and unique art and music, the beauty in writing evolves from naturally occurring rhythms and the harmony of melodic flow spontaneously conceived through inspiration and a consuming, passionate desire to express. It may be magnified by contrast and conflict, but rarely successful when garnished with the superfluous.
The beauty, harmony and uniqueness of original, spontaneously inspired creations should not be mutilated to fit standardized, commonly recognized or popularly accepted formats. No single word, line, stanza, paragraph, or point of punctuation should be subject, limited, or superfluously expanded to conform to any "over-all" meter, rhythm, rhyme pattern, or preconceived format.
Pure, original, emotionally inspired and spontaneously conceived art and music, such as: folk, country, popular, realistic, sur-realistic, classical, abstracted, and jazz, all began with one persons thought and action. For the most part, they had no title, format, or classification of style to conform to. Rather, they began as pure expression of emotions crying-out to be captured, rendered and occasionally shared by the creating artist, author or composer. The most appealing of these then, somehow, after being scrutinized, dissected and labeled, became "the chosen" to be held as examples and guides to format and classify all succeeding creations. Thus were borders, fences, rules and even laws established tentatively inhibiting the majority of those creating diverse styles by placing limitations requiring their work to conform to stylistic formats never intended to be established by the original artist.
Ignore the borders. Tear down the fences, and let your soul express its every fiber of concern as inspiration compels you to do.
The laborious struggle comes when you work to insure yourself the tools of words, punctuation, and grammar, you choose to use or ignore, are fit to convey the intent of your expression; and the consistency of their use prevents the majority of your audience from confusion.
Abstractly, "The Letter of The Law..." killeth the messenger in effort to clarify the message... or does it kill the spirit of the message in effort to justify the messenger ????
( 1i )
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Under country starlight, in the sounds of country night,
I hear a melody ringing out sweet harmony
just as clear and bright as crickets chirping in the night.
You hear frogs a croaking bass
with young whipp'orwills keeping pace.
I feel a happy splashing
as high waterfalls go crashing -
drowning out the eerie sound
of some old, hoot owl's calling round.
You hear the gentle sighing
of the lonely, night-winds' crying -
feel it blowing through the trees,
how it blends with the rustling leaves.
We hear it singing to us -
feel its music running through us.
Those sweet songs caress our souls
and warmly whispers to our hearts.
Here's where our Country's spirit
was born in a wonderous start...
Under country starlight in the sounds of country night.
( 1j )
When Love's Needs We Cheat
Who is the soul has no fury, no despair
Who is the man without ambition's spirit
Who is the man sheds no tear or has no care
Who is the woman, once, raised not to hear it
What is the price the mother pays to fear it
What is the cost a child pays to play alone
What grows in place of loving touch left unknit
What seed of spirit dies inside the child grown
Where's the bloom of love's embrace when no one's home
Where is the fruit to ripen in it's season
Where sprouts the seeds of worth cast on barren loam
Where me's and I's excludes the we's in reason
When selfish ways for want lets lust be beacon
When instant pleasure pressures pass faith ill-spent
When all is lost before the moment's weakened
When cries of pleasure breeds despair its crescent
How many moments here may pass the present
How many histories' weakest links repeat
How many childrens' spirits lie low and rent
How many, who, what, where, when loves' needs we cheat.
( 1k )
chalk, white wings take air
to carry day-light stars high
into black, night skies
( 1L )
( 1m )
Hey, I've got a word for you...
I'll say it softly, beneath my breath -
head askew, back turned to you,
while emotions of the moment tempt what's left.
I don't like the way you dress.
I'll throw stoney stares of scorn at you -
tactless jest designed to test
demeaning glances... ricocheting views change.
You act jacked and out of joint.
I'll save you from yourself with gestures -
finger pointing to anoint
mentoring attention... questing pressures change.
We seek to sound our allies.
I'll share my concerns with bigot friends -
you rally peers in follies
escalating friction... inflaming ends change.
Hey, I've got a word for you...
I'll shout out-loud casting change to fate -
words to stones to bullets spew,
while race, religion, and cultures emulate...
( 1n )
bright, orange light lays
like staves as leafy fingers
grasp through pools of night
( 1o )
Seasonally, the wind flits
sifting snow o'er craggy roads -
smoothing inconsistencies
much as love does such to us.
Not always reasonably,
we youthfully jump to have
what is joy to have to give.
Rip the garment from your chest.
Bless your breast with warming sun.
Run with winds drawn by the sea.
Cry out-loud your soul's concern.
Learn to be your Mother's son
and your Father's daughter free.
Toss your child into the air.
Let fair spirits capture there
great joys' unbridled flight -
great joys to celebrate life;
then clutch the child to your chest,
kiss with whispers' tenderness,
and roar with laughter blessed.
( 1p )
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