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I remember her soft bright waves so fair...
the love that made us a pair,
the hue of her eyes lost in the skies, and her kisses I miss by the bye.
Squirrls dance past my legs, acorns fall like they're kegs...
and I don't feel a thing.
No, I don't feel a thing, till I hear her voice ring...
then I fly like an eagle takes wing.
She'd sing to me and she'd sing to God,
and she'd sing for babies unborn.
Come down out of the clouds with your love so damn proud,
and lay under the oak with me. Lay under the oak with me...
Come down out of the clouds, wipe this tear from my eye...
and kiss me again by the bye.
Sometimes, I rush thru the day and miss all the beauty gone by...
Sometimes, I lay under the oak, forget the old jokes
and get lost in the blue of her sky.
Dimpled, pregnant, punched clear through
They left poor Chad hangin' by a thread
Then spread the word outside the door
Chad's been punched by a sadist whore
When we punch our ballot
When we mark our X
Man with the money's
going to get the checks
While the cocaine calls
and the cocaine balls
They say it ain't us
doing anything at all
But the power of the powder
cuttin' like a router
through realities stuff
Bet their pleasure felt real enough
One cane, co-cane
three crutches layin' in a wheelchair
Static standin' up my hair
Your pair my pair they're square
Locked in a concrete box
or a brass canister
that's not static in a 'lectric chair
Truth's been traded worse for wear
Dimpled, pregnant, punched clear through
They left poor Chad hangin' by a thread
Then spread the word outside the door
Chad's been punched by a sadist whore
by m.l. farahay
Why, why, why, and Why not...?
It's just because, and magic's still the answer
to why we like a healthy, bouncing body...
Not one afraid, ashamed, or with some shoddy guilt;
one built to run and gun and mix her work with fun.
Because, false martyrs can't afford to have a conscience;
but heros without medals and all their mothers do.
It's just because, and magic's best the answer... still,
we need a pillar of the village, a light from off the hill.
Why, why, why, and Why not...?
It's just because, and magic will's the answer
to why we like an energetic, thinking woman better...
She's the epithany of new solutions sharing all her treasure,
the epitomy of "Get 'er done", when she knows we really need her.
Because, ambitious men don't always come with moral fences,
but angels, saints, and mothers with creative senses do...
Just because, actions' magic is an answer... Still,
we need a pillar of the village, a light from off the hill...
by m.l. farahay
by m.l. farahay 04/15/2006
THE ALPHA and OMEGA
Turn the world around for me,
and show me where's the end.
Stride across a new-found land,
and stand around the bend.
Glide on waters wide and smooth
to soothe your restless trend.
Sail on slipp'ry streams of air,
and share your tales about.
Scale the mountains far and high,
and sigh for souls without
A star, light and bright to guide,
inside, around, and out...
Now, shout loud a joyous cry:
let fly your soul, and then,
Send your spirit's love to be,
in me, a loving friend.
Turn the world around for me,
and show me where's the end.
Turn the world around with me,
and know me as your friend.
Turn the world around and see
new beginning's in each end...
by m.l. farahay
It is that ocean's roar man marvels, now,
Should we flee, or watch and wait, wondering
We find our fear and courage crowned within...Oceans rolling, surging, crashing
On sands packed hard and washing away
With the sun and sounds of everyday...
We take for granted, peace and stability,
But listen and hear the same differently...
Small concessions considering we reap
Our similarities from the same senses.
With all it's growling sounds pounding…
Fear is sounding it at the end of day,
Struggling to be tomorrow, while it flows
Growing in as far as our eyes can see.
We see a comparative littleness in us
When the vastness of this massive storm,
As far as its form can be, explodes in
Some ominous, natural majesty of power.
The Stars, this hour, numerous as ever,
are here outstaged; where war is being waged
with lightning striking all places instantly,
Repeating infinitely... lace like strobes
Wove in some solid mass of tortured moisture
Churning like a monster on open seas.
To see in what direction She may turn?
Do we ever learn? We do; monitoring,
Milking, making scratchings on the surface,
We in numbers rise repeating tragedies and...
Miracles distinguished only by degrees.
So, Nature, too, confirms a lesson from the skies:
Crowned by stars, this night their lights outstaged,
Decries Man's time and pride, so vainly treasured,
May grow measured as renowned for now,
Or then, or 'til Katrina comes to town.
Nourished by this ominous wind that whips
the raging waters to ride on surging tides...
There is no place to hide, no way to run.
Until the sun breaks wide upon each soul
to ply what e're ability their help may start
to heal and mend each broken heart impaired...
Still carrying loads that need be shared...
by m.l. farahay
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
m.l. farahay
I feel ripe...
like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon,
a cocoon of stale fantasies
we, sometimes, spin around ourselves.
I can't force myself to open up, because...
my wings have been folded so tight,
so tight, it hurts to stretch them,
but we must if we are to survive.
I believe in you as a person...
incomplete, as I, but growing, needing,
aiding my growth just by knowing you.
We must trade ourselves in this world;
this is where we are, nowhere and nothing alone...
teacher and student to each other,
both one at one moment, and
the other at another.
We cannot lose anything by receiving,
only by not giving...
open your wings, and watch me fly.
A kiss, a hug, a trip to the zoo,
Finger shadows on a lighted wall,
A butterfly on a window pane,
or a bubblegum tattoo...
A push in a swing, a pull in a wagon,
a moment to take to...
Be a make-believe dragon,
or merely a moment to take...
To make believe dead, instead
of saying the same, old...
"I don't care to..."
Letting someone small sit tall
on a make-believe horse...
Or just playing ball may,
of course, have the force to
Chase sadness away from a child...
any child, or for awhile,
With that little one's smile,
mellow some mild unhappiness...
In you, in them, in all of us.
m.l. farahay
__sales are contributed
...And for all you "Old" Worthington High School Class of "1959" Alumni,
Here is a story in pictures and words from our "Mini Reunion" at
The BEARTOOTH NATURE CENTER in Red Lodge, Montana hosted by Ruth...
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.
Challenge all hypocrisy.
Cry out-loud your soul's concern.
Learn to know your Mother's son
and your Father's daughter free.
Toss your child into the air.
Let fair spirits capture there
great joys' of unbridled flight -
great joys to celebrate life;
then clutch the child to your chest,
kiss with whispers' tenderness,
and roar with laughter blessed.
by m.l. "Mike" farahay
The tree fell, and green sounds cracked 'round to hear
sharp, steel teeth chewing amber grain to pulp -
red, oiled, chain-saws angry screams drown-out MORE.
Soft MORES run to shuffle tumbling static -
dry fabric generating energies.
Flesh flies sparks 'tween wooden headboards MORE.
Picks swing arcs, shovels scoop, as giant bits
bite black rock so paper wrapped, soft powders,
buried to hole's bottom, can blow it all
to Sodom's end and expose treasure MORE.
Without billowing smoke and choking dust,
MORE shiver in the dark and long for MORE.
MORE like looking out to another world
where red corners of mouth with lash are curled.
MORE mix 'lectric colors as TV's glare.
Hair meanders gently over shoulders.
The silver shuttles roar on plumes of smoke.
MORE muscle broke the grasp of gravity.
MORE virgins turn the fertile cheek to deed -
wet raze the seed and bleed the flower "MORE".
.
The poem,
Night rains came pelting down on raw earth
A smooth, soft crust covering hard spikes
A lone, green sprig of life, wriggling
This Glory turns slow to breaking sun -
.
What hand be that what swept the floor?
What hand be that what tend the stock
What hand be that, what hand be that
What hand be that, what hand be that I ask,
What hand be that what sought the door and caught
What hand be that what swept the floor?
What hand be that… what hand be that?
What hand be that, what hand be that…
What hand be that what bears the pain
by m.l. farahay copyright 1981.
Shouted at like boot-camp soldiers,
They lift and clean, and groom and feed
They are the Nurses' Aides who nurse.
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
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,
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
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
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, ( 1c ) ( 1d ) ( 1e )
I remember a glass smooth, warm river.
With small, wet waves, she laid her kiss on me.
Spring rains came flooding with broiling madness.
Her mate, the wind, swept Summer heat to lay
I remember a glass smooth, warm river
The wind into Winter fell cold and still. ( 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 )
Under country starlight, in the sounds of country night,
You hear frogs a croaking bass
I feel a happy splashing
You hear the gentle sighing
We hear it singing to us -
Here's where our Country's spirit
( 1j )
Who is the soul has no fury, no despair
What is the price the mother pays to fear it
Where's the bloom of love's embrace when no one's home
When selfish ways for want lets lust be beacon
How many moments here may pass the present
( 1k )
chalk, white wings take air
( 1L )
( 1m )
Hey, I've got a word for you...
I don't like the way you dress.
You act jacked and out of joint.
We seek to sound our allies.
Hey, I've got a word for you...
( 1n )
bright, orange light lays
.
...simply, celebrate life, and inspire love
Click here to Return to Top and Continuing Page's Links.
This is a Tripod Hosted site,In The Center's Broken Windows
has been moved to,
...the following is a sister piece...
.MOURNING GLORY, CELEBRATING SPIRIT
Like little meteorites slamming clay sludge -
Casting craters the size of birds' eggs -
Fledgling pools 'tween jagged, scrap-iron mountains.
Unlike piles of broken bones bleach'd white,
These clones glow blood-red growing terminal rust…
Like a garish funeral shroud smothering
The strength from what was, once, hard, fine steel -
The spine of tall, gaud' buildings and transport frames -
Of many things that laud men shameless
Gluttons of the earth's rare and finite treasures.
In windy rain, springs upright through etching death.
This alien, eaglet of hope flies
With green wings dancing defiant in the rain.
Its white, hooded head framed in contrast
To the twisted, tangled mass of rusting steel.
A lone trumpet heralding life's victory.
...a newsletter of contemporary news, views,
short stories, music, poetry and interviews to include those
historic ones from Al's inside ties with the "Beat Generation" and
other, famous and infamous celebraties.
WHEN FULL THE KETTLE'S FILLED
A tribute to: Clara Maas (she gave her life)
Elizabeth Blackwell (our first woman physician)
Clara Barton (she founded the Red Cross for all of us)
Dr. Mary Walker (Army Surgeon, Medal of Honor Winner)
Molly Pitcher, Calamity Jane, Naomi Elizabeth Brodt Gress,
Martha Elizabeth Gress Farahay, Naomi Elizabeth Braden Farahay,
Captain Colleen Elizabeth Farahay Cannone, and all who serve.
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?
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 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?
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?
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 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?
…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, 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?
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?
.
COURAGE IS IN NURSING ARMS
Observations from, primarially, in Long-term
and/or Nursing Home facilities.
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.
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.
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.DISAPPEARING
as if she had never existed.
as if you had never existed.
as if he had never existed.
as if they had never existed.
as if we had never existed.
on hot, fertile grounds to grow
rainbows in flowers
RIVER and WIND
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.
'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.
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.
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.
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.
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 windThe Chaotic Order of Impulse Creation
…an abstract on writing… by m.l. farahay 1/27/99
UNDER COUNTRY STARLIGHT
I hear a melody ringing out sweet harmony
just as clear and bright as crickets chirping in the night.
with young whipp'orwills keeping pace.
as high waterfalls go crashing -
drowning out the eerie sound
of some old, hoot owl's calling round.
of the lonely, night-winds' crying -
feel it blowing through the trees,
how it blends with the rustling leaves.
feel its music running through us.
Those sweet songs caress our souls
and warmly whispers to our hearts.
was born in a wonderous start...
Under country starlight in the sounds of country night.When Love's Needs We Cheat
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 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 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 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 histories' weakest links repeat
How many childrens' spirits lie low and rent
How many, who, what, where, when loves' needs we cheat.
to carry day-light stars high
into black, night skies
THE WORD IS...
I'll say it softly, beneath my breath -
head askew, back turned to you,
while emotions of the moment tempt what's left.
I'll throw stoney stares of scorn at you -
tactless jest designed to test
demeaning glances... ricocheting views change.
I'll save you from yourself with gestures -
finger pointing to anoint
mentoring attention... questing pressures change.
I'll share my concerns with bigot friends -
you rally peers in follies
escalating friction... inflaming ends change.
I'll shout out-loud casting change to fate -
words to stones to bullets spew,
while race, religion, and cultures emulate...
like staves as leafy fingers
grasp through pools of night
in the human spirit... m.l. farahay.
Thank you...
m.l. "Mike" farahay
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