WKHardy's Blog

Thinking that I can bring something into existence
I write words here.

This center or focus –
This point in the waves that I think from, is filled now.
A pressure of something that has hummed and then
Hummed deeper and has become a rippling sphere
And then has become dense and more, more dense,
Even heavy,
And pushes for its nascent explosion
And I try to write it here.

Humming Beauty and Reflective Grace
And Love that has been given to me
And Love that I have been,
Dazzle-swirling through me
Among the jubilation waves that form things
Within and around here –
This pulsing location that forms
When I think of ” I ” ….

So as this ” I ” looks with inner eyes
At the sounds of the humming,
Certain waves gather in that way that they do
And a flash-spark comes,
Being the birth of the thought;
Then dances, spins spiral-swirls and hums again,
In its search for the word that says it right and true.

Yeah, yeah, yeah …. This is all too serious and prolix.

The thing is — quantum physics waves and how they don’t really form anything until they are observed; focused upon; thought about; pinpointed — that’s a principle that seems to be at work in every creative moment, whenever anything is created; thought; felt … felt; thought; created.

Waves of possibilities are always around, and will gather and condense at points where they are drawn to meet
and will then explode into thoughts and ideas and emotional reactions and imagination and drive. Those waves can be inside one thing or a person or they can each be a thing or person or groups of things or people.
Or forces.
Or especially thoughts – thought forms.
They behave like waves then something focuses and they meet.
And every time all of that happens it’s the same thing that happened at the so-called Big Bang,
And it’s always the birth of SOMEthing.
SOME thing thought;
SOME thing felt;
SOME thing created.

Wasn’t that the time when we knew that it was all around us?
We knew, didn’t we, that the heavens and the winds and
The seasons and the sea held for us The Tone.
The Tone for our careers.
Pitched high in the diamond, deep upon deep from the mountain,
Ineffable from the amber planets;
We were held in it, and it held in us, and for us,
It was all.

It sounded its laws in all that we saw.
Life and Love in all.
In that time we knew.

Now we scramble, stammering in our existence.
Now we listen, the wandering pulse.
No Tone.
Nothing fine, nothing revered,
Nothing unconsciously sublime.
The Bottom Line.
The ubiquitous, omnipresent, Bottom Line.
Not a shred of Beauty ever reaches The Bottom Line.

Back away. Back away and look.
Inch by celestial inch.
Be Orion; look as he looks.
Be close to Sirius.
Thrive among the Seven Sisters
And gaze upon our planet, on its own terms.
And look into your own globe-holding hands.
In one hand, a continent of famine, of desolation, and piety.
In the other hand, a continent of abundance, of efficiency,
and abandon.

Listen – The Tone is still, awaiting your move.
Look – The Tone watches for humanity’s impetus.
Let The Tone’s magnetic pull raise your hands.
Raise them, and raise them, and fold them together.
Wasn’t that the time?
That time has never ended.

A thorough explanation would not be forthcoming.
Not in all the ages of our lives,
Though we asked in ten thousand ways.
And when we gave up the asking, the waiting,
And searched instead through senses and intellect,
We again felt captured.
Something there is that rings in us.
That fires us, and awes us, and makes us breathe.
Makes us clasp ourselves, in, with, and through
Wonder.
Then leaves us.

So we create our glorious radiant sets of symbols,
Shining, and in shadow.
Our mantel, both displaying and beshrouding;
Do we dare to crackle free of it?
And rephrase that implanted question?
And recognize forever
The Will that in the primal formed us,
Has forever fired us,
And has forever, though it seems to beckon,
Been our own?

</pre>

The morning rose, yellow and lavender,

Calm and wet.

She turned from her misgiving window,

Paused in her musing doorway,

And passed across her grass lawn

As so many variations of her had done.

Perhaps it was the escort morning birds that

launched her.

Perhaps she had sufficient preparation at last.

Or perhaps her soul had had enough.

Certain of nothing but the momentum

She carried herself, confident,

Farther than ever before.

For the first time, she asked nothing.

At the first turn, the voices of the birds changed.

She felt herself release from urgency.

She spread herself, relaxed and broadened,

And passed her atoms among the atoms

Of all that was around her.

After that, she heard, truly heard

No voices but her own.

After that, there were no more turns.

POSTURE

This experience is here now.

Now.

It’s here, and it’s here now.

Have I feared it?

I have.

I wade now in the thick of it.

It weighs heavy on the thighs.

The torso strains for balance

But leans and continues forward.

The head is bowed, but only for a moment,

Then looks up.

All is bearable it seems, after all,

And more.

For what was false in the posture of the

No-experience

Has become integrity in the motion of the

With experience

And opens a future that would feel everywhere

Without alarm.

(untitled)

What is the charge that is given us then,

When we have seen through the Theosophists’ veils

And know that our own personal Will

Has become our finest direction,

Is nothing but The Truth,

And a child comes to us and is born

As our child ….

(untitled)

Once there were new eyes                                                                                                                       That answered time with flashes                                                                                                            And always knew why.

(untitled)

Gasping, we held ourselves at last erect.                                                                                              “Behold!” said one of the Angels. “What mortals are these                                                            Who have turned their eyes to the heavens?”                                                                                    “We who have loved until we know of nothing else.”                                                                        The words were strong in our hearts and resounded                                                                               without being spoken.

(untitled)

DRESSED IN OUR

MOST PLEASANT ARCHITECTURE,

WE SCANNED THE EMPIRE AND WE GAVE IT LIFE.

IT IS OURS;   WE ARE SO BOLD.

WE SMILED AND WAVED AND REPORTED

TO EACH OTHER.

ANOTHER BRILLIANT DAY’S WORK, WE SAID.

MARVELLING AT WHAT WE HAD WROUGHT,

OVERWHELMED BY OUR POWERFUL POSSESSIONS,

WE PATTED OUR BACKS

AND SHOOK OUR HANDS

AND MADE OUR WAYS TO BED.

DREAMING OF ANCIENT HONORS,

DREAMING OF DREAMED OF NATIONS,

WHEN AVID JOURNALISTS,

WHEN TIRED HISTORIANS,

WOULD TELL OF THE MACHINATIONS

OF THE MIGHTY,

WE, IT WAS, THEY WOULD WRITE,

WE WERE THE ONES WHO LED.

AT LONG LAST, COMING OF AGE,

THE AGE OF MANKIND

GLANCED OVER ITS SHOULDER

AT A FILIBUSTER DISCARDED IN THE WEEDS.

This is the first entry of the contents of my recently self-published book,

Once There Came A Thought

The book contains ten poems written since sometime in the 1960’s, and the lyrics to fifteen songs that I have written beginning sometime in 2002. Copies of the book may be purchased for 20.00 US dollars by contacting me –

williamhardy11@gmail.com

THE BOOK

                     Once There Came A Thought

                      Once there came a thought                                                                                                                     That evolved itself into                                                                                                                             All else that there is.

(untitled)

When a person has expanded and contracted                                                                                    Through several lifetimes                                                                                                                            during a single life-span,                                                                                                                    Laughing and reaching,                                                                                                                          Despairing, then gathering strength,                                                                                                   Becoming ever more quiet of voice                                                                                                       But forging an undeniable and far-reaching will,                                                                              Then does selection become effortless —                                                                                            Any and all choices having become beneficial.                                                                                  Loneliness does not exist.                                                                                                                        And absolute companions are unexpected,                                                                                        Even have become indescribable,                                                                                                          But are wondrously                                                                                                                                      and unmistakably recognized.

Released

On the trampled mirror, there

lay eight months of ambition.

Across the room,

The door was ajar.

On the outside step,

There lay one last footprint.

Across the air, the wake swirled.

Some time ago, I started a website called School of the Open Road, after Walt Whitman’s poem Song of the Open Road, which poem is about learning how a self grows through grasping more and more of the essence of every bit of what life in this particular world offers us. The goal of my website was to present examples of people who had become their own best teachers, one of the primary points of this blog. The website featured a nineteen-year-old man who had taught himself to play concert-level piano in about a year and a half, that time culminating in his public performance of four classic works for piano and a composition of his own. No one ever read the website. Anyway, I’ve recently had a notion that supports all of what I try to say about schools, that notion being that the internet has made schools obsolete. I try to show that true learning takes place when the learner has chosen to do the learning rather than having it pushed onto him or her. I have suggested that schools should be like libraries, where a person who wants to know or learn something can go into a building where there are rooms and equipment and even, perhaps only by arrangement, teachers to make it possible for the person to work towards his or her goal. The internet provides avenues to all of that, without the need to go to a building, or for anyone to have to set up or maintain such a building. All of my points about the efficacy of autonomous learning find their finest tools for demonstration and practice no farther away than the internet. Schools can still work for the youngest people, while they are learning the alphabet and writing and basic arithmetic and such, or that can be done at home if parents are industrious. And schools can serve somewhat in societies that have yet to afford computers in every home. But once the skills and the computer are there, and the internet provider is paid (someday, that won’t be part of the formula), any type of learning and to any degree can begin and can proceed at whatever pace the learner wishes it to go. No school necessary at all.

Just to let you know, the ideas that I’m writing about here are perhaps best followed by starting at the beginning — reading the first entry before reading the others. That first one was posted 2010/10/19 — Schools and Prisons and Crap n’ Stuff.