Month: March 2015

My Poem ‘Time Capsule’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

One of the great things about poetry, and poems,
is that they are time capsules;
one of the greatest experiences for anybody to be
is an archaeologist, a digger, a finder –
a person with a question, searching for an answer;
one of the great things about capturing moments in time
is that one day in the future
you can accidentally unearth an old poem, a faded photo,
or a small gift that someone bought you,
and instantly know and remember where and when you were
at a time in your life, and in someone else’s life;
and, to some people, the pieces of time
can be like rocket fuel,
and one of the greatest things about being a writer,
like me, is that I know that I will always
have a wealth of memories in the form of living
and breathing mental pictures, and in notebooks,
filled with thoughts and emotions of mine,
that will someday number so many
they may even fill an entire library,
and I sometimes wonder what people will say and think
when my own words and experiences
are read and come to light again in the future.

I always wanted to leave something for other people to find,
a question that only I could answer –
when I was a child I even made my own time capsule
and buried it in my garden,
and for all I know it is still there;
at my school, we also buried a class time capsule –
however, what someone will find one day of mine
I cannot tell you, because unfortunately I do not remember.

The memory of the world is fluid;
to leave our mark, we need to make our own monument;
things can easily be forgotten,
and can quickly turn to dust,
if you do not etch them into reality
so that they cannot be rubbed out or undone –
and in that way they will always be
a seeing stone, a crystal ball,
and a bubble of time that will never burst.

When you read this,
remember that this is me who is writing this;
whoever you are,
remember and keep alive this moment,
and reread this poem of time,
and please keep a hold of your own memories –
it is one of the most human of things to do,
and also one of the most natural;
if you want to keep something for a rainy day
so that you, or someone else,
can rediscover it one day,
make it the thing that at that moment
is your life-long and your most precious wish.
Leave things behind you like breadcrumbs,
and keep going, and everything you leave behind,
of you, will be its own time capsule.

My Poem ‘3/14/15’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Today is the 14th of March;
today feels like a Sunday,
however it is in fact a Saturday;
today feels like, in some way,
I have stepped out of the dark;
and today is also a great day,
because today is my Mum and Dad’s Anniversary –
and today, more than any other,
I am reminded about how my parents
absolutely love each other in every way.
Today is also ‘International Pi Day’ –
a day in which some people celebrate
the mathematical constant
that has no discernible end;
and, as I feel change happening all around me,
I am also reminded of the unchanging constants
in my life – namely my family:
on whom, I know I can always depend.

I have many constants in my life:
hope, poetry, music, optimism,
memory, thought, family, connections –
and when I feel them and I understand them
for what they are and for what they mean to me,
nothing else matters;
the pain of the past fades away,
and just being thankful for what I do have
always keeps the wolf, that sometimes visits me
at all times of the night or day, at bay.

Today feels like the perfect day
to hold on tight to the best thing in my life;
today feels like I am understanding something profound
with the wonderful gifts of hindsight, and foresight.
My heart feels brand new;
I am breathing fresh air now
that makes me feel light-headed –
as if I were experiencing high-altitude hypoxia
on top of a mountain;
my mind is reaching out into the big blue;
I am changing again;
I feel like I have just woken up
from an interesting dream, and come full-circle;
and today is the 14th of March, 2015.

Read-my-thoughts-final-no-title

My Poem ‘Bernadette’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Our mothers
are the reason why we are born;
my mum is the best
and the most wonderful of them all;
our mothers go through so much
to give us the gift of life;
my mum has never once
forgotten about her children,
and every day my mum is thinking
about those who she cares about the most –
morning, noon, and night.

Our mothers are one of a kind;
my mum cares so much,
and, like me, she always feels
what other people are feeling,
and always has someone else’s well-being
on her mind;
our mothers are a true inspiration to us;
my mum means more to me
than I could ever put into words –
but what I wish I could tell her more
is how much I love her, so much.

The connection that a child has with their parent
is life-long – no matter the time, or the distance;
mother and daughter, son and mother,
will always have an unbreakable bond.
I know my mum, and my mum knows me;
my mum was the one who took me to school when I was four;
my mum was the one who held my hand,
and told me that I would be ok, when I hurt my right knee;
my mum was, and my mum is,
the one who would be there for me after a fall –
and every day when she calls me,
I run to her just as I did
when I was still crawling as a baby
and just learning how to walk and talk.

My mum has spent her life
being the most caring person on Earth;
when my mum first met my dad,
it was a miracle of destiny and fate –
which led to the best thing
that ever have happened to me: my birth;
my mum is the most deserving person
of love, or thought, of understanding, and of respect;
my mum never asks anything from anybody,
but every day she serves up her beautiful heart,
and how amazing she is can be read all over her face.

Our mothers are whom,
if we are lucky to have them in our lives,
we will never forget;
and I want to immortalize my amazing mum
in the way of the poet –
so this poem, in name and in every way,
is dedicated to the best mother in the entire world:
my mum, Bernadette.

My Poem ‘Deathly Silence’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

It is very rare
to actually hear the voice of a writer;
every writer is known for their writing style,
their preferred subject matter,
and by the way that they describe something in words;
however, you don’t always get to hear a writer
‘speak’ in their own voice –
to tell you about themselves,
and to get the chance
to introduce yourself to a writer –
because, most of the time,
writers are what they write:
most writers are the characters that they create.
Who a writer actually is as a person
is something that, as a reader, we may never learn.

Most writers enjoy the solitude of their own space,
their own time, their own breathing room,
to be able to successfully descend the elevator
into themselves, and their imagination,
so that they can focus on the puzzle they are figuring out;
most writers have an idea
about what they want to write about,
and what they want to say,
as soon as they begin –
however, if you were to ask a writer:
‘did it turn out exactly as you planned it?’ –
they would most likely laugh in your face;
because writing is a journey,
and, like all great journeys,
unexpected things tend to happen along the way.
Things of great importance should never be rushed,
and a writer will tell you
that “something is done when it is done” –
and allowing for mistakes,
and accepting that sometimes
you might need to change things, is a big help.
In my experience, and in my understanding,
a writer writes much –
however never gets the time, or the opportunity,
to say exactly what they want to say.

Being a writer is like being a god –
who has the power to create new worlds,
and bring to life new characters
and people out of thin-air.
Meeting a writer is an exciting moment –
one filled with genuine adulation, awe, and love,
and you just feel so lucky, fortunate,
and it genuinely feels magical to be in their presence.
No writer will ever truly die,
no author could ever truly be forgotten –
because their stories and creations
will always be somewhere out there.
Even the most amazing, supreme, incredible,
inspiring, prolific, writers
only have a short time
to be who they were born to be,
and to let their voice be heard
by the few or the many,
before they say goodnight for the last time –
and following their sad,
and their always untimely passing,
there always follows a ghostly, magical,
and deathly silence.

In memory of Terry Pratchett

My Poem ‘Soleil’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The sun is inspiration;
outside in the sunlight
is where everybody wants to be;
whether you live in Canada,
Great Britain, Australia, or Peru,
being touched by the sun
is a feeling that brings out
something good and happy in you –
at least it always does with me.

A sunny day always reminds me of my childhood;
a bright and beautiful morning always reminds me
and makes me think of family holidays;
watching the world and seeing it clear and golden
is how I wish it would look every minute of every day.

There is an energy that you can feel and see;
there are colours that just pop
with greater intensity and vibrancy;
there is a rhythm in the air,
like a unique music composed solely by nature,
that vibrates from every direction –
as if every atom of the world
were its own individual speaker;
there is a connection that binds us all to our maker.

Windows become mirrors;
the leaves of the trees
look as if they themselves are emanating light;
the meaning of life, and the perfection of our world,
can be perceived while swimming in an ocean of water,
or while on a boat making your way down a river;
there are worlds within worlds happening all at once,
and almost everything there is to be found
is occurring beyond our sight.

Hummingbirds, butterflies, birds, dolphins, whales,
men, women, children, animals, flowers, plants, insects –
every form of life has its own relationship
to the star of Earth’s blue sky;
to me, there are some things
that just perfectly represent and symbolize
intense and eternal love;
just like a person,
to a star there is always more than meets the eye;
to me, there will always be
something phenomenal about being
in the light of the sun.

My Poem ‘Voilà!’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Have you ever thought about something,
and then there it was?
Have you ever thought about someone,
and then there they were?
Have you ever asked a question,
and then got an answer?
Have you ever seen something,
and thought to yourself:
“nothing could ever be better than this”?

I have always liked
the magic of the “spur of the moment”;
I have always loved
the illusionist’s favourite trick
of “now you see me, now you don’t”;
I have always longed
to be a man of surprise;
I have always made the most of every moment
that has filled my eyes.

The gift to spontaneously create something
is unbelievably amazing, to me;
the ability to be able
to make something out of practically nothing,
is like a verse right out of nature’s
magic book of poetry;
the imagination that shows itself in a piece of art,
is as phenomenal to see and to witness
as the expression of a random thought.

A magician would not be as entrancing
if he did not have the most amazing sense of timing;
a chef would not be the best they could be
if they did not know, and have an instinct,
about what ingredients go with what;
a musician with a natural talent
might need to the learn the art of refinement,
however they do not need to go through
too much intense training;
a true creative person
can do anything with whatever they have got.

I have seen the most amazing sights
when I had no expectation of seeing anything exciting;
I have heard a piece of music that has moved me –
from the strings being played by a stranger,
who plays as if they were born
holding and plucking the cords of a guitar;
I have felt enlightenment
that felt like being struck by lightning;
I have had my own moments of reveal;
and I love being there whenever there is an instance
when someone can show their magic,
and have their moment of voilà!

My Poem ‘Cogito ergo sum’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

When I wake up every morning,
I know that I am poet,
and I want to be a writer;
when I see something,
I am inspired by an idea,
I become, I feel, and I connect,
with what fills and stimulates
my mind and my consciousness;
I take what has been inspired into being
and I run with it all the way
to the end of my imagination;
I find a way to connect the dots
in an imaginative way,
and express what I see
with undivided focus.

I can look at the world
and see any reality that I can imagine;
I can hear a song
and dream of a place, while still awake;
I can see something,
and then get this rush of excitement
deep inside me, that overflows from me,
that feels like I am
about to take a leap from a mountain;
I can feel things
that no one in the world,
no matter how good an actor they were,
could ever fake.

If I were not a writer,
I do not know who I would be;
if I did not write poetry,
I would not be me;
if I were not inspired
and excited about the world
as much as I am,
I think I would be missing a piece of my soul;
if I did not give myself fully
and wholeheartedly to what was right in front of me,
and what made me feel free,
then I would never know or remember
the feeling of the sun on my skin,
and every rainy day
would always be one that was cold.

The first place to start from,
and the first person to know,
is always the place,
and is always the person,
that you know better than anywhere, or anyone,
and you can always rely on the first instinct
and the first thought that comes to your mind;
there is no place you can go
and not see the person in the mirror,
from whom you can never hide;
if you want to know who to be,
if you want to know what to do,
if you want to have faith in something, or someone,
but you just can’t decide what to believe, or who –
close your eyes, know yourself,
and recite to yourself
one of my favourite, and one of the most profound,
latin phrases you could ever know the meaning of:
cogito ergo sum.

My Poem ‘From Scratch’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

How do you build a house
without a blue-print?
How do you piece together a puzzle
without first seeing a picture
of how the completed image appears?
What makes a true friendship?
Where do you go
when you have caught all of your tears?

You can’t ever truly go back,
some things are meant to be broken and stay unmended;
some things are just not meant to last;
if we didn’t care,
then there wouldn’t be times when we feel offended.

I am like my Dad,
I am a man of deep feelings;
if I have been hurt by someone,
or something, I do feel sad;
if you start to believe what other people say
and think about you,
one day you might discover that while you were listening,
thinking, and obsessing, you were overlooking
the real thing that you have been missing.

If you had never heard music before,
and someone played you a song,
would you know what it was?
Would you still be able to feel
the same flood of emotions,
and be transported away in the only way
that music knows how to, and always does?

If you had never written a single poem before,
and then one day you sat down and wrote one for someone,
could you say what you wanted to say?
If someone meant the world to you,
how would you tell them, and in what way?

If I had to start from scratch,
if I had to reset and make the same choices over again,
if I could turn back time as easy as you can
with the hands of a clock, or a watch,
if I could talk to the dearly-departed who I once knew,
there are some things that I would love to say
for the very last time, and truly say a fitting goodbye
to an old friend.

Times must change;
everyone must meet their match;
you should never run away from a moment of rage;
when you think you have lost it all,
pick up the pieces that you can see scattered around you,
go home, and start again from scratch.

My Poem ‘The Game of Life’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , ,

Life is a game –
or so it can seem, feel,
appear, and sometimes sound like;
life is a game,
that is full of players, users,
journeys, questions, and answers –
and as I get older and wiser,
and as I happen upon one person after another,
and as I have encounter after encounter,
I see people playing a game
that they might not even be aware that they are playing,
or participating in;
however, I see things that most people
might not think to think about, or look for:
I see plans, strategies, intentions, and manipulation;
people are generally creatures of habit,
and when I see someone doing something
that they do not always do
I know to prepare for a change in the pattern
and in the behavior of someone or something I know
that I might not completely have seen before.

Life is constantly changing –
however, the rules of life stay the same and cannot change;
life is a constant moment
that is continuously taken for granted –
as are people, and that is why life and time
can sometimes feel like a cage.

There are always different lives, different sides,
and everybody is dancing to a tune;
there are people of all colours and kinds –
there are some people who feel like their best in the sun,
and there are some people who prefer to be out all night
and bask and even howl wild
while under some kind of influence
under the light of the moon.

Light, and dark;
night, and day;
Clown fish, and sharks;
dies, and cards;
snakes, and ladders;
extremes of colour
that appear more vibrant
in a world that shifts constantly
through every shade of grey.

People can get used;
people can get hurt;
people can get treated one minute
like an exciting front-page story,
and then the next they can be relegated to yesterday’s news.

As someone who watches the world,
as someone who watches people,
as someone who wears the scars of a battle,
like someone who has been cut by knife,
I have seen so much,
I have felt so much,
I have done so much,
and I am starting to understand so much,
and though I do not wholly believe yet
that all the world is a game of players,
I do believe that someone people
are actively playing a game
that to them is a way of life.

My Poem ‘Your Thing’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Whether its writing, or dancing,
reading, or believing,
capturing, or speaking,
photographing, or modeling,
driving, or treating,
walking, or exploring,
making, or faking,
acting, or searching,
mixing, or fixing,
painting, or crafting,
counting, or adjusting,
growing, or assisting,
building, or remembering,
caring, or sharing,
copying, or exercising,
thinking, or feeling,
moving, or playing,
watching, or listening,
whoever you are, whatever you do,
we all have something that we do
that is close to our heart,
and something that is
as much of your soul and your identity,
that will always be a part of you.

Some of the most important things to know about us
are hidden from view, most of the time;
we all wear a mask
that covers our secret thoughts and feelings;
some of the things that spend their life
tentatively waiting to show themselves,
sometimes appear unexpectedly;
no matter how passive we are most of the time,
we all do our share of relating
to the things about other people
that are not exactly the things
that we would say define or describe us;
however, I always find the discover of something
new about someone I thought I knew,
that sometimes comes out of the blue,
enlightening and inspiring;
and a new question is always a mystery
I cannot ever decline.

Whether you sing,
or whether you express yourself in another way;
whether you are comfortable in the limelight,
or perhaps never like being the centre of attention;
whether your perfect day is being with your friends,
spending time with your family,
or spending some time on your own;
what emanates from you subconsciously,
and what you see as the best, and the most amazing,
is something that,
no matter what anyone else says or thinks,
is fantastic, and if it makes you happy
then that is amazing.
Do what you know;
know what you do;
keep going where you go,
and don’t stop doing your thing.