Year: 2016

My Poem ‘Only for you’

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

It’s hard to believe
it was just a year ago,
it’s unbelievable to think
that before this time last year
we had never met face to face;
it’s incredible to think back
over the last 12 months
about everywhere we have been
and all that we have done,
it’s breathtaking to remember
every memory that we both made together,
and to know only the secrets
about moment that only you and I know.
It’s been 52 weeks of close-encounters
like nothing that could ever be matched
even by a visitor from outer-space;
it’s been epic, it’s been amazing,
it been magical, it’s been fun…
the last year, since the first time
we both came eye to eye with one-another,
have been the best days of my life –
there hasn’t been a day, or a night,
that has gone by since the first time I saw you
and I fell under the spell
of your beautiful and hypnotizing eyes,
that I have not thought about
that life-changing moment when I felt
both lost for words and happy beyond-content –
when I saw your gorgeous face
and I was forever captured
by your transfixing star-light.

You can’t know what a moment in time
will mean to you until it happens,
but I knew even before I met you –
when all I knew was your voice and your picture –
that you were both a blessing and a wish-fulfillment;
you can’t know how much your life will change
until you meet someone who you just can’t get enough of –
and I could have never have known how happy I would be
until you became my world and my eternal soulmate;
you can’t truly know yourself
until you meet the person fated to be
the other-half of your beating-heart;
you can’t know true love until your reality
eclipses all the beautiful visions of your dreams –
when I was blessed by you I knew from that instant
I would never be the same and that no distance
to get to you to be with you
would ever be too far.

Every moment that we spend together feels like a dream;
every kiss that we share is something powerful to me;
every hug, every cuddle, every stroke of your perfect face
is like a miracle – to hold an angel such as you are
means more to me that I could ever say;
every “I love you” that crosses my lips
for you and only for you is my way of telling you
that I am yours forever, and that no matter where I am
there is never a second when I am not thinking about you,
dreaming about you, and loving you uncontrollably
more than I could put into words –
because you are the meaning of my life
and the light of my day,
and my heart and my love
will always be only for you.

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My Poem ‘The Messenger’

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

Everybody is here on this Earth,
everybody is a part of this world,
for a reason – but, sometimes,
most of the time, more often than not,
people have no idea why…
I, however, know exactly why I am here,
why I am alive, and what my reason to live is
and will be until the day I die:
I am a messenger, but not a messenger
that you may expect,
I do not look like any “messenger”
that I have seen in my life –
I do not wear a uniform,
and what I does not always require me to drive…
I suppose I am like an old-fashioned telephone receiver,
and when I receive a very important call
with a very important message to be delivered to someone
I answer it without question or hesitation
and I go to pass on what I have been asked to deliver.

I never know who the sender is,
I never know who the recipient will be –
I only know a face, sometimes I even know a first-name;
I do not know what the message I am delivering is
sometimes until the moment that I deliver it…
I don’t even know where I am going
until I see the signs showing me the way
to where I need to get to –
it’s like I am painting a picture of something
that hasn’t happened yet as I take each and every step,
and it is only at the end of my delivery
that I can see the complete picture in its entirety,
like stepping back and looking at a canvas
newly-framed and mounted on the wall of a gallery.

I have delivered more messages than I can remember:
a young man sitting on a bus…
I remember telling him something
that his older sister wanted him to know:
that even though she had run away from home she still loved him
and that they would see each-other again one day –
some of the messages are so emotional to deliver,
I cannot help but break-down in tears
as I give them their message,
but in the same breath I love being the bearer of hope
and that sometimes invisible and silent hand
upon a person’s shoulder
telling them that every-thing is going to be alright.

I am not sure why I was chosen…
I am not sure who it was who chose me…
I am not sure if I am doing God’s work…
I am not sure what happens next
after I reach out, on behalf of someone else,
to another person…
I am not sure if my delivery of the message
is delivered in the same way as was intended –
most of the time I can deliver
what the message is with a look
and with a burst of thought,
like I am the conductor
of some kind of psychic-electricity;
sometimes I just let the message do all the work
and I just watch from behind my own eyes
while my body acts as if it has been possessed
by some kind of magical curse.

To most people who meet me,
I am nothing more than a stranger;
to a higher-power,
I am the one whom they chose
to be their psychic-amplifier;
to the sender of the messages that I send,
I am a link to someone who they want to talk to
without having to use their own voice –
I am their secret-teller,
I am one of their story-tellers…
I am here, I am there,
to be close and near to someone,
so that I can be who from a small child
I was always destined to be:
‘The Messenger’.

My Poem ‘Buzzing’

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

When you get some good news,
it is like you are a honeybee
drunk on the nectar of a flower;
when you hear that things are happening
the way that you hoped they would,
it can feel like you are walking on air;
when you are told something that makes the world
look even more bright and beautiful,
you cannot help but smile from ear-to-ear;
when you see evidence
that whatever you have been doing
for longer than you can remember
actually has meaning and matters,
you start to see and feel happiness
as if it were something new
that you had never known before,
and you start to believe that there is someone
in this world who truly does care.

A new car, a new job –
the means and the motivation to go where you want
so that you can do what you want to do
is something that some people take for granted;
a new direction, a new life –
the freedom to be something and somebody different
in a brand new environment
is something that some people have never had,
but it is what they have always wanted;
a new story, a new chapter –
a break-away from the cycle of the monotony
that some people often fall into
and sometimes cannot figure out
how to see what else is out there
that they may have been missing;
a new opportunity to shine
comes like a brand new sunrise –
but sometimes to get something in return
you have to put something of yourself out there first –
like tossing a coin into a well, or a fountain…
sometimes you have to spend a token of your own
so that you can stimulate and disturb the waters
of that to which you are wishing.

Being at the right place, at the right time,
is not a science – it is a matter of fate;
being at the right point in your life
for you to be gifted your hearts-desire
sometimes only happens once –
it is like the feeling of butterflies in your stomach
that you get when you suddenly stop
but the world feels like it is still spinning;
being on the verge of a new adventure
is always amazing beyond any words
that could ever be estimated;
being hopeful, happy, enthusiastic, and optimistic,
at any time that you are lucky to feel that way
is a blessing to your heart, your mind, and to your soul,
that makes every part of you feel
like they are in a state of ‘fluttering’ –
like the sound of the wings of a bumble-bee
that vibrate so fast they are quite literally buzzing.

My Poem ‘Sound of the Silence’

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Stars, planets, solar-storms, galactic-energy –
every sphere of the universe
produces music from a source within
that keeps them spinning
and generating their unique voice;
artists, composers, song-writers, vocalists –
every living and breathing man and woman
who has ever created something
and who has ever been inspired
to realise their lifes-work
is driven by a silent beating heart
within their chest more powerful
than could ever be imagined;
memories, recollections,
reminders of a time gone by
that just will not die
because they have no choice;
stories, movies, the eclectic soundtrack
of your childhood that is centred around
and continues to orbit
a wormhole of space and time
that continues to broadcast
and influence your life,
your thoughts, and your actions,
every second of every minute.

All hail the music of the silence;
all raise their hands to feel the vibrations
and the beat of something amazing and beautiful;
all hear the sound of the timeless;
all be entranced by the light of the light-house,
and look up in wonder at the sight
of the broken satellite;
all watch the disc of colour spin,
and allow yourself to slip back in time
to the endless summer days of golden sunlight;
all close your eyes and go on a journey
inside your mind and be carried away
by the waves of the universal
energy-current of the universe;
all listen to the crackle of the static
and then fall head-first into the vortex
that spins like an album of vinyl.

To me, silence is just music
that we haven’t yet discovered
how to listen to in the right way;
to me, music in its infinite forms
will always play throughout all eternity –
whether it is heard, or not,
the music of life can never be silenced;
to me, music is one of the only things
that can make you feel at home
as well as take you far away;
to me, all the world is a church of music
and all of humanity are receptors
and worshippers of a divine sound
that is sometimes both powerful and silent –
and that is why I say that we should all
put our hands to our chest
and proclaim with one voice:
all hail the silence.

My Poem ‘God’s work’

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

God works in mysterious ways…
with light came life
at the beginning of the universe…
to god seven billion years
could be the same as seven of our solar days…
life is precious…
god’s creations are now more distant
than they were at the beginning of everything…
everybody on Earth has a role to play
in the grand design that god set forth
before the universe exploded into existence
with the biggest of bangs…
like everything in life
no thing is any-thing without trust…
we may not realize it,
but everything happens for a reason:
accidents happen, mistakes are made –
however, every-thing and everyone
is bound to a master-plan
too unfathomable to anyone but it’s architect;
the universe is complex –
but what else would you expect
from an idea such as the universe,
literally the most divine garden
of limitless, beautiful, and varied
example of life ever imagined:
what gift, what blessing,
what answer hidden in plain-sight
within a question being asked
could be more perfect?

Two worlds are never the same;
two lives, though seemingly-close,
always live on either-side of a divide;
the two eyes of someone’s face
is like the light of the stars
that we see sparkling from afar
in the vast darkness of space;
the two ears, the two lungs,
the two arms, the two hands,
the two legs, the two feet that many,
however not all, are born with –
the signature physical characteristics
of the human body remind us all
that we are still all of one world,
one Earth, and one of a kind.

We all come to a belief in something
from different directions;
for some, the path to the truth of what life is
can be short, it can be long, it can be easy,
and sometimes it can be incredibly hard;
there are people who believe
in many things in this life –
and when they say that they believe in something,
or someone, I know and I believe
that they are telling the truth with every word;
we all come face-to-face with things in our lives
that we can’t understand –
sometimes the journey to find the answers you seek
cannot simply be reached by driving somewhere in a car;
the human heart, the human soul, the human consciousness,
the human dreams, are all keys to the door
that lead to the gates of heaven –
and I believe that each and every one of us,
no matter how big or how small we believe we are
in the cosmic jig-saw of life
can make no mistake in believing
that we are all doing god’s work.

My Poem ‘Sights to see in Birmingham City’

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

Even from far-away
you can see the towers of the city on the horizon;
as you get closer to the centre of the city
the buildings both old and new glisten;
when you catch a glimpse of the spires
of Saint Martin’s church,
and of the shining disks that cover
the imposing Selfridges store,
you cannot help but be taken-aback by what you see;
when you climb the steps that lead
to the entrance to the Bullring,
that is but the start of a path
to things that always attract my attention
and capture my fascination
every time I see them
as I walk around the city.

I love walking up New Street,
from the famous bronze Birmingham bull
to the statue of Queen Victoria
that stands tall atop their plinth
at Victoria Square –
there are always musicians and street-performers
playing and performing hoping to draw people to them
so that they can bedazzle with the talent;
I love going into my favourite restaurants and stores –
in particular Starbucks, Waterstones,
and also my favourite bookstore ‘Foyles’
which to me is the jewel in the crown
of the newly-refurbished New Street Station –
and simply looking, perusing,
people-watching, and listening;
one of my favourite places to go in all the city
is the amazing and inspiring
Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery –
the exhibitions and the art to be found within
to me is always a treat to behold…
and another place I love to revisit is of course
the phenomenal new Birmingham library –
somewhere I have spent many an hour
enjoying every moment of walking through
the near-infinite number of books on their shelves,
and also sitting outside almost on the library’s roof
looking far and wide and also below
at the beautiful city beneath me.

I love walking the towpaths
of the canal-side near The Mailbox;
I love walking from one end of Broad Street
to the other and marveling
at the number of restaurants and bars
that can be seen as you follow the stars
and in the footsteps of the famous and the renowned;
I love how no matter if it is a sunny day or a rainy day
that I cannot deny that this city
constantly speaks to me and to my sensibilities;
I love those times when I can walk around,
or just sit down on a bench near St. Philips Cathedral
that stands at the heart of the city,
and allow my thoughts to runaway in my mind;
I love the many cultures, accents, colours,
and sounds that echo wherever you find yourself in town;
I love every time that I get to see the sights
that always inspire me in Birmingham City.

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My Poem ‘The Chosen One’

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

You are The Chosen One…
you are here for a reason…
you are capable of more
than you could ever imagine…
you are where you are…
you are doing what you are doing…
you are shining like a distant
star in the dark…
you are silent,
yet your voice is echoing…
you are instrumental…
you are elemental…
you are indomitable…
you are integral…
you are saying something…
you are expressing the intangible…
you are hearing something:
music, rain-drops, a concert,
a down-pour, a stream of consciousness,
nature, beats, a distant rumble in the clouds,
poetry, to be embraced, to be held,
to be grasped, to be assimilated –
because it all matters,
because it all makes sense,
because it all entrances…
think about it all:
who you are, who you choose to surround yourself with,
what has led you here and what has carried you this far…
for me, it is my heart that has brought me here;
this time was chosen for me
to shine my ray of light as the rain falls;
for me, moments are precious and timeless,
unregrettable and unforgettable;
my parents would have moved heaven and Earth for me
if they could while I was growing up, and even now…
choices are so important…
time should not be wasted
by wrapped yourself up with a chain of what if’s?…
an idea is magical…
realizing a mental-picture is potent…
seeing something that nobody else can see
is blessed and celestial…
if a flood looks like it is on the way,
if you think that you can’t weather it,
save what you can anywhere and any way that you can,
and try to swim through whatever comes rushing towards you,
and if all else fails build yourself a life-raft
out of anything that you can find,
and never lose the one thing that will save your life
if you let it… never lose hope…
because The Chosen One’s do not often
get a say as to when and why
they are thrust into the lime-light;
heroes become heroes because they save lives
and they give themselves freely to another
at their time of need;
the divine conductor sets the stage,
writes the melody, keeps the orchestra in-time and on-pace,
and gives gravity to everything,
and they are present every second of life –
when we die our destiny has been fulfilled,
however our impression on the sandy beach of life
still remains long after we pass-over
to what lies beyond the horizon;
anybody who touches, anybody who teaches,
anybody who takes a hold of their life
and who wants to love and share life’s
infinite riches of experience,
inspiration, and light from their perspective
does so because they must –
because they were given a choice
and asked a question, the answer to which
was in their heart their entire life –
because right from day one,
they were, as you are,
the chosen one.

My Poem ‘Correspondant’

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

When I was 12 years-old
I had a pen-pal from France;
when I was in school,
I and the rest of my french-class
were asked to write a letter in french
to someone who had written a letter in English
to the person with the name
whom they had randomly picked out of a hat…
I was picked by a boy called “Sebastian” –
who I believe went to school in a town in Normandy –
and over the next few months
I would write in my best french to Sebastian,
and Sebastian in-turn would write
in his best English to me.
Sebastian would tell me about where he lived,
about his family, and about his love of the English-language.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Sebastian’s letters to me –
however, my competence in replying to Sebastian in french
left a lot to be desired, and after a while
I did not reply to Sebastian in the same frequency
as he was writing to me.

Sebastian sent letter after letter
about a myriad of different things that were happening to him –
but, unfortunately, my letter-writing to Sebastian
had gone from once a month to none-at-all,
which to this day still makes me feel horrible
and it is one of the many things that I regret
and which still picks away at my conscience.

When I was 12, I was not the writer that I am today.
When I was 12, “social-media” had not been invented,
neither had what we call today the “internet”,
and talking to someone in another country –
even as geographically close as France is to England –
felt as hard as talking to an alien a far-away galaxy.
When I was 12, school felt like a place
where I was forced to attend.
When I was 12, I did not understand
what in life is the most important.

I am in my thirties now,
and high-school, or secondary-school
as we call it here in England,
feels like it was many moons ago
than I can remember with as much clarity
as I have for yesterday –
however, as with many moments from my childhood,
there are things that still stand-out
and there are some moments
that rise to the surface of my mind randomly
when I least expect them to…
and today, on a rainy Saturday afternoon,
here in England, as I sit behind my desk,
in my bedroom, writing in my notebook,
is one of those times when something
and someone that I haven’t thought about in years
has flashed back to me and made me ask
with genuine fascination:
I wonder whatever happened to “Sebastian”,
my life-time ago pen-pal from France.

My Poem ‘Autumn’

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

The summer serenade has come to an end…
the leaves are changing colour
and are spiraling to the ground…
the door of a new, but familiar,
season of nature opens…
the outside air is growing colder –
even the tone of the music
that the wind blowing through the trees
and the buildings makes a different sound…
Autumn is with us now…
it is now ‘Fall’ as they call it in North America…
in some states and in some countries
they are beginning to take off the covers
and dust off mighty snow-plows,
and some of the birds in the trees
that have been nesting in the same nests
all summer-long and have been singing loud
their morning and evening songs
are taking flight and are heading
thousands of miles south.

Pumpkins are being harvested;
winter-coats are coming out of the closet;
when walking through a still leafy woodland
at the right time of the day,
when the sun is shining bright
and blissfully in the sky,
you can find yourself in the middle
of a shower of golden light;
when it is dark later in the morning,
but still breathtakingly beautiful,
and in the evening time,
the new season heralds the arrival
or darkness and stars far earlier
than at the same time on a Summer night.

Now it is the favourite time
of the year for some people;
now, when the children return to school,
is when there is a great buzz of enthusiasm
in the air – just as intoxicating
as the smell of a forest after a rain-storm;
now is when a great anticipation of delights
begins to build;
now, when change is at its most tangible,
is when, if are lucky and out among nature,
you can come up-close and see with your own eyes
marvels of the world like that of a baby fawn.

All is in transition;
a new filter to view the world through
descends before our eyes
as the Earth is now at its farthest from the sun;
moments experienced and shared
are like magical miracles sent from above;
now is the season to embrace what comes to you
while you are among the wilds of the open
and make the most of one of the most
magical seasons of life on Earth… Autumn.

‘Truly Madly Deeply’ – happy anniversary!

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

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On the 26th of September, 2015 – almost a year ago – one of the most amazing, incredible, and life-changing things ever to happen to me happened… I met my beautiful and gorgeous fiancé, Melissa (@chikadee12282) for the first time face-to-face, and it was and still is one of the most amazing day’s of my life! I love Melissa so much, and in December of 2015 I had a book called ‘Truly Madly Deeply’ published, which I dedicated to Melissa, which featured inside it a short-story I wrote chronicling the magic times Melissa and I shared upon our first meeting and also poems that I wrote for Melissa. As I said, September 26th is the anniversary of Melissa and I meeting for the first time, and so to celebrate this magical anniversary of ours I am going to be giving away 5 signed copies of my book, Truly Madly Deeply! So, if you want a signed-copy then all you’ve got to do is follow me on Twitter or on Instagram and Tweet me what, or whom, do you think was the inspiration for the title of my book – and the first 5 people with the right answer wins a signed copy of Truly Madly Deeply. Also, if you write a review of any of my books on Amazon then you too will get a chance to win a copy. Sound good? 😎 ❤