My Poem ‘As it comes’

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Every day when the sun rises,
every day when we greet
the brand new day in our own way,
every day when the thought of something
in particular hypnotizes –
every day, no matter what dark clouds
may hover above our heads,
it is important for each and every one of us
to hold our heads up-high
and say to ourselves that we will get through
whatever we face and make the best of our lives,
come what may.

If there were no mysteries
then there would be no questions;
if there were no questions
then there would be no potential for adventure;
if there were no adventure
then there would be no wonderful
experiences and life-lessons;
if there were no new experiences to be had
and new lessons to be learned
then our lives would not be as they are –
our lives would be a life in a day,
and there would not be a constant time-machine
that allows us all for limited times a day
to jump from the present to the past
and from the past to the future, et cetera…

Everything changes in life –
it should, and it must;
everything came from something –
we, the Earth, the stars, the galaxy,
all came from the stuff of stars and cosmic dust;
everything and everybody starts small
and then grows towards the light of their potential;
everything only happens once –
the universe does not repeat itself often,
and no matter the similarities that can be found,
even throughout nature,
one thing I know for sure
is that the world we know
and the world behind the invisible curtain
that surrounds us all can only be the way it is
because of those who are exceptional
but who do not realize that they are special.

Begin and end your day with a smile;
try not to worry too much about what you can’t control;
if and when you can be yourself and show your inner-love;
life is a test filled with many trials;
do what you do best with all your heart and all your soul;
keep going, keep positive, keep smiling,
keep living your life –
and no matter what happens,
don’t be afraid to take a running-jump
and don’t just take life as it comes.

My Poem ‘Limited Edition’

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Everything ends; seasons change;
wounds need time so that they can mend;
the sun is always shining –
whether it is day or night,
whether there is Summer heat or April rain.

Life is a precious treasure not to be wasted;
you can live the happiest of lives
without having all of your five senses;
making the most of what you have while you have it
is at the heart of every ancient or modern myth;
when you look around… when you look back…
when you look forward… there is a fundamental reason
why all that we see and all that we imagine
is a mixture of the familiar and the different –
and when you put all the pieces of life together in your head
it is then that so much starts to make sense.

Books sometimes go out of print;
a song, just like a person, has a life-span;
a story can help us and give us strength to never give in;
the best that anybody can find
will always be that which is one of a kind –
just like the one whom we love more than anything,
there is no better than to have of something
that is a Limited Edition of one.

My Poem ‘The Whispering Gallery’

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Every Sunday,
bang on 10 o’clock in the morning,
the bells of St. Martin’s church
ring-out loud and far –
and every Sunday,
when I am standing and listening
in the most perfect spot
that can be found in all the city,
over time I have discovered
an amazing phenomenon…
just as every whispering gallery
that can be found in places
that are often places of silence
and peaceful serenity,
if you whisper a wish into the air,
and it is carried away on the wind
in the right direction,
then that same wish will come true one day
after having been delivered directly to heaven
by the wings of a listening angel –
and that almost silent prayer
will echo and create epic waves,
like an ocean being skipped upon by a stone,
and you will have been blessed –
even though the evidence of what has taken place
and by whom may have already disappeared without a trace.

The bells of St. Martin’s church ring for almost an hour –
the are a source of hope for many, and they have a power.
Church bells, to me, have always had a solemn beauty to them;
church bells are like the accent of a place of worship’s voice,
and I think they are wonderfully important;
church bells have a way of drawing people to them like a beacon;
you have never felt such a feeling like that
of being as close as you can be
to the breathtaking vibrations of sound
that are produced when ancient bells are ringing
and hammers are hitting their mark in a bell-tower.

The world is one big whispering-gallery;
the Earth has places on it
where the magical can be conjured into being
with the flick of a magic-wand
disguised as an ink-pen;
some people want something so much
but they are afraid to ask for help from anybody –
sometimes things can only be heard
when they are said in the first where
and at the right when…
so, I encourage anybody who feels something special
when they are somewhere,
even if that place may not look anywhere
that may be at all “somewhere to write home about”
to let their inner-most thoughts and wishes
be set free into the atmosphere
of the worlds biggest whispering gallery.

My Poem ‘The Everyman Cinema’

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The Everyman is ‘old-school’…
the Everyman is like a one of a kind time-piece…
the Everyman is steeped wall-to-wall
and ceiling to floor in the traditions of a time
that to me feel “authentic” and “pure”…
the Everyman feels like a film-lover’s heaven on Earth,
and as soon as I walked through its doors
an amazing feeling overcame me.

Wood-paneled walls; golden lighting;
an inviting and comforting ambiance
that I simply adore because of how much,
even upon first sight, it instantly enthralls;
neon lighting of many colours
that guide you to, in my opinion, the pièce de résistance
that you find in whatever screen you find yourself sitting.

I have been to more cinemas than I can count, in my time…
I have seen more films at cinemas
than I have had Starbucks coffees…
I have had some memorable experiences while at the movies,
and I have had some less than enjoyable experiences…
I have watched every genre of film at the movies,
but there must only be a handful of memories that I remember
more than others, for different reasons –
however mostly because of what they meant to me
and the lasting-impression that they left on me.

I love going to the cinema –
to me going to the cinema
is like following in the footsteps
of those who sort-out entertainment and a show
like you experience when you pay to attend
a dramatic-performance at the theatre;
I truly sit and wait in wonder in the dark
every time I choose to watch a film
I have never seen before,
but there are some venues that add to the magical occasion
of watching a film on a big-screen more –
and to me I think have found the place
where I plan to watch every upcoming film
that I am looking forward to seeing in the future:
somewhere where you sit on comfy sofas to watch your film
and enjoy your popcorn and your refreshments
from the concessions bar –
a place that to me is a talisman to movie-going fan,
and that place is a cinema in Birmingham, in the UK,
called the ‘Everyman’.

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Too Close To The Sun…

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My Poem ‘Our Time’

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

I remember every moment…
I remember every instant…
I remember every thing we did…
I remember every time you looked back at me,
I remember every time you held my hand
and gave me a reason to live…
I remember the where,
I remember and I will never forget the when…
I remember lying on our bed and stroking your hair…
I remember every memory so vividly
every time the heavenly light that you emanate
shines through my minds lens…
I remember the first, I remember the last…
I remember, and I will always remember.

I remember when we went to the movies…
I remember when we went to our first music festival…
I remember when we walked over the Walking bridge
and half-way across I asked you to marry me…
I remember when we at outside on 4th of July night
and we watched the fireworks explode in the sky,
and at the same time getting my first up-close
and personal encounter with a Lightning Bug –
those moments that were like something out of a dream.
they were to me so magical.

I remember us driving every-where…
I remember us walking hand-in-hand in the sunlight…
I remember us sitting next to each other,
and me just looking at you and listening to you
and being utterly hypnotized by you,
as you made me fall in love with you
again and again with every passing second that I stared…
I remember dreaming about you every night,
and then waking up the next morning
with you lying right besides me –
I will never forget a single day
that has made up the tapestry of our shared life.

I remember going going to your family’s church
and thanking God for gifting you to me…
I remember taking pictures of us together –
of me holding you, and you holding me
in miraculous moment of utter joy, love, and serenity…
I remember you telling me that I was yours,
and I remember me telling you that you were mine…
I remember, in every detail and depth,
every year, every month, every day, every hour,
every minute, every second,
and all the sparks of life in-between
that make the world turn for us
and combine-together to make our time.

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My Poem ‘The Good Listener’

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

I don’t know what it is about me…
Maybe it’s my face?
Maybe it’s my voice?
Maybe it’s my eyes?
Maybe it is my unimposing-demeanor, perhaps,
that draws people to me one-after-another,
like a firefly to candle-light?
I don’t know what it is,
but, for some reason, people believe
that with me and to me
they can allow whatever is on the tip of their tongue
and whatever is on their mind to be said and be set free.

I have lost count of the number of strangers,
who seemingly from out of nowhere,
have introduced themselves to me,
and have almost told me their entire life-story;
I have been sitting on a plane,
I have been sitting alone at a table in a cafe,
when more than one person has turned to me
and has told me their name –
and, not long after,
we have had a brief-but-meaningful conversation
that may have been the highlight of their day.

Questions… secrets…
questions like: what, to you, is the meaning of life?
secrets, like: how do I go home and be a real father
to my kids, and also be a true husband to my wife?
And in what form do I respond? And what is my response?
I listen. I let whomever it is who is talking to me be heard
and say aloud to me what they have not had the courage
to disclose and confess to anyone, before me, not once.

Just as I have always been a good reader of books,
I have always been a good reader of people, as well;
just as a book-cover captures and teases the inside of a book,
so does what a person wears and says out-loud
when they think that nobody is looking at them
and nobody is listening to them says a lot about someone –
not everything, of course, but there is still so much
from observing someone that you can tell.

A person’s consciousness has a lock to it,
just as every door has;
it is amazing the depths
and the number of levels that a person’s mind has;
everybody loves communicating what they are thinking
and how they are feeling, more so than they may know;
I have always said that anyone can be a writer –
in my opinion, to be a writer all you need to do
is open your heart, speak from your soul –
and the best way is to speak and to write
what you have been through, and what you know,
and watch the thoughts, the ideas,
and the words just flow.

They say that confession is good for the soul;
they say that when you fall in a hole
the best thing that can happen to you
is for someone to come along
who has been in the exact same position
and the exact same hole before
and who chooses to jump in the hole
you are in with you
because they know the way out;
I believe that sometimes
you have to lose something that you don’t need
to make yourself feel whole again;
I believe and I know that everyone in this life
deserves to be heard –
even those who do not exclusively
communicate with their mouths;
just as the choice to share something
to me shows that a person cares about something,
just as someone who is creative cares deeply about an idea –
I believe that the greatest thing that you can do in a day
is to listen to someone, and the best person you can be
to someone else is to a good listener.

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My Poem ‘The Ghost Host’

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

On the sandy beaches of Normandy, France…
still sailing the oceans and seas…
men, women, animals, children, continue on –
some free to act independently,
some stuck in a cycle forevermore
as if repeating the steps of a spectral dance…
as if conjured back to life,
even for a short time,
some people still live on
in the words that they have written –
it is as if the simple act of reading
and letting someone’s voice be heard again
allows them to once again breathe.

While walking the fields of old battle-grounds…
while sitting in the room of a house
thought to be haunted…
while walking through a grave-yard
without a sound to be heard all-around…
while thinking about somewhere and someone,
whose bones and whose life-force still resides there,
every time my senses and my intuition go into over-drive
and I can feel, and I can almost see the face,
and hear the voice of a passed-on spirit –
someone who is still bound to Earth and to its gravity
and who have not chosen, for whatever reason,
to ascend to heaven.

Long-dead soldiers
still walking through the woods
of the state of Georgia, in America;
homeless ghosts still walk the streets of New York City
hoping that perhaps in death
someone might notice them, finally;
patients still walk the wards
of long-since abandoned hospitals
as if they were a zombie;
homes that were once taverns, in England,
still have patrons waiting
to order a drink at imaginary bars.

When we die, I believe that
we leave more behind than what we realize;
when our spirit leaves our body,
I believe that there are sensitive people
who can tell that we are still on Earth –
as if our echo-self has the pungent smell of burnt toast;
when we close our eyes for the last time,
I do not think that that in any way, shape, or form,
is our final goodbye;
when you live a life, like many of us do,
and you share a world with other people
it is only natural to not want to leave that place –
and there are those among the living
who know that, and who recognize that want and that need,
and who choose to open themselves up
to being the conduit and the host of a ghost.

My Poem ‘The Warped Tour Four’

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Early rise… morning light…
open eyes… all is good, all feels right;
bags packed, phones charged,
an open road in front of us…
maximum speed achieved,
we are traveling with full-focus
I-75 all the way to Atlanta…
music fills us, music takes us,
music calls us, music sends out shock-waves
from far-away speakers, as well as from
the speaker in our chest that is our heart
which is louder than the loudest thunder.

The sun shines… the heat beats… we wait in-line…
we all feel this amazing anticipation
run through our bodies, from our head to our feet…
and within no time at all we are in,
and we are instantly hit by a wave of music and energy…
we feel like we have entered another dimension and world
in which time and space stretches into infinity…
everything we hear, everything we see, everything we feel,
to me is incomparable to anything else –
and nothing could ever have prepared us all
for how unbelievable every second here would be.

Music is transformative;
sometimes it is hard to put into words
what music means to those who love it;
music is the universe’s oldest,
and it’s most potent, form of magic;
there is no better way to have an experience than to share it –
and I will forever be glad to have been surrounded
by there family I was with when I was standing
among a mass of music revelers
with whom I share a connection
that every waking and unconscious hour
makes me feel blessed.

Bands play on many stages…
music screams out loud, far, wide, and deep…
the many faces of strangers all united as-one –
a music family of many colours, all one race.

We are all here to enjoy the chain of moments,
memories, embraces, and emotions;
we are all rotating in a cycle
and in orbit of a pulsating energy core
that keeps us all in motion;
we are all a part of history in the making;
we are all the answer to how
our world is ours for the saving.

The music falls down…
the heat breaks, the sun begins to set…
the end of day song starts to play…
we are leaving the epic festival of sound
that has all day long caught our breaths…
we are heading home, we are cutting-short
what for us has been an incredible tour…
we all know that to truly make it somewhere in life
you cannot do it alone…
we had the most phenomenal day
that we will remember all our lives –
so say we, The Warped Tour Four.

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My Poem ‘Mr. Traveler’

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Being above the clouds
is like being a part
of something magical;
seeing the blue above
and the light below,
to me will never stop being
a dream come true;
being bound for somewhere
on the other side of an ocean
is something truly wonderful;
seeing the world from up high
to me is breathtaking –
and when I look out into the distance,
and when I look down to the Earth,
a shape, a face, a thought,
a memory comes to me out of the thin air,
and I feel blessed by the touch of the divine,
and I feel drawn to the destination
I will arrive at soon.

We all travel and we all leave a slip-stream;
those who travel by plane know
that the fastest way to travel
is by catching a ride on a jet-stream;
we all know that thrill that we feel
when we go to somewhere we have never been;
those who have chosen to journey
to the other of a rainbow know
that if you choose to take a leap into the unknown
you may see things that no one but you
will ever get the chance to see.

Astronauts rocket to space every day…
passengers travel to countries every hour…
those blessed with vivid imaginations
dive and fly to and through new worlds of creation
every minute in a infinite number of ways…
every second when every heart of ever human being beats
it is like the constant opening and closing
of the petals of the universe’s most beautiful flower.

I have been flying since I was a child;
I have been to magical lands,
and I have always come afterwards
with an further understanding of the allure
of the call of the wild;
since I was a kid I have been dreaming
about being a space-traveler;
I do not travel far that often –
however, whenever I get the chance to defy gravity
by any means I always jump to it
and I always embrace what it means
and I never take for granted how lucky I am
to be a Traveler.

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