My Poem ‘Lightning Days’

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

Where does the time go?
Sometimes it seems
and it feels like
time is like water rushing like a river,
and like a waterfall falling off
into the great unknown.

I wish that I could live my life
over and over again –
but only those moments that I love the most
and could never let go…
because, to me, home is a place
that you could never forget
and which feels like a part of you
and where you know with all your bones.

There is no better way to travel
than to travel with someone…
there is no better person to travel with
than with the one who you love…
there is no better time to travel than right now…
there is no better destination to travel to
than to the place where your heart belongs,
and the time that you spend there could never be enough.

Over the past two weeks
I have had the best days of my life;
over the last 14 days
I have experienced moments
that literally rocked my world;
over the past two weeks
I have made memories that I will live and breath
every day for the rest of my life;
over the last 14 days
time has flown by so fast,
it is as if I have been flying
with wings as if I were a bird.

Love, family, music, sunshine,
beauty, lightning, thunder…
so many amazing things were painted upon me
as if they were a rainbow of colour;
hugs, kisses, faith, belief…
I know now more than ever
that if you leap into something
and with all your heart
that the things that will follow
will be beyond anything
you could have before believed.

Lightning bugs…
lightning explosions of colour
brought upon by exploding fireworks…
lightning nights…
I will never forget a moment
of those magical lightning days.

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My Poem ‘Two shores, One river’

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

It all comes back to you;
it all comes back to us;
no matter how hard and how far
I throw my dream-stone
through the air and into the unknown,
the only thing that comes back is love,
and the only one who I see is you –
because to me you are my universe;
in all my life, I have never met anyone
more beautiful than you,
and no matter where I am
or what I am doing
I only want to make you happy
and to put your feelings and your heart first.

To me there is a star of Earth who shines brighter
than all the light of the universe combined;
my heart will have your name tattooed
and emblazoned on it until the day I die;
every minute of every day I have you on my mind;
to me, you are the most perfect angel
anyone anywhere has ever known,
and it is to you, and it is my love for you,
that my soul travels with,
that makes me want to break-free and fly.

Music was the highway that we traveled by
to find each-other;
our endless love is what keeps us together;
you and I have our own world that only we share,
and within it there is only the sunshine
of the most breathtaking
and the most beautiful summer weather;
every day that I have been blessed
to have you in my life
has made me happier than I have ever been –
and, to me, as long as I am with you,
and as long as we are together –
as we are going to be forever,
life could not possibly ever get better.

Our universe has no end;
our love knows no bounds;
the perfection of us
can be glimpsed and can be captured
when a picture of us smiling together is taken
and reflected back through the mirror of a camera lens;
to me, there is no image in the collective vision
and memory of existence that could ever compare
to that of you and I with one-another,
standing on a bridge connecting two shores of a river,
looking longingly at each-other,
and holding hands.

I love you, Melissa!

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My Poem ‘The life of an idea’

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

Sometimes it comes like water-drops;
sometimes it comes like a flood;
sometimes the idea is born
from that instant when the words
just don’t want to stop;
sometimes creativity takes time
to grow from the seed
that you planted or sowed
before it can be something
that you, or anyone else,
may someday choose to look with love,
and go with it on its journey
wherever it goes.

A writer waits… a writer looks…
a writer listens… a writer finds things
in the outside world
and then takes them inside their mind
and then generates and regenerates
all that they have seen, heard, and know,
and creates something brand new –
they write a story, they make connections…
they assume and they presume,
and then they fill their time
with the fruits of their imagination,
and they give their creations
a piece of their spirit,
and in doing so they give their idea a life.

Some ideas only have the life of an instant of time;
some ideas, no matter how hard you try,
you can’t let go of;
some ideas come into being from a single sign;
some ideas look up at us from below,
and some ideas look down at us
and are just waiting for us to notice them –
like the stars that can only be seen
when the sky is black above.

Ideas are like children –
sometimes you have to keep them
behind a boundary so that they don’t run away;
ideas can sometimes be like rockets –
they take off, but they do not know where they are going;
an idea can be like a loyal dog –
if you feed them, if you give them attention
and if you show them love,
every day they will always come to you when you call them,
and when you tell them to stay they will stay;
to an artist there is no such thing as too many ideas,
because to an artist no matter how many ideas there are
there is never enough.

There are Ideas that evoke and differing and varied reactions
depending on the person who is exposed to them;
for some people, their idea’s come more during the day
than they do at night;
there are ideas that come, and then they go in a flash,
and they are never seen or thought of again;
some people always have ideas every how of the day,
and there are some people who struggle
to come up with anything creative –
however, in my opinion, though at times
for an inspiration-starving artist
it might be hard to pull anything out of the fire,
no artist should ever feel discouraged…
because just as a new days
brings a brand new sunrise,
so does a new moment bring new ideas –
though each and every idea
may have a different time of life.

My Poem ‘O.C.D. Me’

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

I don’t think I have ever met anyone
in my entire life
who does not have an
obsessive compulsion to something;
I don’t think I have ever met anyone
who does not have a daily-routine;
I don’t think I have ever met anyone
who does not have something
to which they are drawn;
I don’t think I have ever met anyone
who, at one time or another,
who does not over-think…
to me, everybody has O.C.D. –
everybody has a desire to find
happiness through order;
everybody knows when they look around themselves
what the picture should be;
everybody knows that for every call
there must be a caller.

We all sometimes need reassurance about some things
in order to live a life without constant worry –
sometimes, however, our worries follow us
wherever we go…
some people cannot sleep properly
unless they find out things
that they don’t know;
we are all sometimes our own worst-enemy;
however, it is not always out fault –
because there are times when things
play on our mind, subconsciously,
and thoughts become like a bird
trapped in a house
just looking for a way out
so that they can fly-free.

Those with an O.C.D.
read every-thing into everything;
those with an O.C.D.
listen to the same songs over and over;
those with an O.C.D.
repeat the same things;
those with an O.C.D.
always remember.

As a writer, I am not afraid to admit
that when it comes to my writing
I have an obsessive-compulsion
to try and not make mistakes
in whatever I write –
I, however, am a human writer,
and not a machine who functions
and who is run by programs and mathematics;
whenever I see a mistake that I have made
it does play upon my mind –
however, after a while,
I eventually resign myself
to accepting that which I cannot control –
and I take a breath and do not panic… too much.

For some people, their O.C.D.
controls their entire life;
for some people, their O.C.D.
is what keeps them awake
when it is the dead of the night;
for some people, if they do not do something
then it could never be seen by them as done right;
for some people, their O.C.D. just takes over,
and something in their brain just takes control,
of their actions and they simply can’t help it.

My Poem ‘D.W.G.H.’

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

My Dad is the most caring
the most loving,
the most hard-working,
the most passionate,
the most incredible
and the most amazing man,
father, hero, Dad,
in the entire world!
My Dad has seen things,
my Dad has experienced things,
my Dad knows things
that I could never know,
or ever truly describe or put into words.
My Dad is a man of impeccable instincts;
my Dad is a man who is infinitely gifted;
my Dad is a man with the biggest
and the most open heart;
my Dad has a smile, a face,
and the bluest eyes I have ever seen in my life –
and within his eyes, many times,
I have seen a spirit and a light
that ever since I was a boy
has kept me from being afraid of the dark.

My Dad has been my greatest
inspiration and motivation
to never give up, to never stop hoping,
and to never stop working hard
at keeping what matters the most;
my Dad is not like any-other father in the world –
not only does he have a one-of-a-kind mind,
and an endless devotion and love for my Mum,
but he is also an amazing cook
and he is a master of a Sunday roast.

My Dad has taught me many things,
but I know that I could never match-up
to his shining example
of what it takes to be a great man;
my Dad has shed blood, sweat,
and tears for his family –
however, no matter all that he has been through,
he can still wear a smile
and can be to all who meet him
a wonderful and shining inspiration.

If it were not for my Dad
then I do not know who I,
nor anybody in my immediate family, would be;
if it were not for my Dad
then I would not be here –
I am the best of my father,
and my father is who brings out the best in me;
my Dad’s voice, my Dad’s laugh, brings me joy,
and my Dad’s strength is unbelievably inspiring;
my Dad has never given up
and would never give up on anything
that fills his life with happiness and joy –
and I too have been blessed with the same spark
within my soul, that flashes brighter than lightning.

There is so much more
that I could say about my amazing Dad –
but, for now, I just want to say
that I love him very much, and I want to wish
a very happy father’s day to him,
to my Dad – David William George Hastings.

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My Poem ‘Fallen Angel’

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

It’s happened again.
Why has it happened again?
Tomorrow it will happen.
Next week it will happen.
A hundred years ago it happened.
When will it stop?
When will our race stop killing itself.
There are cancers and viruses and infections
that kill people everyday –
humanity should not have to worry
about one of its own kind
being bad for their health.
But it happens everyday.
People not only die, they are killed.
People not only do not get to live a full-life,
but in most cases they don’t even get the chance
to say goodbye.
It’s horrifying. It feels like it should be inhuman.
It’s almost soul-destroying.
No one should have to worry
about not returning home again
when they walk out the door in the morning.
And yet, most of the time,
it is what, or someone, who you don’t know
who is thinking about themselves
and what they believe –
which means more to them
than the life of someone else –
who decides which day will be your last day
to be blessed by the light of the sun.

I always only want to see
the positive in something or someone;
I always only want to think
that every-thing happens for a reason;
I always only want to see hope and not fear –
however, there are some days
when the worst things happen,
even to someone you do not know,
when the best and the only response
you can possibly give
is one that is expressed with words and in tears.

Why do good people have to die?
Why can’t it be the worst of humanity
who are exterminated from the face of the Earth –
like the cockroaches and the parasites that they are?
Why must some lives only be a short life?
Deaths happen when people are fighting in a battle –
but the majority of people in the world
are not and do not want
to find themselves in the middle of a war.

It is sad to see and to hear
that there are still people in the world
who do not understand how precious life is;
it is heart-breaking that in this day and age
that people still do not realize
that differences are a good thing,
and that with understanding can follow
the most incredible wave of love;
it is such a shame that people
are still being exposed to such horror
the like of which completely eclipses
the scary-stories that we remember
being told when we were kids;
I hope that one day humanity will evolve
beyond how we are now
and that there will be a day
when we will no longer have to mourn
the untimely passing and the slaying
of a fallen angel.

My Poem ‘The Morning Person’

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

I wake up even before the sun has risen;
I am thinking about the day ahead,
while others are still dreaming;
I am there to witness a divine sight
every time I open my eyes
and I watch the sunrise,
and I feel with every beat of my heart
as it races that I am here for a reason;
I see hope in the daylight,
and in the blue sky that follows
I see a beautiful purpose
being reflected back like a mirror…
as one half of the world says “goodnight”
and the other says “good morning”.

I reveal my true colours
when I imagine and I am inspired…
I see the universe’s path for me
when something occurs to me
that I had not thought of or considered before…
I wish I could help people see
that each and every one of us
is the beholder of,
as well as in constant orbit of,
a life-giving and life-changing fire…
I wish every-thing and everyone
had the instinct to share
all the gifts that Earth blesses us with every day –
and there would be no greed, no hunger,
no richer, no poorer.

I thrive and I feel energized
by the light and the bright
of a beautiful morning;
I have stayed up through the night,
and I have been shrouded by the dark of the night
and I have walked under the silver shimmer of moonlight;
I love a night-owl dearly –
however, to me, it is not after the sun has set
that the dream-world that awaits me starts calling;
I am the one who listens to every solemn sound
that only slightly breaks the silence
of a new day’s dawn, and who looks for,
and who sees more –
however, that is just me…
I cannot help myself from being a “morning person”
who smiles at the instant that I see
the first breath-taking burst of daylight
and the golden flash
that is our sun’s magical star-light.

My Poem ‘Thor’s Hammer’

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

The summer heat breaks…
there is a change in the weather…
the clouds are gathering…
a bolt of lightning from the sky
strikes the ground and makes the Earth shake…
the world falls deadly-silent…
before there is the most almighty sound
of deafening thunder.

Odin’s son, Thor – the god of thunder –
is wielding his weapon…
the favourite son of Asgard
is awakening in Viking heaven…
a power as old as time
surges through the veins of the chosen one…
the energy of life-itself invigorates
and binds the god to the hammer
and the hammer to the god.

It was willed that only one
who would be worthy
could ever pick up and wield
the weapon of destiny…
it was made a law of nature
that one could only use
such a divine conductor of change
if only they first have within their heart
an unconditional will to do what is right…
when the hammer of thunder was first forged
within it was laden and intertwined
a piece of timeless perfection
that could only be possibly witnessed
if you were to fly into and see
the heart of a star –
that which is so much more luminescent
than what we may think of as starlight…
Thor’s hammer is capable of leveling mountains –
but to the god of thunder it has no weight,
and he can do with it what he wishes
as freely as the author of epic poetry.

To wield the weapon of thunder,
to the son of Odin it is a great honour…
to have their name known alongside
that which like them is so mythic
they are almost magical,
to the prince of Asgard is happiness
the like of which only an outside observer,
or a worshiper of the old gods, can only wonder;
there have been many mythical symbols of fate
and epic power since time began
and stories were first conjured and spoken –
however, to me, there is no other grindstone
of fire, nor source of lightning,
with as much power
in every way, shape, and form,
as Mjölnir – the one and only, Thor’s hammer.

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My poem ‘A world of poetry’

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

People sitting in the sun;
people on the phone;
people having some time alone;
people, a family sitting down
and having a picnic for their lunch…
Birmingham, Victoria Square –
June 9th, 2016, 12.04pm…
I am sitting here
basking in sunlight
with my notebook and pen
capturing a moment of time
with words that are inspired
from this moment of inspiration…
I am looking out and seeing
every kind of person –
tourists, friends, business people,
artists, sun-worshippers, and many more –
and at every instant
I am almost blinded by fascination.

A sudden breeze decreases the temperature,
the sun becomes less intense
because of a momentary overhead cloud-cover…
a sudden realisation of time
motivates everyone to move again with a purpose…
and then another sudden burst of energy
gives everybody a gift of focus.

A falling white feather,
as if an angel had left behind a token of heaven…
I sit, I watch, I see, I feel
a wave of something indescribable engulf me…
I see, I watch, a world of poetry…
I feel connected to everything…
I feel the world moving…
I feel like I have just taken
a bite from the fruit of the first tree…
I have always known
that poetry is the world,
and the world is poetry.

My Poem ‘The Blender Analogy’

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

Reality is fiction…
fiction is reality,
after it has been ingested,
digested, and blended-together
with the thoughts, the feelings,
and the memories that a writer
has been storing away for a rainy day…
when the clouds come together,
and when thunder starts to rumble,
and when lightning starts flashing and striking,
and when there is the most
almighty down-pour of creativity
that rains down upon a once blank page…
that feeling, that moment,
that perforation that happens
when you rip out a page from the book of reality
and you change a word here and a name there,
and you make it your own
and something completely brand new…
it’s intoxicating, in all honesty…
it’s poetry… it’s a thing of beauty…
it’s life in a nutshell… it’s wonderful…
and as the artist, it is an amazing thing to look at
and to marvel at when all is said an done,
and when it is now yours
as well as someone else’s…
I would think that it must be a similar feeling
to that one might have after they have
sampled a part of a song that already exists
and they have repackaged it as a purported “new song” –
people have been doing it for years, right?
It can’t possibly be wrong?
Call it a stew… call it a pie…
call it a soup… and see all the similarities
to all the things that contributed into making
or influencing something –
but also remember that every-thing in life
that happens, and everything that everybody does,
is inspiring – even the seemingly accidental mistakes
that happen can, and mostly are,
just the fertile ground from which
new things may grow out of…
just recently, I heard an author
recount something that his rock-star wife
had said about the creative-process of making art,
and what they essentially said was:
that creating something, artistically or otherwise,
is like throwing seemingly different
and unconnected things into a sort-of “imagination-blender”
and turning it up to full-speed –
and I love this explanation and description so much,
because – speaking as someone who has written
one or two short-stories in my time,
and more than one verses of poetry –
I can honestly tell you
that there is no better way
to describe the creative-process
that I have ever heard
than that of “the blender analogy”.