My Poem ‘Don’t stay silent’

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

Every day, someone is abused by someone else;
every hour, someone is subjected
to a storm of words that cut like a knife;
every minute, someone – a child, a man,
or even just a woman walking her dog –
is made to feel as if they are just a piece of meat,
a punching bag, and attacked like a wild animal,
and beaten both verbally and physically,
and looked upon as someone who is helpless,
and THIS MUST STOP! THIS MUST NOT HAPPEN!
Everyone who just wants to live their life
and walk through life unimpeded and unscarred,
deserves to have that god-given freedom and rite.

I am disgusted to hear that son’s
who have not been taught how to respect a woman,
or any human being, are terrorizing women of all ages
and giving them nightmares of fear;
I am at a loss to understand
what gives anybody the rite to make someone
burst into tears;
I cannot believe that in this day and age
abuse is still happening behind closed doors,
as well as in broad-daylight.

Rape, or even the threat of rape, is intolerable;
abusers in all shapes and forms
must be held accountable;
we must all do all that we can
to educate children to respect
their fellow man and woman;
and our animals also need protecting –
we must all do all that we can
to stop all despicable acts of abuse of every kind,
and it should be one of society’s most important pledges.

People’s stories of abuse deserve to be told
and brought into the light,
and they should not be quietened.
Abuse needs to be spoken about and eradicated,
and the victims of abuse,
for the sake of those who are too afraid to speak out,
must not continue to stay silent.

My Poem ‘Sputnik’

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

It’s six o’clock at night,
on a cool spring evening,
and I am looking out my window to the sky
at a beautiful gold and blue light,
watching the sun setting –
and the sight of it takes my breath away;
and within seconds,
I watch the sky go from red to grey,
as all that I see becomes draped
in the dark veil of twilight.

I watch the stars appear;
I see the planets rise;
I see the ultimate display of the constellations,
and I name them one by one, as I imagine them;
and then, when I see the constellation of Orion,
I am awestruck by how wonderfully its stars
shine so clear, and my entire vision
is that of an infinite number of stars in my eyes.

I spent my day taking in nature,
listening to the world around me,
being captivated by birdsong,
and watching the building of bird-nests
in the branches of the trees above,
and in the hedges of the ground below;
I spent my day believing that I knew
all in life that I could ever need to know.

Right this second, I feel like a satellite;
right at this moment, I feel like I am alone in space,
and no one even knows I am here –
because I am just a faint moving white dot in the dark sky;
right now, I feel so far away –
like a distant flickering candle
in the window of a cottage atop a hill;
and barely noticeable –
like a star of the night;
now, I look down,
and around at everyone else on Earth,
and I see what I can of their lives:
I see true happiness,
and I wonder what that feels like.

I look up at the moon;
I gaze up at the stars;
I see the heavens –
the place from where we all came from,
and I dream that I may return there soon;
I imagine that I can reach up and touch the sky,
because in the dark the void of space
does not seem that far.

Every human being has looked above
on a star-lit night, and wondered:
are we alone in the universe?
And, is anybody else out there?
I have asked myself that very question,
and I know the definitive answer –
and I speak that answer aloud every night.

Everybody sometimes goes into their own
“hibernation mode”, in which they appear
to leave their worries in another place somewhere;
I have always found it difficult
to remove myself from the world,
and not think about what is always on my mind;
some days I wish I could be a living, breathing,
astronaut floating in space –
or a part of Earth, circling the planet,
like the very first satellite: Sputnik.

image

My Poem ‘An Acquired Taste’

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

After we are born,
the one thing that we crave,
without even knowing it,
is comfort, closeness, touch,
and the feeling of being held,
and we instantly form a connection
with the first face that we see
when we get over the shock
of emerging and being thrust into the world,
and we start figuring out
exactly where we are, who we are, what we can do,
and the things that matter to us most importantly.

Our initial exposure to certain things
is incredibly influential
to the person who we will grow up to be;
being a child can be harder
and more confusing than we think;
for a parent, just being there for your child is the key;
the first bonds and connections that we make
are our life-long and most important links.

As we get older, the way we think changes;
the way we react to things changes,
and the relationships that we have change also –
because life sometimes is about going through
and adapting to many different and evolving phases:
physically, emotionally, spiritually –
and the more we see and feel,
the more we question, and ask: is this real?

Everything in life is a matter of taste –
like clothes, in life, some things we grow into,
and some things we grow out of;
something that still has value to it
should never be thought of as a waste;
in life, for every one person
who spends their days looking down,
there is always someone else
who is always looking up and above.

Tastes can change, depending on the day;
tastes can switch, depending on the weather;
tastes, like most things in life,
always repeat and will always reoccur;
taste is like music that speaks to your soul
and fills your world –
and no matter what, must be played and heard.

Some people drink coffee;
some people drink tea;
some people only drink things that are natural –
like water, or fruit juice –
and never drink anything that contains any caffeine;
some people like particular brands of clothing;
some people have an obsession
with a particular type of car;
some people spend lots of time
on what they should be wearing;
some people are painfully particular;
and, to me, as long as someone’s choices
do no actual harm, I have no problem with that –
because they are the way they are,
and they are vital in showing
that life is not one way, or another,
and that existence is a universe of wonderful
and phenomenal contrast.

Some things we are born with;
some things we are born into;
every face of everyone on Earth
is as striking and as fragile as a vase;
some things we orbit around our entire life;
some things have been there in your life
since day one, even though they may seem brand new;
most things in life are unapologetically
an acquired taste.

My Poem ‘Autograph’

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

Signed objects of all kinds
have always been highly sort-after;
signed books, paintings, pictures,
ceramics, and all kinds of works of art,
that have been touched by the pen,
the hand, or the brush,
of a writer, an artist,
or the person whom that has been captured,
have always been considered to have great value –
especially if they are thought of as rare.

To have something that has been genuinely marked
by someone truly wonderful,
to me is like owning the first edition
of an epic book by a phenomenal writer;
to actually look into the eyes of someone
after they have signed something is truly special;
and telling someone how they have touched your life
and feeling the warmth in them
from them seeing your appreciation of them and their art,
does make a great moment even greater,
and the world does become that much brighter.

People who have achieved notoriety,
and who are famous because they have done something
that has made a difference,
do not truly know what they mean to some people –
but to be able to see someone’s eyes light-up
because of you is something that is magnificent;
and the knowledge that you are a role-model for people
may sometimes be thought of as a burden to some,
however I would think of it as an honour –
because even the fact that someone
who you have never met before
knows who you are- to me, at least –
is something incredible.

Whenever I stand in line
to get something autographed by someone
who I have admired for a long time,
and then I come face to face with them,
each and every time, is it absolutely sublime!
Whenever someone asks me for my signature,
I take great joy in putting pen to paper –
because the mark of my name is very personal,
and giving someone something with my name on it
I always think of as a great gift of mine.
Every time I sign my name
I think of it as if it were both
my first and my last –
and even though I may not have signed my name
as many times as some celebrities must have,
I still think that there is something great
about having something, and signing something,
with an autograph.

image

My Poem ‘Elise Jené’

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

My beautiful, wonderful
and talented friend, Elise Jené,
is, and has been, an inspiring light
for everyone who has ever met her –
and that was something that I saw,
felt, and knew, when I first met her,
all those years ago,
when she became my friend on that first day.

Elise is a musician, a teacher,
a healer, a divine messenger;
Elise is a singer, a song-writer,
a lover of life, who I once described
as a “jewel of Canada”;
Elise is a friend, a warrior,
a believer, a world-traveler,
and an extra-dimensional explorer –
who has not only seen the world,
but she also understands the world;
and until I met her,
I had never met anyone like her.

I have been listening to Elise’s music for years;
I have been listening to Elise’s beautiful voice
and been literally been brought to tears;
I have thought of Elise as a spiritual guide for me,
ever since we first traded messages;
I have seen Elise rise higher and higher,
and I truly believe that her spirit and mine
have been communicating for ages.

When Elise plays her guitar,
when Elise plays a song on a piano,
when Elise sings a song of hers,
I am instantly reminded of the meaning of the heavens,
the universe, and the music of the stars;
when Elise performs, and talks,
I am always captivated by her voice –
and I can even imagine seeing her sing and play,
even if I can only, merely, and wonderfully
hear her voice on the radio.

My friend is great;
my friend is beautiful and amazing in so many ways;
my friend is so close to me in spirit,
even if she is physically far-away;
my friend is incredible,
and I am so lucky to have an infinite friend
like my friend, Elise Jené.

Check out my friend Elise Jene’s amazing website SuryaDevi.com and check our her amazing music @ Mantrasforthemasses.com

My Poem ‘One for the road’

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

When we are about to set out
and head down a road somewhere,
we all need something to take with us
and drive us forward as we go;
when we are about to make a move
into the wild open air,
we all sometimes need a talisman
that, as our journey evolves,
may become more important to us
than at first we could ever know.

I have always been fascinated
by the sayings and the slogans
of “bumper-stickers” that you sometimes see,
and can read, on the outside of a car, a van, or a truck –
mostly on the roads of the United States of America;
I cannot remember all the insightful things that I have read,
however most of the bumper stickers’ messages
that have adorned the vehicles that I have seen,
to me, are the things that perfectly capture
their drivers, and give a small insight
into who they are.

A favourite book to read along the way;
a memorable album of music to listen to
that always carries you like a wave;
a favourite drink that can keep you wide-eyed
and ready for what awaits you;
the memory of someone, whose face makes you as happy
to see them as a sky of bright-blue.

The road ahead could be anything;
where you are going could be anywhere;
the road ahead could mean anything;
where you are going might be
just the beginning of a story
that you may one day want to share.

One thing can come to mean everything;
one moment can spark into life something amazing;
one word, one phrase, can come to have
profound significance to you,
and can even become your own personal code;
one totem, one symbol, can be all that you need,
when what you want is simply
one for the road.

image

My Poem ‘The Thinker’

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

I am often observed
“lost in thought”,
and staring into space;
if you were to follow my eye-line
and believe that I were looking at nothing,
I am afraid that you would be wrong –
because, secretly, quietly, tantalizingly,
I am looking at the world,
and seeing everything:
the nature of life,
the order in the chaos;
and, as always,
what I see is constantly changing,
and the universe is always inspiring.

I sometimes forget where I am;
I sometimes lose all track of time;
I sometimes can be so enraptured
in the writing of a new poem,
that my heart-heat slows –
however I feel completely fine,
because I am in a maelstrom of fascination,
and I know that I could not stop writing
even if I wanted to,
because I am surfing like a pro
on a wave of inspiration.

Human consciousness, Human thought,
Human focus, Human art,
is our greatest gift
and our most wonderful achievement,
as a race and as a species:
we are thinkers, and believers of things;
in our own unique way, in my opinion,
no two people could ever think exactly the same –
even if they shared a link
that was telepathic, or empathic –
because we all live in different existences of degrees;
I do, however, believe that,
no matter how different we are from each other,
we are all bound together in infinite ways –
every action, every thought, every emotion,
creates it’s own interactive and universal tidal-wave.

Thinking as deeply and intensely as I do
is a wonderful gift to be able to unfurl
and wrap myself up in;
and, in turn, I do see some things
as questions that needs answers –
however, I would rather be who I am,
than someone who does not realize
the power that they have between their ears –
and that is why I am glad,
and that is why I am content,
to continue to be thought of as a writer,
and most importantly as a thinker.

IMG_20150318_105950-4

My Poem ‘Penumbra’

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

The moment that you see the sun
darkened and obscured in any way,
takes your breath away;
the instant that the daylight fades,
your heart truly begins to race;
as the moon passes in front the sun,
the world feels colder,
the time seems later,
and everyone stops what they are doing,
because something wonderful, magical,
and undoubtedly celestial,
is about to happen.

Watching an eclipse is a special event
that everybody in their life
should hope to be witness to –
even if it only happens once,
and even if you only see it once;
being there on a clear day,
when one minute the sun is shining brightly,
and the next it is shrouded in darkness,
is something that you never forget –
because it isn’t every day
that you get to see
the celestial bodies of the universe
show the perfect timing and synchronicity
of their orbital gravity dance.

Those of us who are Earth-bound
rarely get to be at the centre of,
or be in the path of,
something profound that captivates us and reminds us
that we are a part of something bigger
than we can see, feel, be amazed by,
but can’t touch –
however, we can be touched by them;
seeing the spectacular colours of a mesmerizing aurora;
watching a total-eclipse,
or a partial-eclipse, of the sun –
everybody, anybody, everywhere, anywhere,
on the day of an eclipse,
can be left stunned, ensorcelled,
mesmerized, and humbled,
while standing in the shadow of a penumbra.

My Poem ‘The Rhyme of the Constant Writer’

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

There once was a writer called Mark,
who, more than anyone,
loved a walk through a beautiful park;
he wrote all-day, everyday;
and when he wasn’t writing, he was thinking;
who could write an entire short story
about the memory of a beautiful Summer’s day,
or a sonnet with thirteen lines
that perfectly and succinctly
expresses exactly what he was feeling.
When he was not doing his job,
Mark would write poems –
even when, and especially when,
he was in a library,
or walking around a bookshop,
Mark would have so many thoughts
and ideas running through his mind,
he had to write them down anywhere he could,
as fast as he could,
before they left him again.
To this day, Mark still wonders and marvels
at how inspired he is,
almost every second of every day –
and where all the inspiration he uses comes from,
not even Mark truly knows.

Mark was a writer who had his favourite things
that sparked his creativity,
and like most writers, and like most people,
Mark had his own unique routines;
Mark just loved creating and writing
all kinds of stories, and even as a boy
Mark was imagining places
where he had not yet been.
It was a preoccupation for Mark
to look around and ask questions,
and to make connections;
being in his own world
was where Mark felt the most comfortable,
because he could make something amazing
and magical in his mind,
and be a true master of invention.

Mark was someone who went somewhere everyday
to chase the light and answer the call of inspiration;
every morning when he woke up,
Mark would look out of his bedroom window
and be so enthralled by what he saw –
everyday it was like waking up in another dimension.
Mark regularly sat down with his favourite
caramel-coated coffee,
and a slice of lemon cake,
and would spend hours writing poetry,
and feel like he was still dreaming
even when he was still wide awake.

Mark was a writer who loved being a writer,
but Mark was also someone who loved
watching films at the cinema;
Mark loved books, and must have read over a hundred;
Mark was someone who never had a moment
when his mind was not, in some form or another, in over-drive –
even as he was drifting off to sleep
in the dark in bed at night.

Mark listened, Mark heard;
Mark observed, Mark learned;
Mark was a peace-maker,
but Mark was also a fighter;
Mark was at his happiest,
and at his most inspired,
when he had a pen in his hand
hovering over his notebook,
and writing the rhyme of the constant writer.

My Poem ‘Those were the days’

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

The days as a child
that I spent daydreaming;
the days as a child
that I spent simply being;
the days as a child
that I spent reading, creating,
making, watching, listening, and learning,
were the best and the most care-free of my life;
and my memories and recollections
of the days when I was a boy, thinking back,
were truly inspiring, exciting;
and there are times now, as an adult,
when I look around and I think,
and I sometimes wish,
that I were still the boy that I was,
and still dreaming.
I am constantly writing down memories;
I am always drawing maps in my mind
to lead me back to where I have been;
I am continuously saving things;
I am frequently returning
to the places that I had to leave.
Things must change;
sometimes in life
you have to navigate and find your way
through something that feels like a maze;
even though most things that we do in life
happen and never leave any trace,
it is important to remember the important things –
like places and faces –
that make you say out-loud:
‘those were the days’!