My Poem ‘In Need’

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

What should I write about?
What can I say?
Something that I feel?
Something that I have felt?
Something that I see?
Something that I have seen?
Something that I remember from my childhood?
Or, perhaps, something that is going on around me,
right now, today?

From where I am sitting,
I can see superheroes rising into the sky
and then falling to Earth –
well, they are in fact students
who have dressed themselves up as superheroes
for charity, and who are safely zip-wiring
in front of an audience of people, to be exact;
and even though they might not be “real” superheroes,
for what they are doing, and for the cause of Children in Need,
they are still heroes to me.

It has always fascinated me
what people will choose to do
to do something for someone else, for a good reason;
I would like to think that I too would do nearly anything
to help anybody in need –
no matter if it meant I had to leave my comfort-zone;
however, I would definitely have to think hard
about doing something extreme:
like sitting in a bathtub, almost naked,
in water that was the temperature of freezing.

People in need of something
don’t often ask for anything;
people in need sometimes don’t know
that they are in need,
because they see themselves
as living the only life in the only way that they know;
people in need are most of the time
people who already know that to them
they have everything;
people in need, who are not in need,
who make the best of what they have, and where they are,
don’t ever need to ask what they must do,
nor in what direction they must go.

Those of us who are lucky to live the life we live
are surrounded by an abundance of more than we realize;
those of us who have never truly gone without anything
are richer in ways beyond even our own dreams could supersede;
sometimes we see another person’s life,
and the way that they keep going without question,
and it really opens our eyes;
sometimes it is the responsibility of those with so much
to give whatever they can to those who don’t even know
that they are in need.

My Poem ‘Not just for the Summer’

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

Some songs are made and played
to catch peoples attention for a season;
some people we grow close to
enough to call them a friend;
some things are just fads that we have to have,
and be a part of for no good reason;
some relationships, short or long,
simply can never end.

If something means, or has meant something,
anything, to you, you can never forget it;
if a person touched you in some way,
then their feeling, and the way they made you feel,
will always remain;
if something can be remembered forever,
it can be done so with the mind and the pen of a poet;
if someone knows you, and if you truly know and love someone,
you should never feel alone when standing in the rain.

When you go back to a place,
if you are like me, you can also go back to another life,
another time;
when you are standing outside in the dark,
and the stars above make you think you are in outer-space,
if you are like me, you can relive and remember
even the tiniest of details
and be completely intoxicated by them again –
as if they were a bottle of wine.

We can sometimes make ourselves believe
that we have lost everything,
because our perception of the world
and of our circumstances appears to have been painted in that way;
however, the next day, in a new light,
everything is actually all right, and okay.
We can sometimes say goodbye to someone
and think that that friendship and connection
has been broken and is over;
however, in my experience, nothing,
especially a goodbye is ever forever,
and a bright, beautiful, inspiring,
phenomenal light, that rivals even that of the sun,
is not just for the Summer.

My Poem ‘Open’

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

Opening a book;
opening the curtains;
opening up;
opening and letting your heart sing
like a musician;
opening your arms;
opening your hands;
opening your eyes;
opening and widening your perspective,
so that you can understand;
opening your mouth;
opening an umbrella;
opening a message, and letting something out;
opening a door that leads to a hidden cellar;
opening the clouds
to let the light through with a thought;
opening a window to air-out a dusty room;
opening a net to see what’s been caught;
opening the story of a life
with the image and the powerful experience of a full-moon;
opening your mind;
opening and clearing your lungs on the resting waves of an ocean;
opening wide;
opening like the petals of a flower,
and staying open.

My Poem ‘Skyscraper’

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

Even when I am low,
I am always looking up;
even on my worst day,
you can always find me sitting,
standing, walking, dreaming,
somewhere with hope in my heart,
a pen, and my notebook;
even behind dark clouds, I can see the sun;
even when my head is full of confusion,
I can still smile-
because I know that in my life I have The One.

The poet, the infinite,
the chameleon of caring and compassion;
the one I have been dreaming of,
even when I was a kid
and I was picturing the most beautiful person
there could ever be in my vivid imagination.

People like me are few and far between;
people who think and care as much as I do
hide for the most part in plain sight;
people like me are rarer now than they used to be;
people like me are capable of creating and emitting
an internal fire and light.

Children are constantly looking up at everything,
and everything to them is bigger, taller,
as high as the clouds in the sky;
to a child everything has depth and meaning to it-
a child is constantly asking the best
and the most important question there is- all day, every day:
why?

I guess that I have not yet fully grown up,
because I am still asking questions and searching for answers
even when I already know what I am going to find-
I personally hope I never grow up to be someone
who is just one shade of colour, and of one mind.

I walk through and I see beauty more times in one day
than I could ever remember, or say;
I see the potential of people who may be finding it hard
to pick a direction and find their way;
I embrace rituals, music, talent, intense love, passion,
and calls from people who are just like me,
and who advertise themselves to those who see them
for who they are, as if they were a walking and talking
advertisement in a newspaper;
I see magic; I see more;
I want to receive more;
I want to give more;
I want others to know
that so much about life is undeniably epic;
I want people to know that they can see
and experience heaven on Earth,
and to do that they only need to see, meet,
and know a beautiful and inspirational person,
or to have looked at the world, far, above, below,
from one of the world’s tallest skyscrapers.

My Poem ‘Being a writer’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , ,

Being a writer
is not something that you choose to be –
you are a writer
from the minute that you wake up in the morning;
you are a writer
when you are sitting down having a coffee;
you are a writer when you are working,
when you are drinking;
when everyone around you is a stranger,
and is living an amazing life,
but they have no idea.

I am a writer,
because to me writing, especially poetry,
is my paradise;
I am a writer
for the same reason a honeybee is a honeybee;
I am a writer,
because when I look at the world,
and I see all that I do,
I need to capture the infinite universe
that fills my eyes.

Being a writer
is like being a god of your own unique world;
being a writer
is something that anyone can be –
man, or woman; boy, or girl;
being a writer
is something that comes natural to some,
but for others they require practice;
being a writer
is having the gift to be able
to tell the world about yourself
in under a minute,
and to be able to leap to a whole other world,
and to not even have to use your feet.

Being a writer is a great adventure;
being a writer can set you apart;
being a writer –
using a pen and paper, a computer,
or a typewriter, is setting your spirit afire,
and sharing your passion and desire;
being a writer is something you always are,
because being a writer is in your heart.

My Poem ‘Gunpowder’

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

There is a full-moon shining;
there are a million stars above my head twinkling;
there is the unmistakable smell of distant fires;
there is another indistinguishable aroma,
taste, sensation, in the air,
that invigorates me-
races the blood in my veins,
enlarges my heart, expands my lungs-
and that is what everyone, everywhere,
on this night, here,
which was to be Guy Fawkes’ modus operandi
a long time ago, on a similar night,
on the fifth of November:
the powder that helps propel a bullet,
that which is contained and which explodes
within a firework-
the one and only, gunpowder.

The black sky is coloured with every colour;
flashes and bangs, light and sound,
enthrall, surprise, awe-inspire, constantly
with little-to-no pause, in rapid-frequency.
Adults look up, children grin with excitement-
everyone wants to be outside, even in the cold,
so that they can feel the rush of being awestruck,
and so that they can remember, experience,
and know what is important.

A brilliant expression of celebration;
a phenomenal invention that has changed the world,
more than anything anyone may be able to mention;
a visceral spectacle that you can see and hear
that does not come much louder-
the explosive mixture at the other end of a fuse
that sends rockets into the sky,
and hearts and imaginations souring into the great unknown;
a magical dust that should always be handled with care;
that is in the air at this time of the year,
before, and beyond, the time of the midnight hour-
the defining chemistry, and DNA of a firework:
gunpowder.

IMG_20141105_084428~2

Remember remember the 5th of November

My Poem ‘Modern Muse’

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

The modern muse of music,
poetry, art, life-
the light that guides
and shines so bright,
the love that stays with us
that we obsess over,
the fragrance that tantalizes us
that comes from everything, everywhere,
that can be seen atop the beautiful mountains of Snowdonia
and felt on the wind at the White Cliffs of Dover.

The modern muse that we capture instantly every day
with the cameras of our mobile phones,
the real relationships that we have and cherish
that could never be cloned;
the things that matter to us the most,
because they make us feel on top of the world;
the house of cards that we constantly want to rebuild;
the changing tone that accentuates the seasons,
the way to exorcise your inner-demons;
a way to live in beautiful harmony;
a maze of discovery;
an angel that looks differently
than would be expected;
a song that explains everything your mind and heart
have longed to have been depicted.

A final word, a final sentence;
the voice of a songbird;
a perennial flower and symbol of our precious existence;
a sky that is all blue that reminds me of you;
a path of clues; a spark of beauty;
a here, now, forever,
modern muse.

My Poem ‘The Psychology of Silence’

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

Silence speaks louder than sound;
silence is where true discovery is made;
silence is where truth is found;
silence is full of infinite space;
silence is where you can hear a heart beating,
or a heart breaking;
silence is a no mans land where no one can hide;
silence is waiting; silence is a tide.

There is no sound in space;
there is no sound in a vacuum;
silence has no face;
silence can hurt you.

Words on a page rise silently;
words written in ink have depth deeper
than the paper they are written on;
words are not the only poetry;
words are a way of transition.

If you can convey an intention, a feeling,
an emotion, a meaning, without making a sound,
or without the aid of anything
other than that of you and yourself,
you truly understand and are on the same wavelength
as that of nature;
if you can say something with an action
rather than with an empty sentiment,
then not only can you be a powerful presence
on the present, but also, more importantly,
a talisman for the future.

The planets of our solar system
orbit around the sun unheard;
if you were listening from high above
you wouldn’t be able to hear anything,
but you would know that humanity was there
by the tiny lights that we all make
from our place on the surface of the Earth;
everything, everyone, has a silent story
that speaks for itself, and themselves;
epic people and fantastic worlds
can be spoken to and journeyed to
within the pages of every book on every bookshelf.

A therapist uses silence as an essential tool
to open a person’s mind;
a fisherman uses silence and patience
in unison with their bait to catch their fish;
an artist uses silence along with the paint on their canvas,
and if need be could make great art blind;
anyone can decipher anything with knowledge and common-sense;
everything is there to be something
to something, or someone, else-
that is what I found and interpreted
when I analyzed what struck me
about the psychology of silence.

My Poem ‘Ghost on my bed’

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

When I was a child,
around the age of eight or nine,
I was sleeping in bed,
when I suddenly woke up in the dark-
I’m not sure what time it was,
but it was definitely after midnight-
and the lasting memory
that has stayed with me every day since
is that of me turning over in my bed
to look down at the light
coming from underneath my bedroom door,
and even though it was seemingly warm in my bed,
the air around me had gone incredibly cold-
as if I were sleeping in a bedroom
that was also a fridge;
and I also remember, from out of nowhere,
the feeling that I was being watched,
and that I was not alone.

I must have been lying there
for what must have been only a few seconds,
when I turned my head to look away from the light
towards the dark of my bedroom wall,
when I suddenly felt the mattress I was sleeping on
sink, as if someone was sitting on my bed besides me,
and I could feel their weight,
and their touch on the back of my neck.
It was definitely not the wind,
it was definitely not my imagination;
it was definitely someone, or something;
it was definitely a presence, a spirit,
a phantom, an apparition,
that felt real and was real-
it was a life that was still living in some form,
who had come to pay me a visit.

I did not make a sound;
I did not cry;
I did not look around;
I did feel frightened and unsettled, I am not going to lie;
I just lay there; I just listened;
I just closed my eyes and wondered whether
when I woke up in the morning
whomever was now sitting on my bed would still be there;
I just remember drifting away,
until I saw the light of my dreams glisten.

I woke up in the morning,
still with the memory of the night before
alive and burning in my mind.
I opened the curtains to let the new day’s sunlight in,
and I looked around, and I sighed.
To this day, I do not know what, or who,
came to me on that night a long time ago;
I do not know if they were once alive and they knew me,
or someone I know who is not yet dead;
I do not know who was there in the gloom of my room,
but I do know that one night when I was a boy
there was a ghost who sat on my bed.

My Poem ‘Huckleberry Friends’

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

You don’t often meet someone
and instantly jive with them;
you have to be very lucky
to find someone and make a friend for life;
you sometimes find a new direction
even when you are not looking for a new connection;
when it hits you that you have found the best of everyone,
you feel like you have been surrounded by new light.

It can be hard to know who to trust,
it can be a big ask to open your heart-
but when you feel that whatever you say
when you open your mouth will never be enough,
and, like time, can sometimes feel unfathomable and rushed;
when a special person walks into your life,
you immediately love them from the start.

I smile, I write, I laugh, I feel inspired,
I feel alive, with my best friend for life
I have shared the best and the most beautiful,
heart-racing, perfect moments of my life.
I will be there for the one who saves me every day,
and any and every hour of any day,
my best friend will enrich my heart and soul,
and send my mind- fueled by the thought
and the memory of them-
rocketing into the sky.

The best thing that has ever happened to me
is to have met the beautiful and wonderful best mate of mine
who calls me their “huckleberry friend”,
because without them, without you,
I would be lost and forgotten,
uninspired and unloved,
and they will, you will,
forever be the most important to me-
and as I am to you,
you will always be to me
my huckleberry friend.