adventure

My Poem ‘The White House’

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

In the white house where I grew up,
in the only home that I ever known,
in the place where I wrote every poem
of my first poetry book,
in the sanctuary where I have always
felt love all around me,
and have never felt as if I were on my own,
within the walls of my childhood make-believe castle,
within the rooms of the heart of our family,
within the memories captured in every family photo,
within every thing that I can still see,
I can feel anchors of time
that will always be tied to me.

In the garden where I used to play as a boy,
in the green oasis where I spent an entire summer
reading the ‘Dark Tower’ series of books by Stephen King,
in the protected and safe paradise
where my sister Clare and I used to cut the green grass,
swing on the white swing that our Dad made for us,
and where we used to pick green and red apples
straight from the branches of our apple tree,
in the hallowed ground where we used to play
outside with our toys,
in the wonderful world that was our back garden,
where I vividly remember running, smiling, and laughing,
in the open air where I remember feeling the most free.

In the house that is a part of me and my family
as we are of it,
I cannot imagine living anywhere else;
whenever I ran out of my house’s back door,
I had no idea what adventure I might be embarking on:
an expedition to a far-away land,
an underwater diving adventure,
a Formula One race while driving my Go-cart,
or an out of this world voyage
to the final frontier of space
where I might see the imagined lives
of civilizations on other planets –
and I can say with my hand on my heart,
that my childhood home was one of the most
beneficial of things that gave me
true, happy, and great health.

My room in my house
was that smallest bedroom of the three,
but the magic box room that was my bedroom
is like the core of a star,
and is where I still keep the building blocks
of what makes me Me;
my home is a reminder of the past,
of my childhood, of what is important
in the here and in the now;
my home will always be my home,
but it will also always be
more than I could ever put into words –
because on the inside
my home is a palace of many treasures,
but if you were to look at it from the outside
all that you would see would be
a simple painted white house.

My Poem ‘The Wonder City’

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

I don’t know if anyone
could ever say enough or all
about New York City,
“The Wonder City”,
in every respect –
to me, it is a perfect place:
a place of inspiration,
beauty, and infinite opportunity;
a place for anybody and everybody;
a place that I have not seen for a long time,
but a place I still dream about and think about,
which is constantly calling to me.

I knew New York City was important to me
the moment that I saw it,
I knew I loved New York City
from the moment I saw the skyscrapers of its skyline
through the window of the taxi;
I knew I would not be the same person
after having lived, breathed,
and become a part of New York City;
I knew I did not want to leave,
and I wanted to return as possible,
when a tear fell down my cheeks
at the thought of all the incredible memories I made
in the place that no matter what time of the day it was
was always brightly lit.

The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building,
the Rockefeller Center, Central Park,
the New York Subway, Fifth Avenue, Sixth Avenue –
everything I saw, everybody I met,
was beyond my imagining, and instantly I knew
that New York City was the one place on Earth
where I would feel at home living;
it is hard to describe and explain
why New York City means so much to me –
every second I was there I never took for granted,
every step I walked had deep and intense meaning,
every time I felt my heart beat hard at what I saw
made me feel so happy,
every day felt like a year;
and after walking up, I loved doing my ritual of
getting a take out coffee from Starbucks,
taking a walk around and through Central Park,
returning to my hotel room with a breakfast bagel,
and then leaving my hotel again
and going off on a new adventure
in my favourite city.

At night, when I was in my hotel room,
near Central Park, and I sat at my desk near my bed,
I dreamed, I wrote, I remembered,
I ingrained every moment of the previous day
into my DNA forever;
while walking the New York City streets in the moonlight,
I knew that I was where I was always supposed to be;
while sitting in the shadow of a statue of Christopher Columbus,
on a bench at Columbus Circle, in New York City,
I knew and I felt an incredible and energizing feeling
that felt like I was in my own version of heaven,
and a perfect paradise for anyone artistic,
creative, especially a writer.
Every minute that I was in New York City,
I knew and I understood why the best city on Earth
was also the worlds most spectacular city,
and why it was known as “The Wonder City”.

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My Poem ‘The Traveler’

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

Rising with the sun
to feel the cold morning air;
opening wide
to see the clear brand new day;
traveling like a bullet
on a train without a care,
I want to go everywhere and see everything,
and nothing can stop me or get in my way.

I have always been a traveler;
I have always been on the move;
I have always loved traveling far –
overground, underground,
or almost touching the atmosphere;
I have always rode the roller coaster of youth.

The unknown has never scared me;
outer-space has always been a draw;
where I have never been before
is where I have written my most meaningful poetry;
seeing as much of our beautiful Earth as I can
and being inspired by life is my call.

Every day is a new day;
every life is beautiful in its own way;
every time I embark on a new adventure,
I want all my senses to rocket away;
every moment that eclipses everything from before
are the moments that matter the most,
and it is within those moments that you always want to stay.

Traveling is in my blood;
pilgrimages are a daily ritual that I always entertain and enjoy;
seeing something new, and wanting to go that one step beyond,
is something I would do for a living, if I could;
methods of transportation take me to places
where my dreams can become reality.
Like a man transitioning from a boy,
and an airplane flight growing out of a life-long fascination
with flying toys.

Giving someone, especially a child,
a compass, a path, a hunger, an enthusiasm,
to get out there and to see what is out there,
is something that they will never forget,
and will always compel and never deter.
There is always a reason to be a risk taker, an adventurer –
because everyone can be a traveler.

My Poem ‘Poet’s Corner’

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

I am sitting here writing;
I am sitting here musing about the world;
I am sitting here enjoying a coffee-
the voices of people,
and the sounds of everyday life;
I am sitting here alone at my table;
and on the table next to me
a fellow poet is meeting up
and having a conversation
about how they just wrote a new poem,
about how beautiful the new day’s morning is,
and about things that they have seen
which they find exciting, inspiring, amazing,
and they sound just like I do in my head,
and I cannot stop smiling.

The poet sounds like they are from South Africa,
by their accent;
the poet is talking to their friend,
and they sound and they talk with so much
clarity and passion.

The poet is wearing a poppy;
the poet is not eating or drinking anything;
the poet is definitely someone after my own heart,
and obviously, to them, living, breathing,
writing, communicating, is not just a hobby;
the poet and his friend, it turns out,
have never met before,
and have only communicated over the internet,
until this moment;
the poet is describing a “great adventure”
that he has undertaken, and is still on,
and they are obviously, genuinely,
happy about the joys in their life,
and what they have gives them,
and what having a connection with people brings.

It is truly unbelievable what happens in life.
It is no accident who you may sit down next to.
It has been my experience that artists, writers,
poets, and people of deep thought passion,
and imagination, are drawn to each other
by a mutual drive;
it is the way of the universe
that people are who they are,
and the way that they are,
and there is an important reason
that people do what they do.

I watched in silence as the poet and his friend
exchanged gifts and spoke about what their presents
and their presence means to them;
I was hypnotized by their conversation,
by their story, and by everything they said;
I was enthralled, but I was sad –
because I knew that I would probably
never see or hear these amazing friend again,
but I too was thankful to them both
for coming into my life,
even if it were only for a sparing,
precious, and short time,
and the whole time that I was in their presence
I was unbelievably energized and phenomenally inspired.

There are too many coincidences and commonalities
for life to be just a string or a chain of accidental encounters,
there are too many things that matter to too many at once
for them to be unconnected,
even if they are the separate lives and stories of strangers.
There are so many places on this Earth
which attract people who share a brilliant,
beautiful, open, heart of a storyteller;
there are places like this place
that I am sitting in right now
that have a meaning and a power to them –
which I like to describe, and which I believe,
are amazing poet’s corners.

My Poem ‘Elements’

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

Out in the elements,
wrapped up in a big coat
to keep out the cold of the wind;
outside, walking, experiencing a wave of deja vu,
as if doing something that you once dreamed;
the leaves fall all around you;
birds fly from tree to tree;
people off on an adventure race past you
in cars and on bikes;
as you make the most of every moment of freedom
that are so precious,
but you don’t realize how much
until they fade away,
as the light of the day begins to dim.

You can only, truly, speak with clarity
when describing, sharing, and reliving,
an experience that either just happened,
or when recalling the details and the emotions
of a memory that have become the paradise of your life and mind;
you can make things up as you go along,
but there is nothing better than to draw
from that which you already know,
from which you could never be blind.

Earth did not just flash into being in an instant;
the world did not become what it is over night;
even nature was once young and innocent, like an infant;
the beauty of the universe was something that was there
at the moment of creation, but it could not be seen,
felt, perceived, reflected upon,
until the rise, the evolution,
and the question of origins was asked,
by the first of infinite forms of intelligent life.

The smell of a newborn baby;
the aroma of a beautiful flower coming into bloom;
watching someone float in space free of gravity;
seeing the light of the sun at dawn;
glimpsing the light of a full-moon
through the window of a room;
the heart-pounding rush of jumping off a cliff
and flying instead of falling;
thinking about every new horizon and possibility
as an adventure, as well as a calling.

A gift, a present;
a lift; a season of significance;
an important time; a beautiful moment;
a peace of you never to be left behind;
a confluence of life, fate, destiny, karma,
thought, emotion, and reality,
and its connected and miraculous elements.