consciousness

My Poem “Locutus”

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

Every collective and assembly
of individuals who seek to speak
with one voice when dealing with others
often elects one member of their society
to be the spokesperson for them
in matters of peace, diplomacy,
and the continued prosperity
of their shared consciousness,
while at the same time attempting
to announce, to advertise,
and to further their own interests
and to bolster the idea of the betterment
of those who are connected and interlinked
with every other person who makes up
the hive of knowledge, energy,
and the gift of adaptability
that their culture is built upon.

Figureheads, presidents, prime ministers,
kings, queens, ambassadors have been
sent on missions of state for centuries
in order to explore the prospect
and the possibility of assimilating
a new investment of riches in the form of
people, experience, and examples
of distinctive innovations
that surpass that which is already known,
and it is the act of seeking out
and trying to understand
what is presently a mystery
that has driven the course of the history
of all the empires and also the democracies
that have risen, those that have flourished,
and those that have survived
where others have fallen
because the victorious
chose to change some things
while continuing to stay true to their
underlying pursuit of a vision
and of a state of perfection for their nation.

Sometimes an individual’s voice
and their face can get lost in a crowd
of people who all have their own
personal perspective on what
the reason is for why things
should be the way that they are –
and when that happens
some people naturally seek out
a representative
to speak on their behalf,
and just as long as the person
who is naturally chosen
because they somehow embody
what needs to be conveyed
stays true to the message
and the ethics of who they are
supposed to be representing,
then unless their advancements
lead to conflict there should be no reason
why no one who is anyone
would not listen to a “Locutus” –
in other words, someone who is literally:
“the one who speaks”.

Resistance is not futile

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My Poem “Mobile Inspiration”

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

I find that I do some of my best
writing while I am mobile…
I find that I am my most inspired
while I am traveling,
while I am looking out of a window
at somewhere, at something,
that instantly steals my mind away…
I find great inspiration when I am
above the clouds traveling at
the speed of sound looking down at the ground
and wondering who I am looking down upon
and who is looking up towards me…
I find that my thoughts sometimes
go on their own journey to somewhere else entirely
that cannot be reached physically,
and I wonder if this is what heaven feels like –
when our consciousness and our spirit
has become separated from our bodies
and we are able to float freely anywhere
we want like a boat on the surface of a sea…
I find myself experiencing something supernatural,
something comforting, something mesmerizing,
something enlightening, something wonderful,
while I am autonomous, free, travelling, and mobile.

My Poem “Zeitgeist”

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

Times change… lives change…
Things change within the blink of an eye
when we’re not looking…
Seasons change… styles change…
opinions interchange…
the zeitgeist of the moment
changes it’s face with the snap of a finger…
The cream of the new crop rises to the top,
while the cherry of yesterday falls to bottom
and below the public consciousness…
The “In” can be “Out” from one week to the next…
One minute, everybody is talking
about this amazing new phenomenon –
and the next that same thing
can be considered out of date…
Time can be seen by some people
as both a gift and a predator…
You can do so much with time,
but sometimes time can feel like an ocean wave
that we are constantly trying to out-run…
Time goes by too fast, if you ask me…
Things change too much nowadays –
I’m not sure if anybody else agrees?
Maybe it’s my age? Maybe its because I’m sentimental?
Maybe my head is stuck in the past too much?
I’m not sure – but in this modern day and age
of the shortest attention-span known to man,
I think it is even more essential than ever
to be a detective of further knowledge
and see past the momentary flashes of the present
and embrace different periods and opinions
that were once considered the zeitgeist of their time.

My Poem ‘Standing Rock’

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

All ground is sacred ground…
the Earth beneath our feet
has its own identity…
the world that moves silently through space,
and its spirit, is so powerful and nurturing
that it creates its own gravity
and a near-perfect environment
for all life to thrive and live…
all that breath in the air of the planet
to which we are all bound and indebted
are expected to not only take away,
but to give back in return…
our home, this world, is the home
of countless species and forms of life –
each and every-one given from birth
the rite to exist and fulfill their destiny…
some people have learned to understand
and interpret the timeless language of nature,
and they also understand that not only
does the Earth have a spirit –
so too do the trees, the plants,
the animals, the mountains, the rivers,
the seas, the fish, the microscopic organisms
smaller than the human eye can see…
every thing with a consciousness,
with thoughts, with feelings, with emotions,
with instincts, with a reason to be,
has a reason to be alive…
even a single drop of rain adds to our planets worth…
we are all luckier than we know
to live on the planet that do…
long after all the stories of our lives
have faded to dust, the Earth will still have
a billion and more mornings and nights,
Winters and Summers, frosts and thaws,
and the world will live on –
and though humanity will have gone,
we will still be ingrained in the DNA
of our home-world, and our monuments will remain,
just as the beautiful natural-monuments of Earth
will continue to boggle the mind
of everyone who is lucky enough to see
our planet’s deepest reaches
and its breath-taking, towering,
and still-standing mountains,
and epic formations –
our most special and sacred
wonders of Earth and rock.

mypoem-standingrock

My Poem ‘The Writer Type’

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

I can always tell
another writer when I see them;
I can always tell poetry
whenever I read something
that someone has written;
I can always tell another poet
when I hear them speak
with so much passion,
energy, and depth of intuition
in their voice;
I can always tell
and I always know
when a writer has an idea
for something to write in some form,
because I have that feeling
multiple times a day –
and when you feel that need to write rise,
as a writer, you just know in yourself
that what is on your mind
needs to flow unabated
as a matter of necessity and destiny,
and not always as a matter of choice.

I have a sixth sense for creative people;
I have an instinct for the inspired;
I have been a member of the church of poetry
for years now, and I am its life-long disciple;
I have the greatest adoration for people
who can change the world with the power of words,
and to whom their love of language
is one of the greatest of all their desires.

I could sit with my notebook
at a table in Starbucks,
I could lay on my bed looking out the window,
I could sit on a bench in the park,
I could sit under the moonlight in the dark,
and be absolutely captivated and lost
in thought by the most incredible
and the most inspiring creation of my imagination –
as I try to interpret, convey, and convert
my thoughts into words
that perfectly capture
the constellations of my universe
into understandable verse.

When I write, it is a stream of consciousness;
when I daydream, there is never
any limit to what I can imagine;
when the rhythm of my soul takes me
and I give birth to a newborn of my own poetry,
I love the experience so much;
when the artistic animal
catches me its sights and its embrace,
there is nowhere to run…
which to me is my kind of fun!

I can always tell someone
who has seen the artistic light;
I can always understand
when someone says out-loud
that they do not know
why they are doing what they are doing –
however, in more ways than they can describe,
they just know that what they are doing
just feels right;
I can always follow the thoughts
and the emotions of someone,
and I love sharing my own
as I too spread my poetic wings and take flight;
I can always tell ‘the writer type’.

My Poem ‘Random’

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

The randomness of the world
is a wonderful thing to see;
the diversity of people’s choices
is fascinating to witness;
for a keen observer like me,
seeing the combination of colours,
shapes, styles, and individual obsessions,
is, in and of itself, a work of poetry.
Seeing the similarities that people share,
and how they knowingly and not so accidentally
emulate each other, is to me
like receiving an infinite number of presents
at Christmas.
Despite the randomness, however –
there is undoubtedly an underlying order and reason;
a chaotic and random universe, to me, is a myth;
there have been too many coincidences
that have been revealed to be fateful
and pivotal decisive choices
which have changed entire lives
for me to ever stop believing
that there is a system, a structure,
a network, a complex modus operandi at work
that governs the entire universe –
and to grasp such a phenomenal concept
you only need to think about and observe
the moon orbiting around the Earth,
or the Earth orbiting around the sun.

There is no such thing as an accident;
everything is happening in relation to each other;
memories and emotions play their part in our decisions –
but most of the time we do need to keep
the intensity of our feelings more or less undercover;
and deeper down in the undercurrent
of the universal consciousness,
there are things occurring
that will invisibly but quietly noticeably
affect everyone, as there is the rise to prominence
of new creations of wonder.

In the moment is like a laboratory;
inside the genetic structure of a person
there lies a charm of causality
and a pattern of evolution
and adaptability called DNA;
even in a drop of rain from the sky
there is evidence of a cycle of life
that is far from random.

My Poem ‘Let me go, and I will run’

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

It’s fun to let your thoughts drift away from you;
it’s good to let your thoughts run away from you;
it’s exciting to experience your thoughts changing;
it’s incredible to have an idea
that spontaneously pops into your head,
as if from out of nowhere,
which just takes over every other thought of your mind
and function of your body –
and which also becomes all that you can talk about,
and to you it is all that is worth saying.

I have a brand new idea for something,
usually for the title of a new poem,
every hour of every day;
however, of the sixty ideas that I have,
by the end of every hour, they have become one idea,
and by the end of every day –
usually just before I fall asleep –
the first words of a perfect thought,
and the first verse of poetry of my own imagining,
has been ingrained in my consciousness,
and is just waiting to be written,
in my own unique way.

Ideas are important;
every idea that I have ever had
has set my imagination on fire;
ideas are building blocks, as well as foundations;
of all the ideas that I have had,
deciding one day to write down
what was on my mind at the time
was the one muse that is still a constant;
ideas are the offspring of desire;
every idea I have had has enlightened me in some way;
and following the path of an idea,
and taking the journey of the eternal dreamer,
is my way of reaching a higher state of consciousness,
and in a way it is my own form of meditation.

Ever since I was a kid,
I have been used to exerting my body
and using every physical muscle at my disposal
to achieve feats of strength and speed;
as a child, as an adult,
I was off like a shot,
running my heart out to somewhere I needed to get to,
and perhaps to someone in need;
ever since writing has become my passion, my devotion,
my love, and one of the defining parts of my heart, my soul,
my identity, there has not been a day that has gone by
when the question ‘what am I going to write about next?’
has not been uttered by me –
and even now I am asking that question, and answering it also,
and to me there is no more perfect
and beautiful form of writing than poetry.

When I can be myself;
when I am not constrained by glass, brick, wood, metal,
windows, doors, walls, and locks;
when I can step out into the daylight
and feel the beating warmth of the sun;
when I am unaware of time, and I can move with stealth;
when I am thinking wholly, completely,
and tantalizingly, out of the box;
when I can cut the strings and the ties
of anything that might be holding me, my mind,
my imagination, back in any way –
I promise you, world: let me go, and I will run.