day

My Poem ‘Three Little Words’

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

When you are looking for a way to say something;
when for some reason, at the most important moment,
words fail you;
when you can say whatever you want,
and you have a lot to say,
but because all the ideas in your head
all seem to come at once,
you can sometimes end up saying nothing;
when it is a day when words and actions
mean more than they usually do,
and you have to make every moment and every word
count and be felt with more depth of feeling;
when on Valentines day you want to write an entire essay
and poem about how much someone means to you,
there are three little words that alone say everything: I love you.

There is a remarkable, noticeable,
and wonderful, look in the eye;
there is a warmth that rises;
there is an indescribable tingle
that you feel all over your body;
there is a flashback that happens
that takes you back to the very first time
that you heard those magic words, one after the other;
there is a slowing down of time;
there is a pull that you feel that grabs you like a rip-tide;
there is a reliving of a memory;
there is a feeling of happiness,
and overwhelming belonging, and love,
that is unlike no other.

Every time I have ever said something meaningful
and heartfelt to someone who means something to me
so profoundly that I have to tell them,
and show them, in some way;
every time I write a poem for someone,
I am giving a part of my heart away;
every time my heart grows in size, my heart races,
my imagination explodes, my feelings eclipse my thoughts,
and I am in my ideal state of mind,
in my beautiful, optimistic, and hopeful, love-filled world;
I think about someone who is unbelievably important to me,
who I love to death, who I love more than words can say,
and I close my eyes, I picture that special person in my mind,
and I say my favourite three little words…

My Poem ‘Aubergine’

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

Who can predict what a new day will be about
when they wake up in the morning;
who can tell what the moments of a life
may some day come to mean;
who can truly know why songwriters write the songs that they do,
and infuse such emotion and intensity in the words that they sing;
who can understand the ‘codeword’
shared between a small group of people,
if they don’t know what it means,
especially if you are unaware of the history
and the shared etymology that radiates from a word or a phrase –
especially when the codeword in question
happens to be “aubergine”.

It’s fun to share exclusive relationships with people;
it’s amazing to have secret ciphers in your mind
that you can use to decode an encrypted message at a moments notice;
it’s great to have the vision to see the seemingly invisible,
as if you have got a magic eye;
it’s inspiring talking and meeting someone when all things feel equal;
it’s a sacred moment when you see
the beautiful pink and white petals of a lotus;
it’s wonderful making a new tie.

People speak, even when their lips are tight and their voice is silent.
Sometimes a picture says it all.
Words and memories mean more to some people than others,
because to a lot of people things are said but they are not meant.
Nothing can hold back a flood – of water, of emotion –
and over time levels of things rise and fall;
however, there comes a point when things overflow
and nothing on Earth can hold back anything again,
not even the best built wall.

If you believe that there is nothing to do,
if you think that you have seen it all,
if you just keep repeating what you have heard,
you need to find a way to take off the shades that you are wearing
that are blurring and distorting your vision of your surroundings,
and look somewhere and go somewhere where you have been countless times –
however, if you look without any expectation,
and if you try to clear your mind of your collected emotional shadows,
you may see something that you have never seen.

Even a grain of sand has its own story;
every dream that everyone has is a truth-based alternate-reality fantasy;
even a meal could not come into being
if where the ingredients of it originated hadn’t at some point
once been a seed, or someone’s idea of a dream;
everything is the favourite of someone;
everybody everyday ventures out onto the sea of life,
like a surfer holding, relying, using, keeping afloat, and swimming,
farther and farther out on the water
towards the direction of the approaching and oncoming waves;
and as they see something about to hit them at full-speed
everyone says something to themselves,
or to anyone who may be listening,
and it could be anything:
my word of the day, that will help and assist me
in riding the waves that face me today,
is a word that you don’t see or hear everyday –
my word of the day is the tasty-sounding, nutritious,
and deeply meaningful muse, that has the codeword “aubergine”.

My Poem ‘The Genie’

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

Real life genie’s present themselves
and pop up unexpectedly in our lives all the time,
and sometimes they appear before they are summoned;
genie’s of all shapes, colours, and sizes,
rise before our very eyes and make themselves known
to be a guide, to be an angel who has blessings to bestow,
and as a friend who has the power
to make more than wishes come true;
there are genie’s who can open up whole brand new worlds,
and who can give a light to live by
brighter than that of the sun.

I used to be a genie.
I used to be the one everyone came to,
and asked to be granted their heart’s desire;
the gift to be able to give someone anything,
the power to be able to send anyone anywhere,
the touch and the omnipotent will to make any thought a reality,
was what was always there in the palm of my hands –
but after a lifetime, which felt like an infinity
of only being called upon when someone wanted something,
and used as a means to an end, I grew tired of the rub
of the life that was all that I knew,
and I left my lamp behind, and I chose to retire.

I still hear people looking for me,
and sometimes calling out for me –
but that has not happened in a while,
and it is usually when they have no one else to turn to,
or if they want a quick fix to their problems,
and want someone or something to do what they can’t.
I admit that I do still use my influence,
and my wisdom and knowledge to help others from time to time,
and I do grant a wish or two occasionally
when I am in the mood, and I can genuinely see and feel
someone is desperate for something that they really want.

I am one of thousands of genie’s, and ex-genie’s,
who live to just do good and use their gifts
to better someone’s life,
but most of us are invisible upon first look,
and live a day to day life and job, like me.
The secret to attaining what you want
and what you wish all of the day for,
is to first look and see if you already have
what you think you don’t have around you, inside you;
and the trick is to ask yourself first for what you want,
before you go looking for, rubbing the lamp of,
and asking to be granted wishes,
by the powers of a genie.

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My Poem ‘Your Day’

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

Everyone, from every walk of life,
everywhere, knows and is familiar
with that feeling of relief
that overcomes us all
the minute that we finish a long day at work,
and we arrive home sweet home,
and we sit down and rest,
and put the events of the day we have had behind us –
especially if we have had a day
that felt as endless as the universe;
everyone, anyone, everybody, anybody,
who has a job or an occupation
that sometimes feels like a treadmill,
knows the full meaning of the old saying
“the only way forward is through”,
and it is amazing how good you feel
after a hard day at work –
it is unbelievable how much energy you have
when you walk through your front-door at home,
because that sensation lifts in no time at all,
and you may even resemble, as you sit in your chair,
the sight of a balloon that has recently burst.

Just like a car running on fumes,
as it finally reaches
and rolls onto the forecourt of a fuel station,
every working man and woman
also needs to refuel and build up their energy levels,
and take a break from what they need to do,
and relax while doing what they love to do,
and cool the temperature of their spirit –
like newly-forged white-hot metal.

Some people relax in front of their TV,
while watching their favourite television show;
some people lay back, put their feet up,
and listen to the latest songs
that are playing on the radio;
some people jump straight into the bath,
or into the shower, and wash away their day,
and let all their work-related stresses drift away;
some people put on their headphones,
and sit in their bedroom, on their bed,
listening to their mp3 player,
as they listen to their favourite artists
telling them what they need to hear –
because they know all the right things to say;
some people read a book;
some people write;
some people reach out for someone for a hug;
some people get changed from their work clothes,
eat, drink, turn off their phones,
and settle down for a quiet night.

Everyone’s day is their own;
everyone feels more like themselves when they are at home;
everyone has thoughts and feelings that are hard to convey;
everyone who has someone, or something, to come home to –
even if that is a mirrored reflection of themselves
that they can see into –
is lucky to have someone, or something,
that they can reply to,
when they are asked the question:
how was your day?

My Poem ‘The Shortest Day’

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

Today is the shortest day;
tonight will be the longest night;
sunrise and sunset will happen
within no time at all of each other,
as if the entire day will begin and end
within the blink of an eye.

The time to do things and to grasp the moments
are more precious today
than they ordinarily are on a normal day;
the Winter Solstice is here –
it is not even midday,
but I can already see the fading of the day’s light.

As soon as I woke up this morning,
I had this immediate feeling that there was something
in the cold early-morning air;
as soon as I started to think cogently
my mind was instantly clear,
and as I watched the sky brighten outside my window
I could do nothing but look up
and marvel at the white clouds that met my stare.

Christmas is but a few days away;
people all over the world
are doing their last pieces of Christmas shopping;
there is an anticipation to be felt all around
that something is on its way;
everybody is filled with hopes and dreams, and genuine joy,
and there is also whispers and wishes
that perhaps soon it may even start snowing.

The air is cold;
the streets are busy;
Christmas songs are playing all around me
and filling me, the atmosphere, and everybody,
with happiness, who are sitting with me here in this cafe;
there are seasons and emotions greeting and changing
and being felt all around the world;
there is energy on the verge of being set free;
there is more than meets the eye occurring today
on the shortest day.

My Poem ‘Five’

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

Some people work all through the night;
some people have to get up before the sun rises,
and work all day;
some people have to wear a specific uniform,
or a particular kind of attire-
like a shirt and tie;
some people have to fight through busy traffic
in a car, on a bus, on a bike, on foot,
that is the same every day in every way.

There are more jobs in this world
than most people know about;
there are more ways to pay your way in life
than can be imagined;
there are jobs that can keep someone dry
and warm on a rainy day;
there are some jobs that on a sunny day
you can take great pleasure,
just because you are able to be out and about;
there are jobs that you have to travel to and from by train;
there are jobs that when you try to describe them
they are hard to convey.

People have lots that they have to work with;
people have lots of coworkers who they have to work alongside;
people have jobs that they sometimes find hard to live with;
people have jobs that they know they will be doing
until the day they die.

You are truly blessed in your life
if you can do and enjoy a job that you do,
which you love doing;
I envy those people who can be
who they want to be all of the time-
to have the chance to live their dream,
some people would do anything.

The perfect job and profession,
to me, is one that does not pay the most,
and is not all about how it is valued
by the amount of zeroes that follow
the pound, or the dollar, sign.

Finding a job and having a job that you like doing
and care about is a rare thing to have indeed;
when you have not had a job and you want a job,
any job, you will do all that you need;
some jobs that people do constantly reinvigorate them,
make them feel a sense of achievement,
and make them feel alive.
If you are someone who genuinely likes, or even loves,
what they do for a living,
think of it as a walk in the park,
or a steady countryside drive-
whatever you do, wherever you work,
whether you are on a shift from seven until seven,
from sunrise to sunset,
or behind a desk or a table every day of the week,
from nine til five.

My Poem ‘Did’

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

There is a beautiful sunset outside my window,
I am listening to Ed Sheeran on my iPod at the moment
to give my creative spark the get-up-and-go.

I have been writing since I woke up this morning,
and my right shoulder is literally aching;
I am about to have something to eat,
but I just want to write down in words
the things I am proud of,
and the things I wish I never did.

I am proud of myself
for using my self-taught gift of expression,
and with the help of a great friend of mine
getting two books of my poems published-
the support, the love, the miracle
to be able to share my words with the world,
in the way I always wanted,
is beyond anything that I could ever have wished.

When I was a kid I was a movie-loving boy
who made up his own stories for fun;
now I am a 33 year-old poet,
who still loves films,
and who goes to the cinema as often as I can.
When I was growing up I wanted to be many things
when I eventually became a man;
but now that I am standing tall, and looking back,
I am thinking that my life
might have been easier
if I had had some kind of life-plan;
I thought I would have been married,
and had kids by now-
at least that was my boyhood, adult-arrival, expectation;
however, a few things happened along the way
that were not part of anyone’s plan-
and those are what I see looking back at me
every day in my own reflection.

I hope there comes a day
when I can honestly say
that who I am now is who I want to be;
I hope there is a day when I can say
“this is what I have been dreaming at night about”,
and then waking up and turning it into poetry;
I hope one day I will be able to say to my own kids,
that I don’t regret the things I have done,
and if I had the time to do over again
I would still do all that I did.

My Poem ‘The Phoenix’

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

It was inevitable that it would happen,
it always happens;
it was always going to end and begin again this way;
it was inevitable that I would be burned alive
and come back to life,
because that is the pattern;
it will always be me dying to save myself,
and then rising again from the flames
with the same face, the same name,
the same heart, the same soul,
until it really is my Earth-bound last and final day.

Every time I come back from the dead
I lose nearly everything that I had,
but I do retain every detail of my past lives’ memories;
every time my world crumbles and turns to ash,
I return to the place I know,
the people I love, and the thing that is as a part of me
as I am of it- and that is my notebook and my poetry.

You always think that things will go on forever, until they end;
you always think that people will stay with you, until they leave;
you always think that you will always be someone’s hope,
inspiration, life, love, and best friend;
you always think that you know and have seen everything,
until you learn and you see something that you cannot believe.

My world imploded, and then exploded;
my identity was stripped from me and thrown away;
my life had to crash and then be rebooted;
my past, my present, my future, my horizons,
were all sent into flux, and blown away on the wind,
to be replaced by a blank page, an unknown,
and a feeling of loss and uncertainty.

Where once there was something rich, deep, bright, and hopeful,
there is now nothing to be found;
where once there was fate, destiny, reason,
the answer to everything in the entire universe,
there is now a hole in the shape of something wonderful,
special, and profound.

Night has become day,
day has become night;
everything felt simple,
even when it was vastly complicated in every way-
as long as I kept myself, in part, hidden in the dark
I would always end up turning my face away from the light.

Things ended because I was stupid;
I was ripped apart and burned,
because what happened was too far gone for anyone to fix;
I was everything that I have always hated,
but now I have died, I have been reincarnated,
I have been reconstituted, I have been tested,
I have been regenerated, I have risen again from my own flames,
and I am starting again and fighting my instincts
of continually being the human embodiment
of the mythological bird known as “The Phoenix”.