Emotion

My Poem ‘The White Rabbit’

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

I sometimes feel like
I am akin to the white rabbit of Wonderland;
I almost always find myself late,
because even in my mind
I am always rushing off to somewhere;
I sometimes feel like I am in an hour-glass
being slowly rained on by a constant dusting
of falling grains of sand;
I sometimes struggle to know
when to go and when to stop and wait;
as I watch time tick by,
like the hands of a clock,
I am very rarely seen standing still –
when I am writing,
when I am talking,
when I am thinking,
are the most likely of times
that you will ever see me motionless,
and even then, my muscles are on the move –
in some way, shape, or form –
and, to be honest, for me to be in any way
like a statue I would have to be ill.

Some things do take time
to fully come to fruition;
some things can happen
and must only happen in the moment;
some things that are what they are
are driven by emotion;
some things are so important to us
their effect on us is incredibly potent.

I have learned over time
that you have to follow your heart;
I have always looked for the rabbit hole
to the unknown, and ran down it at full-speed
without any thought of stopping myself, or looking back;
I have always been enamored by every sentence
that I have read that has ever ended
with a question mark;
I have always considered every opportunity
as if it were a doorway to somewhere
that is so full of inspiration and wonder
it would and will always be impossible
to ever pin-point the location
of everything there on any kind of map.

I have always believed
that there is no such thing as coincidence;
I have proof that every thing
and every person comes into your life
and is a part of your life for a reason;
I have vowed to myself to never stop
doing what I do, and to will keep going –
to keep walking through every open door,
and to keep jumping over every fence;
I have watched people leave others behind
when they feel like they have to
if they want to have the thing that they most desire –
I, however, do not give up on people
or on anything that matters to me lightly,
and if I could I would be there
when and where I am wanted and needed
for those who need me
through all the colours and shades of every season.

Anything can last forever,
if you don’t give up on it
and if you don’t forget it;
while you are looking around
and taking in life and your surroundings,
try to see the signs that you should follow,
if you want to experience
your eyes being opened wide
by a thought as amazing
and as dazzling as a bright light;
the things that may happen to you
if you choose to sometimes not worry
about all the things that could happen,
and if you learn to grasp the secret of everything:
that everything happens all at once,
and that the past, the present,
and the future are all one and the same –
and, if and when you do, that is when life
will feel even more beautiful and epic…
so, make sure you look around from time to time –
so that you may see, and perhaps choose to follow,
you own personal, life-defining and enlightening,
white rabbit.

My Poem ‘Heart of a Poet’

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

The heart of a poet
is one of the most beautiful, amazing,
wonderful, things in the universe;
the heart of a poet is one of the most pure,
enlightening, electrifying, and special,
miracles of life, that blesses whom it belongs
with a mastery of the most spectacular
and gorgeous of words;
the heart of a poet is always open,
and it feels things and experiences
exceedingly more deeply than usual;
the heart of a poet is like an open wound,
like an open book, and on each page
that the poetry of the poet is written on,
with every word of every verse,
the ink from the poet’s pen
flows like that of the poet’s own blood,
and every drop, or full-stop, is undeniably magical.

The heart of a poet was brought to life,
and beats every day of its life,
because of the the muse, the spark,
that inspired it right from the start;
the heart of a poet has its own distinctive
and individual rhythm, and a signature mark of the poet,
that anybody, no matter when or where,
can feel and see, even in the dark;
the heart of a poet aches to touch the heart of another,
and begs to be touched;
the heart of a poet always bounces back,
even if it has been hurt, or crushed;
the heart of a poet is bigger on the inside,
and even during an entire lifetime
it is impossible for it to completely be filled;
the heart of a poet is at home anywhere –
in space, in the air, under the sea,
breathing in the openness and beauty of a sunny afternoon
looking at the staggering scenery of nature
that surrounds a countryside field.

The heart of a poet is sensitive to sights, sounds,
smells, touch, and emotions;
the heart of a poet is one of life-long love and devotion;
the heart of a poet is better described of as a fire;
the heart of a poet is capable of unbelievable generosity,
and its greatest hope is to be inspired, and to inspire.
The heart of a poet is not given away easily,
and, like trust, you must earn the gift of the bond it forges,
and it should never be taken lightly, or for granted;
the heart of a poet is always scarred,
overactive, unique, and haunted;
the heart of a poet is able to transform
any full-grown adult into a big kid;
there is nothing in the entire world
you will ever encounter, see, read, hear, and touch,
more phenomenal and epic,
than the immortal heart of a poet.

image

My Poem ‘Eye-Catching’

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

City lights at night;
shining multi-coloured baubles on a Christmas tree;
the sparkle in someone’s look that catches your eye;
flashing billboards and illuminated signs
that are like special-effect explosions from a movie.

Things designed to stand-out;
colours that always elicit an effect;
emotions that flood all your senses
from the instant that they are first felt;
beautiful creations that are perfect.

Birds, animals, insects, fish,
dolphins, mammals, humans,
all have a sense of beauty and attraction
and that can be explicitly seen
when they are attempting to attract the attention of a mate;
everyone and every thing uses a combination of many things –
sound, colour, movement, interest, smell, intuition –
to drive the sense of their opposite sex wild,
like opening up an overwhelming emotional floodgate.

Nature teaches us that nothing happens by accident;
instinct shows us that no matter how strong we are,
or how much we resist,
we can be captured and compelled to do things out of the ordinary;
the shining white moon above teaches us
that depending on the time of the month
even the way we think can be altered,
and in turn certain things can even affect the way we act;
love teaches us that there is nothing else like it
in the entire universe, and its intensity,
depth, feeling, and complexity,
is beyond any psychology or scientific theory.

Emotional attachment is a great and wonderful thing;
a persons reaction to even the sound of music playing
can tell you so many things;
our visual perception reaches into our soul sometimes
and creates a reaction deep within us
that can explode out of us like lava from a volcano,
and it can feel truly amazing.
The way are brains are wired, and what we think,
and what we do with what we see,
all depends on what we find fascinating,
exciting, mesmerizing, and eye-catching.

My Poem ‘World Wide Watcher’

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

The preoccupation of the poet;
the articulation of the artist;
the wonder of the writer;
the drive of authenticity of a director on a movie set;
the character in the cuisine of a chef in their signature dish;
the seascape, the solitude, the sense of serenity,
the smell of salt from the sea water all around,
that you live to inhale every day if you live the life of a sailor.

A poet looks at the world and sees infinite depth,
and the connections that bind everything with everyone
that are always there and have been sustaining nature,
the planets, the stars, the universe,
since the beginning of time;
an artist captures a moment in time and preserves it,
and imbues emotion and feeling into it,
and captures a piece of themselves in their painting,
sketch, sculpture, monument;
a photographer use their camera as if it were a macro-scope,
and they show just how fleeting and precious every moment is,
and that life is like the arc of a rocket –
that twists and turns, before finally leaving the atmosphere –
and is not just a straight-line;
a normal person, living their life from day to day,
who has no philosophical or artistic leaning or orientation,
knows that there are things in life that are important.

Everyone who has sight, feeling –
a sense of change going on around them,
passed them, inside them,
that is a continuum and a state of energy
that could be conceptualized as a constantly-flowing river –
sees, but cannot understand the answer to why life is the way it is,
but who will always be like everybody else:
a fully-fledged, world wide watcher.

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.