Halloween

My Poem ‘When the sun goes down’

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

When the sun goes down
on Halloween night,
when the werewolves howl
and the vampire take a bite,
when people walk the streets
dressed as clowns,
when trick or treats
are solicited and given out,
when ghosts haunt and the dead walk,
when costumed children
can be seen going door-to-door,
when the sky looks darker
than you ever thought it could,
when it is normal to dress
and express yourself
in a way that you may not
feel comfortable doing
at any other time of the year –
Halloween can be incredibly fun,
as well as the most perfect time
to face your inner-most fears.

When the sun goes down
and the moon is full,
when the stars are bright,
the universe that we are a part of
has never looked more beautiful,
when you see the spectacular
ribbons of energy of the Northern Lights
illuminate the sky,
the sight that you see takes your breath away –
there is no more magical and spellbinding
event to see that you will remember
for the rest of your life.

When the sun goes down
and another world awakens,
secret doors open wide
that lead to other dimensions…
the invisible becomes visible,
the imaginary becomes real,
the mysterious becomes audible,
the seemingly intangible
you can reach out and feel.

When the sun goes down
we are different people,
our faces are the same
as they are in the hours of daylight –
but more often than not
we show a part of ourselves
that no one else sees…
and at times of the year,
like Halloween,
when imagination knows no bounds,
you can always be sure
to see things that you have never seen –
especially when the sun goes down.

My Poem ‘All Halloween’

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

Almost everyone loves the season of Halloween;
all through October to November,
everywhere you look Pumpkins, skeletons,
and images of apparitions
adorn the fronts of houses on every street;
children get excited to dress up
and go trick-or-treating,
adults of all ages watch scary movies on TV
about ghosts, demons, Vampires, werewolves,
and stories about places and creatures
to be feared as if they were real,
because they almost defy imagining.

I do not think
that there is another country on Earth
who celebrates Halloween
better than North America;
I don’t think that there are no other people
other than Americans
who understand that Halloween
is meant to be a season of celebration;
I do not think
that there is anywhere else in the world,
besides perhaps Transylvania,
where stories of the world beyond this one
inspire daydreams around a campfire
that set alight the feverish
dark creations of the human imagination.

The dead are remembered;
the saints are worshiped;
the living are cherished;
the costumes that people choose
to dress up in are always wonderfully
and darkly embellished;
the night of Halloween
is anticipated by some
with as much joy as Christmas;
some people give generously
to their young sweet-toothed
trick-or-treaters that come a-calling,
while some people just do not
understand the reason for all the fuss.

For some people,
Halloween is the favourite time of the year;
for some people,
every day is Halloween –
and to them it is not just once a year;
for some people,
Halloween feels like reality is reflecting
their inner-most thoughts and dreams;
for some people,
enjoying tales of witches, spectres,
magic, and the emotions and the feelings
that bubble-up to the surface,
that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on-end,
and the stories that make you jump with fright,
is what Halloween is all about.

My Poem ‘Boo’

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

There once was a dog called ‘Boo’,
whose fur was as black as night
and as white as that of snow,
who when they heard the call of their name
they would run to you
and then follow you there afterwards
wherever you would go.

Boo loved to jump;
Boo loved to run;
Boo loved to bark, but never bite;
Boo loved to wag their tail
to show that they were happy and having fun.
Boo was smart;
Boo loved learning and performing new tricks;
if Boo saw another dog
they were off like a shot;
Boo’s favourite thing in the entire world
was their well-chewed green tennis-ball,
and Boo also loved giving “face-sugars”
to their owners’ mouths
with wet tongue licks.

One day, Boo saw that the front-door
of his home was slightly ajar
and that the light from outside
was shining on the floor –
Boo loved being outside
and Boo loved rolling around
on the front garden’s green lawn –
so Boo decided to take this golden opportunity
to discover what they could see, hear,
smell, and taste outside,
and embrace their gifted chance.
Boo opened the front-door more with their nose
just enough for them to fit through;
Boo jumped out into the light of the day
on to the garden path,
and then Boo saw that the gate of the garden
that lead to the road was open…
Boo saw no danger…
Boo wanted nothing more than to have fun…
Boo ran to the gate and jumped out into the road,
and then…

All dogs can go to heaven;
all animals can find peace when they pass on –
but, sometimes, the bond that an animal has
with their owner is so strong,
and they are so much a part of a family
that they love and who loves them,
that they are given a choice,
just as I believe we are all given
when it is our time:
to remain here on Earth
and continue to be near and dear
to those who bless us
with the name that we are given.
Boo saw the light,
but Boo chose to run back
into the arms of their master;
Boo’s owners cried many tears
when they discovered that Boo had left them –
however they knew that Boo
was still with them some-how,
and they also knew that the memory
of what they meant to Boo
and what Boo meant to them
was all that mattered.

Boo lived on;
Boo still loved to run and jump,
and sit comfortably in their owners’ lap;
Boo still enjoyed laying down in the grass
and sun-bathing on a sunny afternoon;
Boo still felt an unbreakable bond of love;
Boo still came running when they heard
the sound of the mail coming through the letter-box.
Although they could no longer be seen,
although their bark was now slightly more muted
than it used to be,
whenever they heard their name
there came a-running the dog that was,
the dog that is,
and the dog that will always be,
‘Boo’.

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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.