house

My Poem ‘The Hummingbird House’

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

Standing in a room
surrounded in every direction
by flying hummingbirds;
the childhood dream
of a little girl walking
through a vast field of yellow daises
beneath a cloudless bright-blue sky;
standing on a green hilltop
looking down at your home below;
the adventure of a not-yet
grown up boy’s life-time,
and a return to a place
that he knows so well
it is almost as indelibly under his skin
it could almost be a tattoo;
on a cold winter’s day
the light shines differently
than it does at the same time of day
during the summer;
people change just as much as the seasons do;
a simple act of kindness can be something
that some people hold on to for luck
like a four-leafed clover;
when you become intoxicated by a moment
time goes wonderfully slow.

Dreams are our life’s internal movie-theatre;
our dreams are like the software
that runs the most powerful super-computer;
emotions are our way of interpreting
the meaning of what we see,
what we hear, what we feel,
and what we think;
all of our memories share and are
connected to an infinite number of mutual links.

Two different people
can look up at the same cloudy sky
and see two radically different formations;
a hundred people can be in the same place
at the same time for many different reasons;
a thousand people could each give you
a thousand and one different answers
to the same question;
all of human-kind begins anew
a different cycle every time
there is the rise of a new generation.

A house made of glass tells no lies,
but at the same time is precious to the touch
because of what it is;
a rose is one of the most beautiful gifts of nature,
but it also has the means to protect itself;
to me, someone with a thousand books to read
is richer than someone with a thousand dollars to spend;
a dream that has come true for you
is also known by another name: happiness;
heaven is a story that has no end;
everybody and anybody who has ever stopped
and stood, and who has ever looked
at a beautiful sight with an open mouth,
knows intimately what it is like
to have been inside a hummingbird house.

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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 ‘Our Room’

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

The space, the place, the sanctuary,
the part of our home where we can truly be;
the dance-floor that is there for us to move around on
like John Travolta;
the studio where we can listen to music,
and create our own;
and where we can sing
while channeling every kind of performer-
from a ‘rock god’, to a classically-trained tenor of opera.

In our room, we are surrounded by all of personal possessions
and memories, and all our favourite things
that we have collected throughout our lives;
in our room, we can read, study, surf, watch,
and interact with the rest of the world,
while wearing the face and name of any guise.

Our room is where we dream;
our room is where we can talk to friends;
our room is the place where not that many people have been,
or will ever see;
our room is a cocoon that contains all that we need
for any and every day, and any eventuality,
from the instant that we emerge and rise from our bed.

Our room should not just be the place where we sleep;
our room should not just be where we spend
one-third of our lives without nothing to show for it;
our room should be our temple, our library,
our catwalk, our personality, our gallery,
our place of safety, our place of serenity,
our place of development and growth-
like a mothers womb;
where we return to and enter with a smile;
where we feel and can imagine ourselves as anything, or anyone;
where we can lose our inhibitions,
and shower ourselves with all kinds of magic-
that is the place that is our room.