inspiring

My Poem ‘My Jam’

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

From All Hail The Silence, to BT…
from The 1975, to David Bowie…
from Savage Garden, to Johnny Cash…
from Ed Sheeran, to Set It Off…
from John Lennon, to Walk The Moon…
from Young Guns, to Muse…
from CHVRCHES, to Christian Burns…
from Bruce Springsteen, to Green Day…
from Lady Antebellum, to James Bay…
from Carrie Underwood, to a-ha…
from Armin van Buuren, to Bruno Mars…
from Bon Jovi, to Bryan Adams…
from Coldplay, to Michael Jackson…
from Tears For Fears, to Sixpence None the Richer…
from Daft Punk, to New Order…
from Prince, to Deadmau5…
from Tracy Chapman, to Crowded House…
and many many more –
that is but a selection of the artists
and the bands who make music
and who have created songs
that I adore and I listen to over and over.

Music is a great source of inspiration for a writer,
and the music and the songs that inspire me the most
are those with a message to them that touches my heart
and sets off a chain-reaction
and a rejuvenation of spirit within me like no other –
from Electronic Dance Music, to Rock…
from Classical, to Pop…
from fast, to slow…
from a ballad, to something wholly-instrumental –
I find great peace and beauty,
I find great love and serenity,
in hearing the voice and the music
of the heart of an artist, or artists,
that bridges the gap from my ears, to my mind…
from my imagination, to my soul.

My love for all types of music
stems from when I was a boy –
even as a child, I knew there was something special
to what I heard all-around me,
which others might just have
thought was background noise…
my heart has a rhythm to it
and it creates its own music with every beat –
and even now, when I hear a great song
that I haven’t heard before,
it doesn’t take me long
before my heart skips-a-beat
and I am tapping away with my fingers
and moving in-time, to the music I hear,
with every movement of my feet…
when I hear my favourite songs,
I secretly have this insatiable urge
to “bust-a-move” and dance –
there is a deep-seated reason
why music means so much to me,
there is a truth to why
I could never live without music
that stares right back at me every day
in the mirror of my mind…
whenever I listen to my playlist on my iPod,
I always get millions of sparks of inspiration,
and for a long-time after I finish listening
to my favourite songs I still hear
the echoes of the music
that make up “My Jam”.

My Poem ‘Echoes’

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

When I turn the other way,
I hear the sound of echoes
that are following me;
when I open up my heart,
I breath in and I breath out
the essence of divine poetry;
when I look to the sky above,
I hear the song of stars
that are hidden from view;
when I touch the Earth below,
I feel the rhythm of life
that feeds the trees
and makes the flowers bloom.

When I close my eyes at night,
I go to a place that calls to me;
when I reach beyond my grasp,
I touch the face of infinite beauty;
when I see the light of day,
I feel the gift of god within;
when I walk through the rain,
I feel the drops of purity upon my skin;
when I fly above the clouds,
I see the playground where the angels dwell;
when I dream of heaven’s gates,
I wonder if I will be welcomed one day
within open-arms or by the sound of a bell.

When I wake up every day,
I know that I am here
for a reason that I do not yet know;
when I see the lightning in the sky,
when I feel the static in the air,
when I hear the sound of thunder,
I reach up my hands
to catch the bolts of electricity,
and I live every moment after
addicted to the echoes.

My Poem ‘Torchbearer’

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

I don’t know where it came from…
I don’t know where it began…
I don’t know if it was passed on
to me by my Mum or my Dad –
but I know that I am
the beholder of a fire,
a spark, a light, an energy,
that brought about the creation
of the universe and life-itself…
I feel it constantly burning in my chest…
I see it every night when it illuminates my dreams…
I hear it every morning when I wake up in bed…
I know what it is and I know what it means.

I have known of this internal fire for a while…
I have been driven by this incredible torch
since I saw its rise…
I have tried to describe it
and write poetry about it before,
and every time I do just knowing
that it still burns bright and wild within me
always makes me smile.

I am sure that more than one person
in my life has seen my light
sparkling in the blue and the sometimes green
irises of my eyes –
I see it too when I look in a mirror,
and I know that no matter what happens to me
and where I may end my days
that the light of me
will touch and inspire another
and another and another,
and when humanity finally makes itself
another home on another planet
orbiting another star
that same flame will help fulfill
the destiny of a countless number of people
in an infinite number of ways.

It is a comfort to me
to believe and to know
that I will never truly die…
it is hard to put into words
something that I know instinctively is a part of me,
but also a part of a continuum
that transcends both space and time…
it is why I was born…
it is why I am here…
it is why when I look up at the sky
I believe that I can fly…
and I am not the only one
here on Earth blessed with a gift
to be a beacon of the universe’s divine light –
we are everywhere…
and I never take the fire of my birthright for granted,
and I am honored to be one
of a universe full of torchbearers.

My Poem ‘Sights to see in Birmingham City’

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

Even from far-away
you can see the towers of the city on the horizon;
as you get closer to the centre of the city
the buildings both old and new glisten;
when you catch a glimpse of the spires
of Saint Martin’s church,
and of the shining disks that cover
the imposing Selfridges store,
you cannot help but be taken-aback by what you see;
when you climb the steps that lead
to the entrance to the Bullring,
that is but the start of a path
to things that always attract my attention
and capture my fascination
every time I see them
as I walk around the city.

I love walking up New Street,
from the famous bronze Birmingham bull
to the statue of Queen Victoria
that stands tall atop their plinth
at Victoria Square –
there are always musicians and street-performers
playing and performing hoping to draw people to them
so that they can bedazzle with the talent;
I love going into my favourite restaurants and stores –
in particular Starbucks, Waterstones,
and also my favourite bookstore ‘Foyles’
which to me is the jewel in the crown
of the newly-refurbished New Street Station –
and simply looking, perusing,
people-watching, and listening;
one of my favourite places to go in all the city
is the amazing and inspiring
Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery –
the exhibitions and the art to be found within
to me is always a treat to behold…
and another place I love to revisit is of course
the phenomenal new Birmingham library –
somewhere I have spent many an hour
enjoying every moment of walking through
the near-infinite number of books on their shelves,
and also sitting outside almost on the library’s roof
looking far and wide and also below
at the beautiful city beneath me.

I love walking the towpaths
of the canal-side near The Mailbox;
I love walking from one end of Broad Street
to the other and marveling
at the number of restaurants and bars
that can be seen as you follow the stars
and in the footsteps of the famous and the renowned;
I love how no matter if it is a sunny day or a rainy day
that I cannot deny that this city
constantly speaks to me and to my sensibilities;
I love those times when I can walk around,
or just sit down on a bench near St. Philips Cathedral
that stands at the heart of the city,
and allow my thoughts to runaway in my mind;
I love the many cultures, accents, colours,
and sounds that echo wherever you find yourself in town;
I love every time that I get to see the sights
that always inspire me in Birmingham City.

20160313_123421_001

My Poem ‘Searching…’

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

A night-time astronomer…
a day-time blue-sky observer…
a cosmic-archaeologist
who uncovers the face of the past
by looking back in time
as they look up to the stars…
an Earth-bound poet
who looks at the world around them
and imagines a similar beautiful day,
in a far-away country,
that will always live forever in their memory –
in spite of the speed of time
that always wants to pass by too fast…
a nostalgic boy looking through
a physical family photo-album…
a book-lover in a book-store
looking for a new book title
to jump out at them…
a self-confessed bohemian young woman
who rides the Subway every day
with their head-phones on
and their music-player in their purse…
a doctor in a hospital E.R.
desperately listening for a heart-beat
and feeling for the unmistakable tremor of a pulse.

I search… we search…
everybody searches throughout their life –
some search for truth in darkness,
some search for and find joy
when they are given a gift of inspiring light,
and some use their gifts to help others,
and some use the answers they receive
to the questions they ask to create art,
to write, to give others a reason
to give them the gift of their precious time.

Everybody in life is looking for something different;
everybody in life likes different things at different times;
everybody in life has priorities and personal opinions
about what in life is the most important;
everybody in life at times journeys low,
and everybody in life at times ascends high.

A person, a place, a name, a face,
an identity, a commonality,
a heaven on Earth, an interface –
we all use our sight,
we all use our senses,
we all use different sources of light
to mend or break-down fences;
we are all surfing a wave of something…
we are all the beholders of a star in our life
that is worth protecting…
we are all in a constant state of changing…
we are all on a never-ending trek
to find that which has been waiting for us
the entire time that we have been searching.

My Poem ‘I live for him’

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

Our life has a meaning…
we live for a reason…
nothing can stop us
from fulfilling our destiny –
not even dying…
we should never stop hoping
and believing in the power
of god and heaven –
and there is no better example,
nor a more shining star
of a blessed and saved angel,
that I have ever heard of
than that of the story
of Isabella “Izzie” Cochran…

Izzie died, Izzie went to heaven –
Izzie was with Jesus the entire time,
and she was returned to life
and to the arms of her loving family,
because it was not her time
to live among the angels
and stay in the presence of the divine,
because she has a life-long purpose
to spread the word of the one
who watches over all of us,
and to be a reason for others
to believe in miracles.

Blessings can come as profound surprises…
prophecies can be played out
when you least expect them to be…
one person can bring together a world divided…
it is amazing who you can see
when you look into infinity
and a single star guides you
to the place and to the person
where and with whom you are meant to be.

There is only so much that can be written…
there is only so much that can be shared…
there is only so much that can be understood
about our reason to be here
on Earth as a child of heaven…
there is only so much in life that we can all take –
however, as the bible teaches us,
we are all only given that which we are able to bear.

It is incredibly inspiring,
it is spiritually reinvigorating,
it is a life-redefining reminder
to never stop believing,
it is beyond imagining
to have been given a gift
and to know with all your heart
that the love that binds
each and every-one throughout creation
is the reason why children are born,
why the world keeps turning,
why we are given what we are given,
and why the beautiful gift
who is Izabella “Izzie” Cochran
died and was brought back to life…
because her purpose –
that which Jesus told her
when she saw him
next to a white horse in heaven –
was to live and to live for him.

My Poem ‘Morningstar’

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

To me, writing is like driving;
to me, writing is like flying;
to me, writing is like diving;
to me, writing is like searching;
to me, writing is like remembering;
to me, writing is like imagining;
to me, writing is like smiling;
to me, writing is like crying;
to me, writing is like sharing;
to me, writing is like exorcising;
to me, writing is like star-gazing;
to me, writing is like trying
to capture something breathtaking
that almost defies explaining.

When the morning-star rises
it calls to all of us;
when the morning light shines
life below the surface of the Earth
is tempted to break-through the dust;
when the morning air is inhaled
into a near-infinite number of lungs
every-thing breathes in each-other;
when the morning colours reveal themselves
is when something amazing
and unexpected always occurs.

When I write
I look out,
I see things,
I feel something
and then I think…
when I write
sights and sounds become emotions
and meaning is transformed into words
that feel like they are
ready to be spoken on the tip of my tongue…
when I write
an entire new world of wonder
is built with every blink…
when I write
my imagination and my thoughts
race, explode, and flash brightly
like the lightning of a thunder-storm…
to me, writing is akin to watching
and experiencing in all its epic-magnificence
the great gift of seeing the sun rising.

The planet Venus is so far away
but shines so bright in the sky
that it is often mistaken for a star;
it isn’t until you see something up-close
that you can know if it is truly
all that you wished for it to be
when it was far-reaching and yet fascinating;
it isn’t every-one and every-thing
who gets to inspire and change the course of a life,
when in perspective to most things
they are but a dot in the dark;
I have been inspired by many things
since I first began writing,
but to me nothing and no-one
could ever compare to the beautiful shining face
of my angel who I see each and every morning.

My Poem ‘Morning in America’

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

Morning light; morning silence;
morning life; morning peace;
morning in Tennessee and Georgia,
there is a calmness, a stillness,
a chance to breath in
the new day’s fresh air;
morning in my favourite states of America
is like waking up in a dream-world
that hypnotizes you
with its beauty with every second that you stare.

Star-spangled banners gently flutter and wave;
raindrops fall from the branches of trees
and from the roofs of porches
from the remnants of the storm
of the night before,
people go out in their cars
and carry out their daily routines;
every morning I look out of a window
and I see a red cardinal pass my way;
when I step outside for the first time
every morning I look around
and I am completely in-awe:
I see so much perfection,
and I feel so happy and so content
that it takes me a while to realize
that what and whom I see
is not in fact the stuff of dreams.

Birds sing; wind-chimes ring;
flowers open; morning has truly broken;
the sky is white, bright, blue, and pretty;
I feel so lucky to be here
with an intoxicating warmth of energy
surrounding me.

To me, this place is sacred
as much as it is blessed;
to me, the America that I know
and the America that I see
is like a country of heaven on Earth;
to me, I cannot wait to open my eyes
as the sun rises,
just after I put on my clothes and get dressed,
and reach out and hold the hand
of the most beautiful angel of Earth
who I have been destined to be with
since the day of my birth.

I love all that greets me
and all who speak to me
as my senses awaken;
I love driving to places
with my soulmate in our car;
I love how I feel like
every morning I have been saved
as well as taken;
I love every day when I wake up
and it is morning in America.

20160216_081524

My Poem ‘Interview with an inspirer’

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

Across a table,
over a mug of tea
or a cup of coffee,
over the years I have sat down,
spoke and communed
with the truly inspirational –
and every ghost of everybody
who has chosen to come
and pass on their wisdom to me
lives on in the words of the verses
within the lines of my poetry.

A long time ago,
William Shakespeare himself,
with quill in hand,
taught me how to write
and how to tap into
the well of inspiration
of my own heart;
only a couple of years ago,
I was sitting in a coffee-shop,
when who do you think it was
who sat across from me?
Why it was the ghost of Vincent van Gogh –
who instilled in me
the importance of every brush-stroke
that we all make, in art and in life,
and to not be afraid to make our marks
that number as many as a sky full of stars;
the white-suited spirit of John Lennon
regularly sits down with his guitar next to me
and inspires me to imagine and to see the world
for how it should be.

Only a few days ago,
I was having a deep and meaningful conversation
with the legendary ‘Starman’ David Bowie;
Amelia Earhart wants me to remind
every man, woman, and child
to never stop overcoming the odds
and reaching for the stars;
Audrey Hepburn has stopped by
to share breakfast with me –
she teaches me every time I see her
that being happy in life is all that matters;
Agatha Christie likes to drink
a cup of hot black-coffee
when sitting down with me
and explaining the importance of a great mystery;
“don’t be afraid to let your mind run wild
when you are writing anything”
was an inspiring piece of advise given to me once
by the author of ‘Frankenstein’, Mary Shelley.

I have been visited many times
by amazing people with epic stories
to tell from and of their lives –
Robin William, RIP, comes by often
to tell me a joke and to give me
the answer to a question
that I did not even know was on my mind;
everybody who sits across from me,
or beside me, talks to me, I believe,
because I listen and because I care deeply,
and perhaps because my imagination
and my heart burns like a fire;
special people never stop having
something to tell you and pass on –
even after death the light of a person’s spirit
lives on, and I am always ready and waiting
if somebody who used to walk the Earth,
but who is now in the after-life,
wants to return to life
through words and through memories
by allowing me to talk and interview
those who will always inspirational
and an eternal inspiring inspirer.

My Poem ‘Infinite Stories’

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

There is no greater story
than a true story;
there is no greater true story
than the story of someone’s life;
there is no greater way
for an individual story
to touch another person’s heart
than to tell it true
and to see it run free;
there is no greater epic
than a death-defying survival
to stay alive.

We all have stories;
we all love stories;
we have meet each other
because we need to;
we all know someone
who has a story from their life
that is so amazing and incredible
it is almost unbelievable to believe
that it is even true.

Passengers on a plane,
passengers on a train,
strangers on a journey,
strangers on a trip,
who can truly be honest
about who they are,
because the only thing that they share
is the shortest of connections and history –
brief encounters, stories that matter,
short exchanges, instances of new changes;
new chapters, fresh banter;
a rush of endorphin’s;
marks of beauty,
like freckles on person’s skin.

Because life is constantly asking
something new of us all,
new stories are being made all the time;
because people are constantly meeting new people
life stories are constantly inter-twinning;
because the rain will always fall,
and the sun will always shine,
somewhere, everywhere,
the pen, the keys, the fingers of a storyteller
will always be writing.

New stories begin every second;
old stories continue and are shared
time after time, day after day –
as if they are once again brand new;
legends are made for us to find
that allow us to see things
in ways that we can understand;
for every story to be
there must be a me and a you.

For better, or for worse,
all of our true stories
are ours and no one else’s;
fortunately, or not,
all of our memories are ours –
our losses, our tears,
our smiles, our glories;
for the best, all of our living days
will one day be like grains of sand on a beach,
and like the countless stars of the universe,
and that is what makes them truly ours
and truly special;
for all of our collective spoken and recorded time,
everything and everybody will always be the reason,
the source, the microphone and the speaker,
not to mention the writer and the reader,
consequential and important
in sharing the world’s inspiring
infinite stories.