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My Poem ‘V’

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

Our lives are stories
within an epic and ever-evolving,
ever-changing, ever-continuing poem
that started at the moment
that the universe began;
my own life has changed over time –
as I have grown, experienced,
thought, and felt, the world
and everybody whom I have met
has contributed into making me
who I am now at every turn;
we are more free to be who we want to be
when we are young and when we know nothing
about the need of adults to make plans;
I always knew that I had an energy
and a passion within myself –
however, it is only since I began
writing poetry and stories
that I have felt as if I were able
to allow the inspired fire
within my heart to burn.

I can still remember
the first poem I ever wrote;
I can still recall
where I was when I started
to put together the poems
and the pages and the images
of my first book;
I can still feel what it was like
when I knew that I had a gift
and that I could use words
to express my feelings
like a musician makes music
by playing notes;
I can still sit, stare,
and hold my pen and my notebook
in my hand and relive
the experience of inspirations magic touch.

Every time that I unveil
a new poetic-offspring of mine,
to me it is like seeing
the face of your own child smile
for the first time;
every time I start writing
and the words flow
and come fast like the water
of a raging-river,
the light and the energy
that binds everything together
starts to shimmer;
every time I am inspired
I can feel something inside of me
fighting to break free of me
and explode like a cannon;
every time of every writing
of a new poem is like witnessing
the golden light of an unending dawn.

I still have to pinch myself
to believe how lucky I am;
I still have to look in the mirror
and marvel at all that I have seen,
all that I have experienced,
and all that I remember from my life;
I still have to find a way every day
to use the power of what I know,
but that which other people
might not at first understand;
I still have to daily accept
the awesome feeling of pride that I feel
in myself at all that I have personally achieved
and done – especially when I flick through
and I re-read and remember
all the poems that I have written
that have been published in my books…
I still find it incredible to believe
that not only do I have one book
of my poetry and stories published –
but, in fact, instead of one,
as I write this, I am looking at the cover
of book number five.

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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 ‘The Light-years’

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

The sun is the herald
of light, energy,
awakening, and growth;
somewhere in the world
and high-above
the star at the heart of our sky
shines and effects all of our lives
more than any of us
could ever possibly know;
light can be a life-inducer;
there are some places on Earth
where because the light is different
time feels almost frozen –
a single day can feel like a year.

Nothing is ever truly stationary;
the universe, the galaxy, Earth,
our world is constantly on the move;
even seemingly empty space
is always full of something –
the mystery of the darkness
the surrounds our perfect jewel of life
too is full of shining clues;
something that happens,
even if it is light-years away,
creates ripples in space and time
that will eventually be there
at the dawn of a future brand new day.

Billions of light-years away,
billions of light-years ago,
the dark space that now exists
between the stars and the planets
was one bright beautiful light;
the universe was smaller,
life was just truly beginning;
anyone and everyone could see
the constant streams of celestial energy flow;
there was only day, there was no night;
every instant was like a constant roller-coaster
of emotions of our many senses,
and you would only have to look at a star
to hear it sing.

The bigger the universe has become,
the more that time and reality
has been pulled and stretched in every direction;
the more that life has splintered
into many from one,
everything has felt as if it were
on the verge of snapping back
because of the almighty galactic tension.

The universe has become infinite,
while life on every planet
has become finite;
as everything becomes a rush,
the more that the time we have
to truly take everything in
becomes even more precious;
there will always be love;
there will always be fear;
there will always be a reminder
that we are one of many
and yet always connected every day
and every night in the sky above;
there will always be something out there
calling to us all with a voice
powerful and capable of traversing
within the blink of an eye
the distance and the time
between every light-year.

My Poem ‘Infinitely Mine’

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

Hello, sunshine;
hello, muse;
hello, best friend;
hello, love of my life;
hello, you;
hello, my inspiration,
hello, my partner in crime,
hello, the other half of my soul
who keeps me standing –
as if our connected lives
were books and you and I
were each other’s bookends.

Even on a rainy day
you keep my fire burning;
even when the clouds cover the sky
you light up my life;
even as the world keeps turning
every time I see you
all reality stands still
and apart from your beautiful face
nothing else is as mesmerizing;
even from far away
I am always there when you need me
and I am always right by your side.

When I open my eyes you are there;
when I dive deep within my mind
you are my life-line;
when I gasp to stay alive
you are my air;
when I look at old photographs of us
I can see, just as anyone can,
that you and I are two of a kind.

We constantly wonder
what each of us are thinking;
I can look into your gorgeous eyes
and know instantly what you are feeling;
we are always sharing the same dreams
and reading the same signs;
I often picture where you are
and what you are doing,
even when we are on the phone
and simply talking –
and every day no matter the time
I am always telling you
that I am eternally yours,
and I hear and I feel you telling me
that you are infinitely mine.

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My Poem ‘Poetry or Truth’

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

Poetry has the softest of voices,
but the loudest of echoes;
truth, just as beauty,
is in the eye of the beholder;
poetry speaks and always knows;
truth is the voice within
that is tempted to life
by the whispers of the light and the dark
as if personified by a good fairy
and a bad fairy sitting either side of your ears
resting upon your shoulders;
poetry is natural;
truth is often accidental;
poetry is limitless;
truth returns trust.

A traveler is always chasing light and time;
a detective is always chasing
the perpetrator of a crime;
two lovers are constantly in a dance with each other;
two sides of anything
always share an edge that binds them together.

When an astronaut on a space-station awakes
and they float from their bed to the nearest window,
all they want to look out and see
is the planet they orbit
and the vibrant sphere of light and colour
that looks as precious as a raindrop on a leaf;
when we all look up at the stars,
those who live among the stars
are constantly looking back at us;
when someone dies and we lay a wreath
we promise to never forget them,
even while they rest in the ground beneath;
when shooting-stars fly by
they shower us all with their interstellar magic dust.

Poetry or truth –
in my mind they are one and the same;
just as a coin is a token of currency with two faces,
dualities are how life is maintained;
truth can always be read in poetry,
and poetry writes of hidden worldly-clues;
true meaning is at the heart of everything
and it becomes even more apparent
when you ponder the question:
poetry or truth?

My Poem ‘Forest of Forever’

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

Many years ago now,
in my forest of forever,
I stopped, I stood,
I looked, I dreamed,
I listened to the song
that played as the wind blew
through the trees,
I was alone but surrounded
by ancient spirits –
even though there was no other
man, woman, or child
around to be found,
I knew that I was being visited
by the ghosts of poets
and the muses of fellow dreamers –
it was as if I were communing
with my younger-self,
as well as with my future-self
and the one writing this poem:
the one who sees
and the one who believes
that every thing that happens
happens for a reason.

As I write, as I think back,
as I use the infinite sight,
as I remember all the steps
that I have taken along my path,
I am again in the woods of yesterday
and breathing in the air
and being intoxicated by the smell of pine –
I am again standing in the sunlight,
as if I have managed to leap back in time,
and I remember all that I felt
and all that walked with me
when my poetic gift was still in its infancy,
and I can know and I can remember
things that have not yet happened
but have already happened
that I have been immortalized in my poetry.

I see in my memory a land far-away;
I see the beautiful face of the one person
in the entire who is the true light of my day;
I look in front of me and I see
the man who would be me;
I turn my head and I see a boy
with blond curly-hair
who was once and will always be me;
I see an incomplete circle;
I see an unfinished masterpiece;
I see a continuously ever-changing world;
I see a shadowed version of myself
looking at me from afar
from their vantage-point
from which they can see every incarnation of me.

I cannot hold-on to my flashback for too long
before I flash-forward again;
I continue to write as if all that was
had always been just the words
that I had written by my own hand
with my own pen;
I look out of my bedroom window
and I see a floating white feather
and I am reminded of the falling leaves
that will be always frozen in time
when I return in my mind
to my forest of forever.

My Poem ‘Keeping Mum’

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

I knew that this day would come again,
I knew that the moment would come
when I would write a new poem –
but today, now,
in the silence of Christmas morning,
after opening some presents,
I am sitting here in my room
unable to stop thinking…
I am thinking about my own Christmas Angel,
I am thinking about what this day
in particular means to me,
and I am thinking about my parents –
both separated from each-other as they wake up,
both deeply in love with each other,
both wanting so much to hold one-another,
both together and apart
who have had to go through so much.

As I sit here thinking about my Mum
waking up in her hospital bed,
as I flash-back to the moment
when the reality of what was happening hit me
and I cried and I held my Dad,
I must admit that I do feel sad,
and I just wish that there were a way
for me to stay hopeful
and to keep my faith
that my Mum will be alright
without feeling upset.

I have been going through
several stages of shock at-once
over the last few days
since I heard the news that devastated me
and clouded my thoughts;
my Mum told me that:
“we have to take every day as it comes”,
but, even though she is right,
I just feel like it is going to take me a while
to find my own way of accepting everything
and move forwards –
however, I guess that when any person
who we love is sick it is always tough.

I know that I need to be there for my Mum
now more than ever, because right now
is when she needs me the most;
I know that when I see her later
I am going to want to cry,
but that is not what she needs
or would ever want;
if I never had the light of my life
to guide me through the darkness of uncertainty
then I would feel truly lost;
I would not be here if it were not
for the people from whom I came from;
I am staying hopeful,
and I will never lose hope or give up,
and I will not allow my Mum to lose me,
and no matter what happens
there is nothing and no one
who will ever stop me
from keeping my Mum.

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My Poem ‘The True Gift’

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

The true gift of Christmas,
the best present you could
ever receive or give;
the truth of the season
you can always trust,
the spirit that you can
walk a thousand miles with;
the touch to heal all scarred hearts,
the light that shines like the North Star;
the beautiful angel who shows you
the true meaning of life
that so many have for years
been in search of;
the true goodwill of somebody
that everybody at one point or another
has been touched by.

Christmas is, and should always be,
a celebration of shared ties
and meaningful connections;
Christmas can only be Christmas
if you give without any expectation
of anything in return;
Christmas is always full of passion,
and if you are fortunate
then whatever thoughts that you think
may return to you in more amazing and wonderful ways
than could ever be mentioned;
to open your heart for another, whenever you can,
is the true message that resonates
every moment of the season.

Christmas trees; shiny ornaments;
one of a kind shared and special moments;
the miracle of rejuvenation and joy
that constantly brings to life
a story that will always exist;
the motto on the family-crest of St. Nicholas;
the true meaning of life
that is more than a myth;
giving, sharing, remembering,
meeting, living and breathing,
every thing about everything
is how you know in more ways than one
the true gift of Christmas.

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My Poem ‘Words of Destiny’

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

A sword of words,
a motto to be repeated today
and remembered tomorrow,
a race to find a cure,
an illuminated road before you,
a journey into the unknown,
a trek of discovery,
a tale to tell yourself
when you are alone,
one poem of one poet’s poetry,
can be life-changing,
can be scary,
can be life-saving,
and can be all that you have ever wanted –
sometimes the smallest things
can make us the most happy.

Diversity and difference
is what life is built on;
some people can’t help being individualistic,
and some people can’t help being
someone who follows in the same direction of a crowd –
everybody has an inherent nature
that is always turned on,
and everybody knows the power
of both silence and sound.

A whisper can be like a droplet of rain;
a message can be like the downpour of a storm;
an echo can be like a flood of water
that can’t be drained away completely;
an event of epic-proportions
can turn a once dried up river
again into a raging waterfall.

Not everybody listens to a warning
when they first hear it;
the sudden impact of something
can create a crack
that if not filled
will only get worse as time goes on;
it can sometimes be hard
to break a life-time habit;
everyone on Earth shares an irrefutable connection.

Words are an obsession;
music is the language of someone’s heart
made so that all can hear
the dreams and wishes of someone’s soul;
words of every language
can be a source of warmth
on days when the air is cold;
music does not require translation,
because it transcends time and race,
and it will never go out of fashion.

One person’s opinion
can be the deciding factor in something;
one word can mean more than a hundred;
one person can capture your heart forever
when they speak to you,
or when they open their mouth
and their words sing;
one compliment can be to you
the most beautiful poetry;
one war can be won by one knight,
and they can lead and unite an entire army
with one sword;
one seed of an idea
can be but the beginning
of a chain of words
that could grow to become
the most epic of destinies.

My Poem ‘There with you’

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

When I’m talking to you,
and I know that
there is something wrong with you,
I can’t tell you
how that makes me feel –
I just wish that I could kiss you for real
and take away your stress and your pain,
I wish I could go back in time
and step back inside the photo-frame
to when we were together
and happily sitting with each other in the sun;
I wish I could take away the agony
that torments you… with all my love.

Why do the sweetest have to go through so much?
Why must I be so far away now
when you are all that I can think about
and all that I want to touch?
Why must an ocean keep us
on different continents?
Why can’t we just got back to the moments
when we used to sit on the porch?

You need me, and I need you;
you are my everything
and the best thing that has ever happened to me,
and I would give anything right now
and always to forever be with you;
I should be there when you need me the most;
I wish I could package myself to you
as simple as sending a gift to you by post;
I know that I can’t be there now,
but I promise you that I am on my way;
you are my entire life,
and I just wish that there
were more words to say
all that there is to say about you,
my angel of light.

I’m here for you, babe;
I will always be the one
who you can rely on;
if I lived just around the corner
I would be there
by your side right now,
and there would be nothing
that could stand in my way –
because you are my only one.

I wrote this for you;
I want to be with you;
I would do anything
to have my arms wrapped around you;
I will be there with you soon,
and I can’t wait –
because all that I want to do
and the only place where I want to be
is right there with you
for all of eternity.