light

My Poem ‘Christmas Time’

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

“So this is Christmas,
and what have you done…”
sang John Lennon on the radio
as I sat with my pen and notebook,
as the sun shone through the windows
and reflected off the chrome panels
of a nearby building;
I was near an open door all the while –
but not for a second did I feel cold;
the Christmas songs kept playing,
the air was cozy,
and everybody around me
was locked in their own world;
the Christmas colours and lights
were bright and bold,
and just as I got to the end
of the first verse of my new poem
a familiar voice sang loud:
“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”

I sit. I stare. I blink. I smile.
I write. I think about how much
I have in common with the life of a sundial –
because I too would be nothing
without the light of the star from afar
that gives my life meaning
and endows me with all that I need
to be who I am supposed to be.

As Louis Armstrong sings
of the “trees of green”
and the “red roses too”
and the blue skies of our “wonderful world” –
I know, I see, I remember
all that he sang about
and what I too believe makes out planet
standout from any other
in the entire universe;
so often, I become both lost and overflowing
with words to describe
all that I see and all that I feel;
I do not know who I would be
if I could not write the language of my heart
on a page in connected verse of poetry.

“White Christmas” starts to play,
and instantly I am back in time
and I am imagining things that happened
so many years ago –
I remember the snow of my childhood,
I remember the happy times I spent with my family,
I remember imagining that if anybody
were to walk on the surface of the moon again
then of course I would;
I remember seeing true beauty
in fallen snowflakes
and knowing that there was more to me and to life,
and twenty years before I would ever have thought
to write anything that I would now
consider in any way poetic.

One last song plays
before I have to leave the place where I am now;
where I am going next I do not know for sure,
because I do not have a fixed plan –
however, as I think of a title
to sign-off my brand new chain of rhymes,
I decide to use the last words
of the song that I hear…
and as my poem is about the world of today,
about me, and is in itself a snap-shot of life –
this poem is about this moment,
and at this moment it is definitely
Christmas time.

My Poem ‘The Bright Side’

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

There is no such thing
as total-darkness;
there will always be
those who have more
and those who have less;
in a dark-blue sky
there is nothing like
the pure white light
of the moon’s crescent
to fill you with awe
and relieve you of any stress.

When the sun rises after a long night,
when the moon appears like a ghost in the sky,
when dawn calls, when dusk falls,
when ocean-waters become a mirror,
when candle wicks burn
and their flames flicker,
when eyes open, when eyes close,
when the world of the day has awoken,
when the aroma of the air
is as distinctive as the smell
after a thunderstorm
or as unmistakable
as the pungency of burnt-toast.

With the first observance of fire
followed a basic understanding
of the human heart,
and what lies and burns
at the core of every living thing;
when humanity first saw lightning,
it must have automatically
occurred to our ancestors
that it must be the energy
and the work of the gods
who dwelled in the sky above;
when the first language of expressions
and signs was first devised
and replicated over and over again,
it must have been phenomenally exciting;
when the first heart ached for another,
that was when humanity first discovered
one of the greatest forces in the universe –
the power of love.

Most people, and most things,
do not get a choice about how and when
their story will come to an end –
every sunset, every sunrise,
could be someone’s last;
over time truly is how and when
you find out who are your true family and friends –
and every day that comes and goes,
and who it is that you see
when you look around yourself,
is when and how you find out
who is your eternal star and sunshine –
and they who will always be the one
to show you life’s
ever-present bright side.

My Poem ‘Halo’

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

Appearances can be deceiving;
no one in real-life
carries around a profile of themselves
of things about them
that other people might need
or want to know;
some things that we should believe in
sometimes do take time to fully sink in;
not all demons have horns,
and not all angel’s have halo’s.

Everybody is different;
everybody shows their feelings in different ways –
some people are always truthful and upfront,
some people are masters of turning a phrase,
some people can keep a secret,
and some people can’t;
some people live a life of regret,
while others do everything that in front of them
and commit always with all their heart.

Just as some people show their love
with a simple gesture of a poem and some flowers;
just as some people ask for nothing else
from their partner but love;
just as some people capture another person
and give them the gift of their likeness
as they appeared when reproduced
in a photograph or a painted picture –
there is no one-true universal symbol
of compassion and love
that could ever compare
to that which makes a heart skip a beat…
for some that might be a ring,
a story written just for them,
or perhaps a message of white
written in the blue sky above.

When the universe began with a flash of light,
when existences’ clock started ticking,
when the laws of nature were first ingrained
into every particle of stardust,
and all of space and time
spectacularly escaped from an opening
smaller than the size of the tip of a pin…
when the universe contracted
and then made its first life-giving push…
all things began,
all things multiplied,
all things became part of an unfinished plan,
and all things were forever bound
to the reason and the meaning of life…
birth, life, death –
and in that order, by design.

When you stand outside on a Winter’s night,
and you look up at the stars,
it looks as if the stars above
are falling all around you
and have turned themselves
into flakes of snow;
when you look into the eyes
of someone who loves you,
or when you are touched
by the hand of a hero;
when you see something amazing
that transcends the language of all words…
you will see in all its glory
the light within the soul and the heart
of someone that is as beautiful
and golden as the ring described to be found
above the crown of an angel of heaven,
that is the symbolic sign of purity of spirit –
that manifests in humans
in their thoughts and in their actions,
which represent their own divine halo’s.

My Poem ‘Finding Your Place’

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

Finding your place in the world
is an adventure in-and-of itself;
finding the place
where you are meant to be
can literally be a way
for you to feel things
that you have never felt;
finding a place that feels
like a part of you,
as you do of it,
is like finding a perfect oasis –
and there is no more perfect haven
or heaven on Earth to a poet
than a place where they
can be surrounded
by their literary companions,
contemporaries, and heroes
who are as intriguing as people
as they are fascinating and fantastic
as that which they wrote.

Thrill-seekers love roller-coasters;
book-lovers love libraries;
artists love galleries;
music-lovers love stereos,
headphones, music-players,
and they love the visceral
live experience of a concert;
people without fear
love to jump without looking,
and they love to let go
and be free of gravity
and push the limits
of what is possible
as far as they can go.

I found my sanctuary
when I first fell in love with writing;
I found my inner-author
when I first collected together
my poetry and crafted my very first
anthology of the world
that I had been living and observing;
I found my spark of inspiration
when I was first touched by a divine light
that came directly from the sky
and our nearest star;
I found a new world
hidden behind an invisible veil
when I began to believe
that I had a gift of insight
that could help other people
to see things and to inspire people
to make their mark.

I have met phenomenally-gifted people in my life;
I have dreamed dreams that may keep other people
awake for days and nights;
I have walked in the shadows of giants,
and I have been carried away
by the gaze of Angels’ light;
I have broken though clouds of confusion;
I have prayed that one day
I would never have to stop
caressing the love of my life
and my muse’s beautiful face;
I have questioned life,
and I have searched the inner-
and outer- universe for answers and reasons –
however, just as I was searching
and asking to be shown my ultimate fate,
while looking up at a shooting-star
streaking through space,
where I was always meant to be
and whom I am meant to be with
were already calling to me;
and that is why I would always want
people to remember and to realize
that one day, sooner or later,
near or far-away,
as long as you keep doing
what you have been doing,
when you are supposed to
you will find your own place.

20151127_130021

My Poem ‘My Life, My Love’

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

I would wait all day;
I would stay up all night;
I have always known
that I would find you one day,
I have always believed
that I would find
the one who would shine on me
like the sun’s light,
and become my entire life.

No one, nowhere,
could ever compare;
no face, no smile,
could ever be more beautiful;
no other heart, no other spirit,
could ever inspire
as much poetry of one poet;
no beauty, no generosity,
has ever been seen, nor shown,
and no miracle more miraculous
has ever been witnessed or known
by anyone else but me.

Not only do I see you
how you are meant to be seen
and as to me you have always appeared;
not only do I know you
in more ways than anybody else ever has;
not only do I understand you,
and feel what you feel –
but, with all my heart,
I live to save you
from the fall of further tears;
not only do I not doubt
that you and I will be together forever,
but I also can see the future…
and then, just as now,
the entire universe revolves
around the light and love of us.

Everybody needs a reason to live,
and my reason to be is you;
you and I have traveled together hand-in-hand,
and I never want to go anywhere without you;
everybody can look around them,
everybody can look above,
but I am only looking in one direction
because I have never felt so much in love;
I have known since the moment that I met you
that my life would never be the same again –
because you are, and you always will be,
my life, my soul, and the one
whom I will always love.

Happy Birthday Melissa

My Poem ‘The Mayfly Life’

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

Every life is a short life;
every thing has a shelf-life;
every journey is finite;
for every morning
there must be a night;
every artist has a muse;
everybody has always
got something to lose;
for every mystery
there are always clues;
everybody at some point
imagines what it would be like
to walk in somebody else’s shoes.

Everyone has a shadow;
every new life is a beacon of light;
everyone has a clock
ticking down slowly to zero;
everyone has a secret birthright;
every day we listen;
every day we speak;
every day we read the written;
every day we all must trust
and believe that our lives and we
are meant to be as we are;
every thing that can be created and destroyed
should be marveled at with awe like a star,
because though the memory
and the spirit of something may survive
and live forever after death,
the shell and the body
that surrounds and protects something
has but a short time
until it must break apart
and reveal the true energy inside
that has been waiting so long
to emerge from the dark.

Like the light of the moon
on a star-lit winter night;
like a beam of sunlight
bursting through the clouds
after a shower of rain has fell;
like the spell that changes you forever
that is “love at first-sight”;
like the wish that comes true
after you hope with all your heart
and throw a token of you
into life’s celestial wishing-well;
so much is evanescent,
so much is momentary,
transient, temporary, and brief,
the rules of life,
and the time that we all
have to do what we must,
can only be compared
to the sight and the life of a tree
and its falling leaves
that change over time –
and like every living thing,
and like every living person,
everything has a reason to be…
even though their life-span
in comparison shares so much
with the life and the fate
of the ephemeral mayfly.

My Poem ‘Feelings’

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

As one book closes,
another story begins;
as a new book begins,
the eternal story continues;
as eyes open to greet new light,
eyelids fall under the weight of the stars
that shine above at night;
and while some rise high,
others cannot help but fall deep.

Every day we understand
more about our own lives;
every minute we wonder
what happened to all of our time;
every second our heart’s keep beating
to tell us that we can do more
with our gift of life;
every spark of thought
that comes to our minds
can be like the lure
on the end of a fisherman’s line
calling to, and connecting with,
both the past and the future,
the unforgettable
and the one of a kind.

The pages of time
flick back and forth
like leaves on the wind;
if you look closely around you
you may even see who and where
you were when you were younger;
whatever, or whomever, brings light
and joy into your life
will always be your best friend;
every moment only comes once;
every experience has a half-life;
everybody follows in the foot-steps of another;
embrace every chance of happiness;
enlighten the world with your smile and your grin;
live your dreams day to day and night to night;
in your life there will never be nothing,
because all that you need
will always be that which is closest to you –
we all have hands, fingers, eyes, and a mouth
to grasp and to show
the colours of our feelings.

My Poem ‘Percussion’

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

The pitter-patter of raindrops
against a window early in the morning;
the foot-falls of steps
outside your door;
the dial-tone of a phone ringing;
the rumble of a crowd of people
reverberating over a floor.

The sound of drums;
the strike of lightning;
the impact of hand against instrument;
the synchronous movements
and almost-balletic arm accentuation
that make the musical performance of an artist
that much more exciting.

The voice of an instrument
that is brought to life by its player
as it was always meant
to be played and heard is magical –
the tone, the depth,
the range, the indistinguishable
call to rise of emotions
that only they can elicit
and evoke is phenomenal;
like the vocal-cords that vibrate
that allow someone to speak,
the unmistakable beat,
like that of a heart,
is its most effective
when it is allowed
to reach its natural peak.

No two ears hear the same;
no two players share the same gestures,
nor the same emotional connection
to a piece of music;
no two pieces of art
can coexist within the same frame;
every member of the same band
shares the same feeling
of being carried-away
and drifting like a flurry of snowflakes
on the wind.

The music of interaction;
the melody of harmony;
the natural cycle of repetition;
the actions of fluidity;
the language of notes;
the knowledge of keys;
the memory that never leaves;
the gift that comes with ease.

While there is still music playing,
while new songs are still being created,
while there is still the sound of waves crashing,
while new lovers of music are born
and want to become instrumentalists and percussionists,
the world will go on,
the Earth will play on and sing as-one,
the sources of all joy sadness
will continue to drum –
and those fluent in sharing
the music of the spheres of the universe
will want to continue to play
with all their heart the music
and the instruments of percussion.

My Poem ‘Survivor Instinct’

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

Once the mist has lifted,
once the dust has settled,
once a new day begins
and the dark clouds have drifted,
and the frozen time has melted,
once the sunlight breaks through
and showers to the ground,
once people find a way to say something
to fill the void of silence
once again with sound,
once everybody no longer feels guilty
for showing a smile –
everybody can learn to accept and to move on
without constantly living every hour in denial.

Some people do not blink,
some people do not know,
some people do not think,
some people care so much
that even the thought
of something tragic
happening to someone else
anywhere in the world
feels like they are
carrying a heavy load.

There are people
who would do anything
and would give anything
to someone who was in need
more than them;
there are people
who get up out of bed
hoping to help someone in some way;
there are people
who feel a need to give to charity
in the form of a donation;
there are people
who live their life
with a constant open hand
to anyone and everyone every day.

Heroes are all around us;
angels walk among us;
where there is dark you can find light;
you never know when someone
is going to safe your life.

When something is happening far away from you
it is easy to convince yourself
that it isn’t happening;
when someone is hurting
and you don’t know them
it is easy to switch off
from the image of them
as if the memory of them
was a creation of your imagining;
when you see something happening
and you know that you can do something to help,
when you believe that you can be a light
to guide someone out of a living hell,
when you see a chain
and you would give anything
to be that necessary missing link,
then do what feels the most natural to you
and use all that you feel
when you turn on your survivor instinct.

My Poem ‘Missing Letters’

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

Messages can be exchanged
in an instant;
feelings can be communicated
with a heart-beat;
some letters
that never reached
their intended recipient
and destination
could be those
of the highest importance;
gone are the days
when you would literally
have to wait weeks for a single reply –
however, I still believe
that the most powerful of contacts
that there could ever be
are those that are made
by using your feet.

First-person perspective,
face-to-face,
eye-to-eye and infinitely expressive
is always the best,
especially when it does not wholly
require the assistance of a satellite
orbiting in space –
but in this day and age,
we who are living here on Earth
are so lucky to have
all the means of technology at our fingertips.
I must admit that I too would feel bereft
if I could not speak what I am thinking,
as well as express myself
via my facial-expressions –
like the blowing
the one I love a goodnight kiss.

The written word and the printed white page
is a thing of beauty, to me –
but the power of text and the images
of a back-lit and bright screen,
I must admit, are, to me,
a draw, and to one
I am like that a moth to a flame.
I adore books and stories
written be fantastic and phenomenal writers,
but what you can see and share online
on the internet is an incredibly evocative,
vivid, and epic, world-changing domain.

I recently read a news story online
about the discovery of an amazing find:
a leather trunk from the 17th century
had been unearthed that contained
over two thousand letters –
most of the letters that have been translated
tell stories of a people
and what they were feeling and thinking
at a particularly eventful
and momentous time in their life,
while most of them thus far
still remain a mystery
as to what they say –
and I truly believe that such a discovery
is one of a treasure
that may never again come to light,
because those letters are fragments of time.

Letters can be lost, misplaced, forgotten about
sent out across the sea in a bottle –
however, messages that are sent electronically
follow you wherever you go
and are like coin thrown into a well
that never reaches the watery bottom.
Our electronic messages are like our own
digital ghosts and shadows
that we are responsible for;
our electronic images and profiles
can be seen by everyone and anyone,
24-hours a day, from the last light of dusk
to the first light of a new dawn.

There is a lot to be thankful for
about living in the times that we do;
we have discovered answers to questions
that our ancestors prayed to god
that they wished they knew;
there are things that we all do well –
but we as a species, in my opinion,
can all do better;
we may all find what we have been looking for
all our lives if we too were
to somehow miraculously discover,
or rediscover, buried over time
a treasure trove
of lost or missing letters.