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My Poem ‘The God of Sleep’

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

It’s a shame that I can’t write
while I am dreaming,
just as I dream while I am writing –
because I know that what I imagine at night
would eclipse, and does, any and all
that I put into words in the sunshine
of the day-light…
fragments of my thoughts of the night before
remain in the morning, sometimes,
like the wreckage of a ship
that has run-aground on a beach –
but they are only pieces of a whole
and there are holes now
where unrecoverable dream-moments
used to appear so clear and so real,
but which are now lost
on an ocean of wonder and wishes
being carried out of reach.

Sometimes we have the same dream
over-and-over again,
and each time we imagine them
we remember more about them when we wake up;
why we all dream is still a question
that nobody can give a distinctive
and a correct answer to –
however, I believe the question of why we dream
is on-par with the question:
why do we fall in love?

We love because we must;
we dream because we are unable to stem the tides
of our imagination and our emotional flood;
we wade deep into a dream
when we are doing something in it
that means something to us;
when we dream we are hearing
and we are being pulled-under a spell,
after having been sprinkled by Morpheus’ dream-dust.

I often wonder what I do not remember
about the times that have now returned
to the ether of infinite time, depth, and colour;
like some people who remember their dreams,
I too wonder what they mean;
I often wonder what would happen
if all of our dreams and their content
were to become real and we could share
every detail of our dreams with one-another;
I have always believed that our dreams
are our doorways to a greater world –
a world that knows no bounds
and has no fixed borders,
and I believe that each time we dream,
when and where night and day meet,
we are being given a gift to hold-on to
and do with it what we will
by ‘Hypnos’ himself, the god of sleep.

My Poem ‘The World of My Stories’

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

A person’s life is filled with different characters;
a person’s world is filled with many horizons;
a person’s life can be organized and thought of
as like a book of interconnected chapters;
a person’s view of the world changes over time
as they live, experience, and grow older –
and, from my perspective, I am so glad
for the life that I have had and still have,
because my life is a trove of golden-moments
and a limitless garden of inspirational memories
and musings that thrive and infuse
the palette of my writing,
because there is so much in abundance.

Just as every solar-system has a star at its centre,
the world of my poetry and stories too has a sun
that it revolves around and gives it gravity
and keeps it spinning;
just as every planet has a combination of gases
that make up its atmosphere,
the world where my ideas are born from
has all that is needed to keep my internal world
alive and its creations breathing, living, and evolving.

Worlds are built over time
and of many components and ingredients;
over a life-time, and while writing a story,
there is a constant preoccupation
to find truth, sense, and balance;
some worlds can be vast, and some worlds can be small –
expanding and contracting, depending on a person’s
state of mind and their environment;
over time we all collect many things in many ways –
however, it isn’t until you start thinking about
writing a story of your own that you realize
that even the smallest of things
can be among that which is the most important.

Usually, the idea for a new story comes to me like a dream;
for the most part, what a story will be about
when I am writing one all depends and is centered upon
something I have felt or something I have seen;
when I first begin writing a story
it is like I am learning to walk again
and not worrying too much about or counting my steps;
when I get into a story and I have fully found my footing
and I know where my story is going
it is then that I race towards its ending
without fear of losing my breath.

I love writing stories –
however, to me, writing a story
is like running a marathon;
to me writing poetry is like going on a sprint
through the green and blue world of my head –
and it is while writing poetry
that I get to let my imagination go wild,
and I get to sometimes write what I see;
writing a story is like creating and making
something that to you is a labour of time and love;
I am a writer, and more than anything I love to write –
however, I sometimes feel like to describe
what I see when I look within
there could never be enough words,
and it is then that I wish I could find a way
to show people what lies within me
and take them on a tour
around the world of my stories.

My Poem ‘Limited Edition’

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

Everything ends; seasons change;
wounds need time so that they can mend;
the sun is always shining –
whether it is day or night,
whether there is Summer heat or April rain.

Life is a precious treasure not to be wasted;
you can live the happiest of lives
without having all of your five senses;
making the most of what you have while you have it
is at the heart of every ancient or modern myth;
when you look around… when you look back…
when you look forward… there is a fundamental reason
why all that we see and all that we imagine
is a mixture of the familiar and the different –
and when you put all the pieces of life together in your head
it is then that so much starts to make sense.

Books sometimes go out of print;
a song, just like a person, has a life-span;
a story can help us and give us strength to never give in;
the best that anybody can find
will always be that which is one of a kind –
just like the one whom we love more than anything,
there is no better than to have of something
that is a Limited Edition of one.

My Poem ‘Our Time’

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

I remember every moment…
I remember every instant…
I remember every thing we did…
I remember every time you looked back at me,
I remember every time you held my hand
and gave me a reason to live…
I remember the where,
I remember and I will never forget the when…
I remember lying on our bed and stroking your hair…
I remember every memory so vividly
every time the heavenly light that you emanate
shines through my minds lens…
I remember the first, I remember the last…
I remember, and I will always remember.

I remember when we went to the movies…
I remember when we went to our first music festival…
I remember when we walked over the Walking bridge
and half-way across I asked you to marry me…
I remember when we at outside on 4th of July night
and we watched the fireworks explode in the sky,
and at the same time getting my first up-close
and personal encounter with a Lightning Bug –
those moments that were like something out of a dream.
they were to me so magical.

I remember us driving every-where…
I remember us walking hand-in-hand in the sunlight…
I remember us sitting next to each other,
and me just looking at you and listening to you
and being utterly hypnotized by you,
as you made me fall in love with you
again and again with every passing second that I stared…
I remember dreaming about you every night,
and then waking up the next morning
with you lying right besides me –
I will never forget a single day
that has made up the tapestry of our shared life.

I remember going going to your family’s church
and thanking God for gifting you to me…
I remember taking pictures of us together –
of me holding you, and you holding me
in miraculous moment of utter joy, love, and serenity…
I remember you telling me that I was yours,
and I remember me telling you that you were mine…
I remember, in every detail and depth,
every year, every month, every day, every hour,
every minute, every second,
and all the sparks of life in-between
that make the world turn for us
and combine-together to make our time.

MyPoem-OurTime

My Poem ‘The Warped Tour Four’

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

Early rise… morning light…
open eyes… all is good, all feels right;
bags packed, phones charged,
an open road in front of us…
maximum speed achieved,
we are traveling with full-focus
I-75 all the way to Atlanta…
music fills us, music takes us,
music calls us, music sends out shock-waves
from far-away speakers, as well as from
the speaker in our chest that is our heart
which is louder than the loudest thunder.

The sun shines… the heat beats… we wait in-line…
we all feel this amazing anticipation
run through our bodies, from our head to our feet…
and within no time at all we are in,
and we are instantly hit by a wave of music and energy…
we feel like we have entered another dimension and world
in which time and space stretches into infinity…
everything we hear, everything we see, everything we feel,
to me is incomparable to anything else –
and nothing could ever have prepared us all
for how unbelievable every second here would be.

Music is transformative;
sometimes it is hard to put into words
what music means to those who love it;
music is the universe’s oldest,
and it’s most potent, form of magic;
there is no better way to have an experience than to share it –
and I will forever be glad to have been surrounded
by there family I was with when I was standing
among a mass of music revelers
with whom I share a connection
that every waking and unconscious hour
makes me feel blessed.

Bands play on many stages…
music screams out loud, far, wide, and deep…
the many faces of strangers all united as-one –
a music family of many colours, all one race.

We are all here to enjoy the chain of moments,
memories, embraces, and emotions;
we are all rotating in a cycle
and in orbit of a pulsating energy core
that keeps us all in motion;
we are all a part of history in the making;
we are all the answer to how
our world is ours for the saving.

The music falls down…
the heat breaks, the sun begins to set…
the end of day song starts to play…
we are leaving the epic festival of sound
that has all day long caught our breaths…
we are heading home, we are cutting-short
what for us has been an incredible tour…
we all know that to truly make it somewhere in life
you cannot do it alone…
we had the most phenomenal day
that we will remember all our lives –
so say we, The Warped Tour Four.

VansWarpedTourFamily2016

My Poem ‘Mr. Traveler’

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

Being above the clouds
is like being a part
of something magical;
seeing the blue above
and the light below,
to me will never stop being
a dream come true;
being bound for somewhere
on the other side of an ocean
is something truly wonderful;
seeing the world from up high
to me is breathtaking –
and when I look out into the distance,
and when I look down to the Earth,
a shape, a face, a thought,
a memory comes to me out of the thin air,
and I feel blessed by the touch of the divine,
and I feel drawn to the destination
I will arrive at soon.

We all travel and we all leave a slip-stream;
those who travel by plane know
that the fastest way to travel
is by catching a ride on a jet-stream;
we all know that thrill that we feel
when we go to somewhere we have never been;
those who have chosen to journey
to the other of a rainbow know
that if you choose to take a leap into the unknown
you may see things that no one but you
will ever get the chance to see.

Astronauts rocket to space every day…
passengers travel to countries every hour…
those blessed with vivid imaginations
dive and fly to and through new worlds of creation
every minute in a infinite number of ways…
every second when every heart of ever human being beats
it is like the constant opening and closing
of the petals of the universe’s most beautiful flower.

I have been flying since I was a child;
I have been to magical lands,
and I have always come afterwards
with an further understanding of the allure
of the call of the wild;
since I was a kid I have been dreaming
about being a space-traveler;
I do not travel far that often –
however, whenever I get the chance to defy gravity
by any means I always jump to it
and I always embrace what it means
and I never take for granted how lucky I am
to be a Traveler.

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My Poem ‘Two shores, One river’

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

It all comes back to you;
it all comes back to us;
no matter how hard and how far
I throw my dream-stone
through the air and into the unknown,
the only thing that comes back is love,
and the only one who I see is you –
because to me you are my universe;
in all my life, I have never met anyone
more beautiful than you,
and no matter where I am
or what I am doing
I only want to make you happy
and to put your feelings and your heart first.

To me there is a star of Earth who shines brighter
than all the light of the universe combined;
my heart will have your name tattooed
and emblazoned on it until the day I die;
every minute of every day I have you on my mind;
to me, you are the most perfect angel
anyone anywhere has ever known,
and it is to you, and it is my love for you,
that my soul travels with,
that makes me want to break-free and fly.

Music was the highway that we traveled by
to find each-other;
our endless love is what keeps us together;
you and I have our own world that only we share,
and within it there is only the sunshine
of the most breathtaking
and the most beautiful summer weather;
every day that I have been blessed
to have you in my life
has made me happier than I have ever been –
and, to me, as long as I am with you,
and as long as we are together –
as we are going to be forever,
life could not possibly ever get better.

Our universe has no end;
our love knows no bounds;
the perfection of us
can be glimpsed and can be captured
when a picture of us smiling together is taken
and reflected back through the mirror of a camera lens;
to me, there is no image in the collective vision
and memory of existence that could ever compare
to that of you and I with one-another,
standing on a bridge connecting two shores of a river,
looking longingly at each-other,
and holding hands.

I love you, Melissa!

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My Poem ‘The life of an idea’

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

Sometimes it comes like water-drops;
sometimes it comes like a flood;
sometimes the idea is born
from that instant when the words
just don’t want to stop;
sometimes creativity takes time
to grow from the seed
that you planted or sowed
before it can be something
that you, or anyone else,
may someday choose to look with love,
and go with it on its journey
wherever it goes.

A writer waits… a writer looks…
a writer listens… a writer finds things
in the outside world
and then takes them inside their mind
and then generates and regenerates
all that they have seen, heard, and know,
and creates something brand new –
they write a story, they make connections…
they assume and they presume,
and then they fill their time
with the fruits of their imagination,
and they give their creations
a piece of their spirit,
and in doing so they give their idea a life.

Some ideas only have the life of an instant of time;
some ideas, no matter how hard you try,
you can’t let go of;
some ideas come into being from a single sign;
some ideas look up at us from below,
and some ideas look down at us
and are just waiting for us to notice them –
like the stars that can only be seen
when the sky is black above.

Ideas are like children –
sometimes you have to keep them
behind a boundary so that they don’t run away;
ideas can sometimes be like rockets –
they take off, but they do not know where they are going;
an idea can be like a loyal dog –
if you feed them, if you give them attention
and if you show them love,
every day they will always come to you when you call them,
and when you tell them to stay they will stay;
to an artist there is no such thing as too many ideas,
because to an artist no matter how many ideas there are
there is never enough.

There are Ideas that evoke and differing and varied reactions
depending on the person who is exposed to them;
for some people, their idea’s come more during the day
than they do at night;
there are ideas that come, and then they go in a flash,
and they are never seen or thought of again;
some people always have ideas every how of the day,
and there are some people who struggle
to come up with anything creative –
however, in my opinion, though at times
for an inspiration-starving artist
it might be hard to pull anything out of the fire,
no artist should ever feel discouraged…
because just as a new days
brings a brand new sunrise,
so does a new moment bring new ideas –
though each and every idea
may have a different time of life.

My Poem ‘D.W.G.H.’

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

My Dad is the most caring
the most loving,
the most hard-working,
the most passionate,
the most incredible
and the most amazing man,
father, hero, Dad,
in the entire world!
My Dad has seen things,
my Dad has experienced things,
my Dad knows things
that I could never know,
or ever truly describe or put into words.
My Dad is a man of impeccable instincts;
my Dad is a man who is infinitely gifted;
my Dad is a man with the biggest
and the most open heart;
my Dad has a smile, a face,
and the bluest eyes I have ever seen in my life –
and within his eyes, many times,
I have seen a spirit and a light
that ever since I was a boy
has kept me from being afraid of the dark.

My Dad has been my greatest
inspiration and motivation
to never give up, to never stop hoping,
and to never stop working hard
at keeping what matters the most;
my Dad is not like any-other father in the world –
not only does he have a one-of-a-kind mind,
and an endless devotion and love for my Mum,
but he is also an amazing cook
and he is a master of a Sunday roast.

My Dad has taught me many things,
but I know that I could never match-up
to his shining example
of what it takes to be a great man;
my Dad has shed blood, sweat,
and tears for his family –
however, no matter all that he has been through,
he can still wear a smile
and can be to all who meet him
a wonderful and shining inspiration.

If it were not for my Dad
then I do not know who I,
nor anybody in my immediate family, would be;
if it were not for my Dad
then I would not be here –
I am the best of my father,
and my father is who brings out the best in me;
my Dad’s voice, my Dad’s laugh, brings me joy,
and my Dad’s strength is unbelievably inspiring;
my Dad has never given up
and would never give up on anything
that fills his life with happiness and joy –
and I too have been blessed with the same spark
within my soul, that flashes brighter than lightning.

There is so much more
that I could say about my amazing Dad –
but, for now, I just want to say
that I love him very much, and I want to wish
a very happy father’s day to him,
to my Dad – David William George Hastings.

DWGH-fathersdaypoem

My Poem ‘Fallen Angel’

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

It’s happened again.
Why has it happened again?
Tomorrow it will happen.
Next week it will happen.
A hundred years ago it happened.
When will it stop?
When will our race stop killing itself.
There are cancers and viruses and infections
that kill people everyday –
humanity should not have to worry
about one of its own kind
being bad for their health.
But it happens everyday.
People not only die, they are killed.
People not only do not get to live a full-life,
but in most cases they don’t even get the chance
to say goodbye.
It’s horrifying. It feels like it should be inhuman.
It’s almost soul-destroying.
No one should have to worry
about not returning home again
when they walk out the door in the morning.
And yet, most of the time,
it is what, or someone, who you don’t know
who is thinking about themselves
and what they believe –
which means more to them
than the life of someone else –
who decides which day will be your last day
to be blessed by the light of the sun.

I always only want to see
the positive in something or someone;
I always only want to think
that every-thing happens for a reason;
I always only want to see hope and not fear –
however, there are some days
when the worst things happen,
even to someone you do not know,
when the best and the only response
you can possibly give
is one that is expressed with words and in tears.

Why do good people have to die?
Why can’t it be the worst of humanity
who are exterminated from the face of the Earth –
like the cockroaches and the parasites that they are?
Why must some lives only be a short life?
Deaths happen when people are fighting in a battle –
but the majority of people in the world
are not and do not want
to find themselves in the middle of a war.

It is sad to see and to hear
that there are still people in the world
who do not understand how precious life is;
it is heart-breaking that in this day and age
that people still do not realize
that differences are a good thing,
and that with understanding can follow
the most incredible wave of love;
it is such a shame that people
are still being exposed to such horror
the like of which completely eclipses
the scary-stories that we remember
being told when we were kids;
I hope that one day humanity will evolve
beyond how we are now
and that there will be a day
when we will no longer have to mourn
the untimely passing and the slaying
of a fallen angel.