me

My Poem ‘Voilà!’

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

Have you ever thought about something,
and then there it was?
Have you ever thought about someone,
and then there they were?
Have you ever asked a question,
and then got an answer?
Have you ever seen something,
and thought to yourself:
“nothing could ever be better than this”?

I have always liked
the magic of the “spur of the moment”;
I have always loved
the illusionist’s favourite trick
of “now you see me, now you don’t”;
I have always longed
to be a man of surprise;
I have always made the most of every moment
that has filled my eyes.

The gift to spontaneously create something
is unbelievably amazing, to me;
the ability to be able
to make something out of practically nothing,
is like a verse right out of nature’s
magic book of poetry;
the imagination that shows itself in a piece of art,
is as phenomenal to see and to witness
as the expression of a random thought.

A magician would not be as entrancing
if he did not have the most amazing sense of timing;
a chef would not be the best they could be
if they did not know, and have an instinct,
about what ingredients go with what;
a musician with a natural talent
might need to the learn the art of refinement,
however they do not need to go through
too much intense training;
a true creative person
can do anything with whatever they have got.

I have seen the most amazing sights
when I had no expectation of seeing anything exciting;
I have heard a piece of music that has moved me –
from the strings being played by a stranger,
who plays as if they were born
holding and plucking the cords of a guitar;
I have felt enlightenment
that felt like being struck by lightning;
I have had my own moments of reveal;
and I love being there whenever there is an instance
when someone can show their magic,
and have their moment of voilà!

My Poem ‘From Scratch’

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

How do you build a house
without a blue-print?
How do you piece together a puzzle
without first seeing a picture
of how the completed image appears?
What makes a true friendship?
Where do you go
when you have caught all of your tears?

You can’t ever truly go back,
some things are meant to be broken and stay unmended;
some things are just not meant to last;
if we didn’t care,
then there wouldn’t be times when we feel offended.

I am like my Dad,
I am a man of deep feelings;
if I have been hurt by someone,
or something, I do feel sad;
if you start to believe what other people say
and think about you,
one day you might discover that while you were listening,
thinking, and obsessing, you were overlooking
the real thing that you have been missing.

If you had never heard music before,
and someone played you a song,
would you know what it was?
Would you still be able to feel
the same flood of emotions,
and be transported away in the only way
that music knows how to, and always does?

If you had never written a single poem before,
and then one day you sat down and wrote one for someone,
could you say what you wanted to say?
If someone meant the world to you,
how would you tell them, and in what way?

If I had to start from scratch,
if I had to reset and make the same choices over again,
if I could turn back time as easy as you can
with the hands of a clock, or a watch,
if I could talk to the dearly-departed who I once knew,
there are some things that I would love to say
for the very last time, and truly say a fitting goodbye
to an old friend.

Times must change;
everyone must meet their match;
you should never run away from a moment of rage;
when you think you have lost it all,
pick up the pieces that you can see scattered around you,
go home, and start again from scratch.

My Poem ‘Your Thing’

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

Whether its writing, or dancing,
reading, or believing,
capturing, or speaking,
photographing, or modeling,
driving, or treating,
walking, or exploring,
making, or faking,
acting, or searching,
mixing, or fixing,
painting, or crafting,
counting, or adjusting,
growing, or assisting,
building, or remembering,
caring, or sharing,
copying, or exercising,
thinking, or feeling,
moving, or playing,
watching, or listening,
whoever you are, whatever you do,
we all have something that we do
that is close to our heart,
and something that is
as much of your soul and your identity,
that will always be a part of you.

Some of the most important things to know about us
are hidden from view, most of the time;
we all wear a mask
that covers our secret thoughts and feelings;
some of the things that spend their life
tentatively waiting to show themselves,
sometimes appear unexpectedly;
no matter how passive we are most of the time,
we all do our share of relating
to the things about other people
that are not exactly the things
that we would say define or describe us;
however, I always find the discover of something
new about someone I thought I knew,
that sometimes comes out of the blue,
enlightening and inspiring;
and a new question is always a mystery
I cannot ever decline.

Whether you sing,
or whether you express yourself in another way;
whether you are comfortable in the limelight,
or perhaps never like being the centre of attention;
whether your perfect day is being with your friends,
spending time with your family,
or spending some time on your own;
what emanates from you subconsciously,
and what you see as the best, and the most amazing,
is something that,
no matter what anyone else says or thinks,
is fantastic, and if it makes you happy
then that is amazing.
Do what you know;
know what you do;
keep going where you go,
and don’t stop doing your thing.

My Poem ‘It’s a tradition’

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

I love reunions;
I love keeping traditions;
I love catching up
and reconnecting with old friends;
I love being there when a friend of mine
is sharing their gift with me
live and in person,
that instantly transports me back
to a time way back when;
I love giving all the support that I can;
I love the feeling of hearing someone I know
remember me, mention me,
care that I am who they always know I am going to be:
a passionate, supportive, friend,
moon in orbit around them, life-long fan.

To forget a face is impossible for me;
to not be there when a friends calls out to me,
even from far away, is beyond imagining;
to overcome anything in my way,
to be where I am needed, is what I do;
to believe what I know and what I feel
deep in my heart and soul
is something I am proud of;
and if you know me,
then you will know that
that is nothing new.

Time-traveling is a passion for me.
I may not be able to physically travel through time,
but I have perfected the skill
that everybody has to quantum leap
back into the body and mind of their younger-self.
Time travel is not just something
that people can do in science-fiction –
it is a gift that for me is easy to do
and use to remind myself,
without changing anything
that might affect the present in any way,
what the most important things about life there are to remember,
and to hold on to them so they can’t ever drift away.

I do forget sometimes
how much I do share, and have shared, with people;
I often need reminding
who I am, and how lucky I am –
however, as soon as I hear a certain voice,
as soon as a particular song starts playing,
it is a moment for me that is beautiful,
and I again believe with every fiber of my being
that the universe does indeed have a plan.

I have always believed that traditions are important;
I will remember as much of my life,
for as long as I can, with a passion;
I am constantly learning about new and old ways
of not allowing things to be forgotten –
every day, in every way, everywhere on this planet;
I will continue to return, repeat, keep,
and remember that things and the places I am remembered for;
and for as long as I can, I will be there,
doing what I do, and keeping my own
meaningful and amazing traditions.

My Poem ‘Hang Out’

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

In arcades, in malls, in parks,
in places where people assemble like disciples,
in large groups, in smalls numbers,
there are places that continue to attract people,
for one reason or another,
because of what they mean,
and because of what they offer.

Friends meet up to talk, to see each other,
to catch up, to share some time with each other,
to have a drink with each other,
to have lunch with each other,
to maybe see a film at the cinema with each other,
to have fun with each other,
to celebrate life, and to continue to bond with each other.

The things that interest us,
the things that we think about
and feel the most passionate about,
are mostly the same things
that our friends think about,
and usually that is the reason that they are our friends;
the things that we could only share with our friends,
and talk about with our friends,
are usually the things that we cannot speak
to anyone else about –
because unless they know us and who we are,
the context of what we have to say
would be unfathomable to understand.

It’s easy to hang out with people who you don’t know,
but have something in common with,
now more than ever;
where before you would have to arrange a place
and a time to see and to talk to someone,
now, in the instantaneous interconnected age
of infinitely accessible knowledge,
we all can reach out in a second to someone
who might live five thousand miles away,
or five minutes down the road,
and have a conversation with them
using incredible technology in the palm of your hand,
as well as share moments that you have captured
and think they might like.

For thousands of years, people young and old,
children and adults, at different stages in their lives,
have come together to be in the same place,
at the same time as people
with whom they are exactly alike
to the degree that you might think
that they were separated at birth.
The draw to something amazing, and mesmerizing –
a feeling, a light, a flame, a memory,
an individual, a shared understanding –
is one that everybody and every thing
has felt and feels daily in all walks of life,
and to those who are members of every species on Earth.

There are things that we all want to discover,
and learn more about;
there are people who we wish we knew personally,
and we feel things for them
that before them we never felt.
There are clubs, colours, books,
music, past-times, fashions,
that can unite the many and the few, equally –
so much so that they make our heart shout.
There will always be places, and people,
where, and with with whom,
that we will crave to be, and to see,
to spend as much time in their embrace,
and simply hang out.

My Poem ‘Sonnet’

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

This place cannot be.
This face I cannot see.
This feeling will kill me.
This beating in my chest must be set free.
This fire will inflame the world.
This desire is beyond all words.
This one was not the first,
but they will be the last.
This man has met the Angels of Heaven,
and the demons of hell,
and has been to the sun and back.
This miracle is not perfect.
This poem is the pulse of a poet.
This is my poem, this is my “Sonnet”.

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 ‘The Wonder City’

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

I don’t know if anyone
could ever say enough or all
about New York City,
“The Wonder City”,
in every respect –
to me, it is a perfect place:
a place of inspiration,
beauty, and infinite opportunity;
a place for anybody and everybody;
a place that I have not seen for a long time,
but a place I still dream about and think about,
which is constantly calling to me.

I knew New York City was important to me
the moment that I saw it,
I knew I loved New York City
from the moment I saw the skyscrapers of its skyline
through the window of the taxi;
I knew I would not be the same person
after having lived, breathed,
and become a part of New York City;
I knew I did not want to leave,
and I wanted to return as possible,
when a tear fell down my cheeks
at the thought of all the incredible memories I made
in the place that no matter what time of the day it was
was always brightly lit.

The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building,
the Rockefeller Center, Central Park,
the New York Subway, Fifth Avenue, Sixth Avenue –
everything I saw, everybody I met,
was beyond my imagining, and instantly I knew
that New York City was the one place on Earth
where I would feel at home living;
it is hard to describe and explain
why New York City means so much to me –
every second I was there I never took for granted,
every step I walked had deep and intense meaning,
every time I felt my heart beat hard at what I saw
made me feel so happy,
every day felt like a year;
and after walking up, I loved doing my ritual of
getting a take out coffee from Starbucks,
taking a walk around and through Central Park,
returning to my hotel room with a breakfast bagel,
and then leaving my hotel again
and going off on a new adventure
in my favourite city.

At night, when I was in my hotel room,
near Central Park, and I sat at my desk near my bed,
I dreamed, I wrote, I remembered,
I ingrained every moment of the previous day
into my DNA forever;
while walking the New York City streets in the moonlight,
I knew that I was where I was always supposed to be;
while sitting in the shadow of a statue of Christopher Columbus,
on a bench at Columbus Circle, in New York City,
I knew and I felt an incredible and energizing feeling
that felt like I was in my own version of heaven,
and a perfect paradise for anyone artistic,
creative, especially a writer.
Every minute that I was in New York City,
I knew and I understood why the best city on Earth
was also the worlds most spectacular city,
and why it was known as “The Wonder City”.

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My Poem ‘Unforgettable Sixth Avenue’

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

They don’t understand;
how could they?
Everything that happened,
everything that I wrote,
happened to me,
and I wrote it in my words
and from my perspective;
how could anyone else understand
what it was like to go through what I went through,
if they were not there at the time,
if they did not feel how I felt in the moment;
people tell that they like what I write,
but I wonder what they actually think,
what they imagine when they read something of mine,
and I wonder if anyone will ever be able
to truly be of the same mind as me.

I remember walking the streets of New York City,
like it was yesterday –
in my mind, and in my heart, I am still there,
and I want to be there:
I can still hear the sounds,
I can still taste the air,
I can still see the lights of Broadway at night,
I can still remember the moment I was found,
I can still go back there anytime of the day
in my imagination and daydream
even the smallest of details
that I still remember and love to this day,
as I will everyday.

I treasure my memories,
and I replay the best and the brightest of my life
as often as I can;
I miss people, places, times,
that will always be special to me,
more than anyone could imagine;
I relive my youth,
because those years I never want to lose;
I listen to the songs that I remember hearing
on the radio as a child, and I understand them
and what they were trying to say to me then,
now more than I ever knew.

My heart has been open wide since the day I was born;
every day of my life,
something unforgettable has happened to me,
and I remember so much
I wonder if there is anyone else
who loves being alive
and remembering their experiences as much as I do;
even now, I can easily flashback
to the most perfect day of my life,
to the night when I wrote my first poem,
or to the moment when I remember
standing on the street corner
on the “Avenue of the Americas”,
on a beautiful September afternoon,
in Manhattan, in New York City,
and being in awe of the entire world
and the gifts of life
that I can still see happening right this second,
on Sixth Avenue.

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My Poem ‘Sensitive Skin’

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

I feel every raindrop;
I feel in awe after every burst and touch of the sun;
I feel so much strength of spirit and drive of life,
I could never give up;
I feel like my story and who I am
is written all over my skin.

I have always been sensitive to the thoughts,
the feelings, and the emotions, of those around me,
and those who are connected to me;
I would be there for my true friends until the very end,
even if doing so were to push me to life’s edge;
I live and feel every experience deeply,
as if they were my last,
and I often immortalize my memories in as much depth
as possible in a poem, or three;
I will keep going until I no longer can –
and that is my eternal pledge.

My skin is fair, and when the sun is as hot as can be
I burn to the colour of a lobster;
you would think that after everything I have seen
and been through, my skin would have become thicker
and as hard-wearing and as smooth as leather;
my skin still has impressions made on it
from when I was a child –
that have not worn away, and never will be worn away;
I still have the impressions of kisses,
and scars from times gone by,
that remind me of things and people,
every single day.

Every mark made on me is indelible,
and if seen under ultraviolet light
my skin would be like a piece of parchment,
or a creased manuscript,
that has been screwed up, thrown away,
rewritten, amended, over and over again,
that no matter what is done to it
can still be read and understood;
it is comforting for me to always remember
and see where I have come from,
and who was influential in making me Me.
Empathy, sensitivity, caring, creativity,
and an extraordinary memory,
is something that is in my blood;
the wear and the why of something,
and how something appears years after
it first originally came to be,
tells its own wonderful story.

Our skin is a map of where we have been;
our skin is touched and sculpted by our environment:
by nature, by the wind, by the rain, by the sun,
by the moon, just as the grand and great canyons,
valleys, mountains, of Earth, have been;
our skin is like the front cover
and the back cover of a living book,
in which an amazing, phenomenal, unique,
and individual story of a person’s life lies within;
there is no greater question than that of a person’s skin,
especially if you are like me, and you have sensitive skin.