music

My Poem ‘Sound of the Silence’

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

Stars, planets, solar-storms, galactic-energy –
every sphere of the universe
produces music from a source within
that keeps them spinning
and generating their unique voice;
artists, composers, song-writers, vocalists –
every living and breathing man and woman
who has ever created something
and who has ever been inspired
to realise their lifes-work
is driven by a silent beating heart
within their chest more powerful
than could ever be imagined;
memories, recollections,
reminders of a time gone by
that just will not die
because they have no choice;
stories, movies, the eclectic soundtrack
of your childhood that is centred around
and continues to orbit
a wormhole of space and time
that continues to broadcast
and influence your life,
your thoughts, and your actions,
every second of every minute.

All hail the music of the silence;
all raise their hands to feel the vibrations
and the beat of something amazing and beautiful;
all hear the sound of the timeless;
all be entranced by the light of the light-house,
and look up in wonder at the sight
of the broken satellite;
all watch the disc of colour spin,
and allow yourself to slip back in time
to the endless summer days of golden sunlight;
all close your eyes and go on a journey
inside your mind and be carried away
by the waves of the universal
energy-current of the universe;
all listen to the crackle of the static
and then fall head-first into the vortex
that spins like an album of vinyl.

To me, silence is just music
that we haven’t yet discovered
how to listen to in the right way;
to me, music in its infinite forms
will always play throughout all eternity –
whether it is heard, or not,
the music of life can never be silenced;
to me, music is one of the only things
that can make you feel at home
as well as take you far away;
to me, all the world is a church of music
and all of humanity are receptors
and worshippers of a divine sound
that is sometimes both powerful and silent –
and that is why I say that we should all
put our hands to our chest
and proclaim with one voice:
all hail the silence.

My Poem ‘The Chosen One’

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

You are The Chosen One…
you are here for a reason…
you are capable of more
than you could ever imagine…
you are where you are…
you are doing what you are doing…
you are shining like a distant
star in the dark…
you are silent,
yet your voice is echoing…
you are instrumental…
you are elemental…
you are indomitable…
you are integral…
you are saying something…
you are expressing the intangible…
you are hearing something:
music, rain-drops, a concert,
a down-pour, a stream of consciousness,
nature, beats, a distant rumble in the clouds,
poetry, to be embraced, to be held,
to be grasped, to be assimilated –
because it all matters,
because it all makes sense,
because it all entrances…
think about it all:
who you are, who you choose to surround yourself with,
what has led you here and what has carried you this far…
for me, it is my heart that has brought me here;
this time was chosen for me
to shine my ray of light as the rain falls;
for me, moments are precious and timeless,
unregrettable and unforgettable;
my parents would have moved heaven and Earth for me
if they could while I was growing up, and even now…
choices are so important…
time should not be wasted
by wrapped yourself up with a chain of what if’s?…
an idea is magical…
realizing a mental-picture is potent…
seeing something that nobody else can see
is blessed and celestial…
if a flood looks like it is on the way,
if you think that you can’t weather it,
save what you can anywhere and any way that you can,
and try to swim through whatever comes rushing towards you,
and if all else fails build yourself a life-raft
out of anything that you can find,
and never lose the one thing that will save your life
if you let it… never lose hope…
because The Chosen One’s do not often
get a say as to when and why
they are thrust into the lime-light;
heroes become heroes because they save lives
and they give themselves freely to another
at their time of need;
the divine conductor sets the stage,
writes the melody, keeps the orchestra in-time and on-pace,
and gives gravity to everything,
and they are present every second of life –
when we die our destiny has been fulfilled,
however our impression on the sandy beach of life
still remains long after we pass-over
to what lies beyond the horizon;
anybody who touches, anybody who teaches,
anybody who takes a hold of their life
and who wants to love and share life’s
infinite riches of experience,
inspiration, and light from their perspective
does so because they must –
because they were given a choice
and asked a question, the answer to which
was in their heart their entire life –
because right from day one,
they were, as you are,
the chosen one.

My Poem ‘Autumn’

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

The summer serenade has come to an end…
the leaves are changing colour
and are spiraling to the ground…
the door of a new, but familiar,
season of nature opens…
the outside air is growing colder –
even the tone of the music
that the wind blowing through the trees
and the buildings makes a different sound…
Autumn is with us now…
it is now ‘Fall’ as they call it in North America…
in some states and in some countries
they are beginning to take off the covers
and dust off mighty snow-plows,
and some of the birds in the trees
that have been nesting in the same nests
all summer-long and have been singing loud
their morning and evening songs
are taking flight and are heading
thousands of miles south.

Pumpkins are being harvested;
winter-coats are coming out of the closet;
when walking through a still leafy woodland
at the right time of the day,
when the sun is shining bright
and blissfully in the sky,
you can find yourself in the middle
of a shower of golden light;
when it is dark later in the morning,
but still breathtakingly beautiful,
and in the evening time,
the new season heralds the arrival
or darkness and stars far earlier
than at the same time on a Summer night.

Now it is the favourite time
of the year for some people;
now, when the children return to school,
is when there is a great buzz of enthusiasm
in the air – just as intoxicating
as the smell of a forest after a rain-storm;
now is when a great anticipation of delights
begins to build;
now, when change is at its most tangible,
is when, if are lucky and out among nature,
you can come up-close and see with your own eyes
marvels of the world like that of a baby fawn.

All is in transition;
a new filter to view the world through
descends before our eyes
as the Earth is now at its farthest from the sun;
moments experienced and shared
are like magical miracles sent from above;
now is the season to embrace what comes to you
while you are among the wilds of the open
and make the most of one of the most
magical seasons of life on Earth… Autumn.

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 ‘Head-phones to the soul’

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

On a long journey somewhere,
or while simply sitting on your bed…
on a road-trip to another country
or to another state…
while looking at and listening live
to a band on a stage…
or while listening alone
as you walk through nature…
music is the beginning, the end,
and the giant leap to an amazing new adventure.

Portals to new worlds can be psychological,
emotional, visual, and audible…
some doors only require
your undivided-attention to open them…
some worlds can be both big and small…
just as to see some things clearly
you need to look at them through the right lens,
to hear something life-changing
you need the right means of translation
in order to listen.

Music means more to people than even they may know;
music is capable of stimulating transformation
in people in more ways than can ever be conceived;
music was born at the beginning of everything,
and each and every one of us
has been dancing and listening
to that universal soundtrack all our lives,
and as long as life continues to exist
we will be living in the resonance
of that timeless cosmic echo;
music, like any kind of magic,
needs to be witnessed and heard to be believed.

Music is universal,
but it is also personal;
singers sing,
but they also need to hear;
music has been changing and influencing lives
in ways that almost supersede
the natural and the biological;
when musicians play their voice can be heard
by those light-years away, as well as near.

A song can be like a seed
that explodes to life in your mind
and blossoms like a tree in spring;
a song can be of a time,
or timeless and forever
and never get old;
a song can be simply a way
for somebody to tell the one they love ‘I love you’,
and the one who made it
may never truly know how much happiness
to other people it will never stop bringing;
a song can be a life-line and a life-saver,
and when heard at a particular time
a song or a piece of music
can override all of your senses,
as if the instruments
that you are listening to them with
are head-phones to a divine soul.

Head-phones to the soul

My poem ‘The Drummer’

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

It was all he heard…
it was all he felt…
it was all he wanted to do…
every morning, every night,
the drummer felt a longing,
and the beat was the only cure…
over and over again,
the drummer played the rhythm
of his favourite beat in his mind,
with the fingers of his hands,
and every time that he tapped his feet…
it was as if it was his own heart beating…
it was as if it was his own pulse racing…
it was the most epic sound
he had ever heard in his life,
since he was a baby
and he used to look out his bedroom window
and listen to the thundering sound
of the pita-patter on the window-pane
when it was raining…
it was more powerful
than any kind of hunger or craving…
to Mark, the music was like the heart-beat of God…
to Mark, the music that came from his soul
was something that was transcendental…
to Mark, the music was what kept him
from becoming among humanities lost…
to Mark, the music he heard was what he loved…
and to him it was beautiful.

Becoming a member of a marching-band
had been a dream of Mark’s since he was a child –
Mark had everything that any band
would ever want, or ever need: Mark loved music,
and he loved his favourite instrument…
even as a child Mark would turn his parents’
pots and pans into home-made drums,
and he used to play them,
and his parents let him be free
and express himself, and go wild –
and if anybody came around to visit
Mark and his parents
they would see and hear
Mark playing the most phenomenal of beats,
and every day of his life
music, especially his music,
has become more and more important.

Mark tried-out to be in his high-school band…
Mark had dreams of one day playing
in the marching-band of his favourite
college football team…
Mark played and practiced every minute
he was awake or asleep,
and he knew that it he just played
with all his heart
that everything in his life
would happen as he always dreamed it would,
as if it were all a part of a plan –
however, all Mark could play,
all Mark wanted to play,
all Mark loved to play
was the beat that he heard within…
and when his moment came
to show just how incredible a player
and a drummer he was Mark froze…
and then he did what he always did –
he played the music that he knew and loved.

Mark never made it into the marching-band…
Mark was disappointed to not be able to play
and march in front of his favourite football team –
but he wasn’t sad…
to lift his spirits, Mark’s parents ordered him
a band-uniform all of his own and they told him to
“never stop playing” the music that made him
the most happy and the music he had always known…
Mark’s parents told him to go out in his uniform,
with his drum, and “fill the world” with his music
that to them was like no other –
and that is exactly what Mark did:
he went out…
he walked down the main street
of his home town’s most busiest road…
he stopped people and traffic
to a stand-still everywhere he went…
and as he played he knew
that because of his music
he would always be remembered
as the boy, and later the man,
who would always be known as
“The Drummer”.

TheDrummer-sketch-sq

My Poem ‘A new leaf’

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

A new season brings new colours;
a new season brings new flowers;
a new forest brings new trees;
a new burst of sunlight
brings alive new leaves.

A summer’s day is filled with energy;
a summer evening is filled with sparkling stars;
a summer afternoon is filled with beautiful serenity;
a summer’s morning is filled with the most intense
and overwhelming explosion of natural light –
especially at the moment of sunrise
when the sun expels the dark.

Summer walks… summer music…
summer waterfalls… summer epics…
summer breeze… summer shades…
summer peace… summer feelings,
emotions and memories that will never fade.

Every season brings new things
into the mix of life on Earth;
every person is like a planet –
everything in the universe shares something
immutable from birth;
every time we think we have seen everything
something new always shows its face;
every moment is fleeting, precious,
and goes by so fast –
just ask an astronaut looking back at all of us
as they orbit high-above in space.

Just imagine if there was no time
to be bound to any longer…
just imagine if you no longer knew how old you were –
you would always be the same age
and never get any older…
just imagine if your time was yours
to do with what you may…
just imagine if there were no clocks,
no watches, no calendars…
then every life and every one
would live every day as if it were an endless day.

A new shirt…
a new adventure…
a new intake of something to quench your thirst…
a new sense of self-worth…
a new page… a new dream…
a new stage… a new new air to breath in,
heralded by the sight and the prospect
of a new leaf.

My Poem ‘The Purple Flame’

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

The Purple flame, the purple prince,
the purple reign, the purple spirit,
the purple light, the purple love,
the purple sight, the purple angel
who now flies free like a dove…
the purple revolutionary,
the soul, the purple poet, the purple poetry,
the purple energy flow,
the purple art, the purple artist,
the purple icon, the purple tempest…
we are all going to be basking in your glow
today and for all of the days of tomorrow…
I am imagining you right now
racing down a highway in heaven
with David Bowie and John Lennon
in a little red Corvette
against the backdrop of a purple sunset,
wearing a raspberry-coloured beret,
on your way to a place
where there is an ocean of inspiration
that is constantly being remade
by the diamond and pearl-like
droplets of purple rain.

You have left us,
but you are still here…
you have blessed us,
and we will remember you
every second that we hear
your transcendent music,
as we shed a tear…
you may be far away now,
but your message of love
still echoes all around the world…
you must be looking back at us now
through the clouds
and smiling to yourself
because you know that the magical gift of music
that you were a master of
is one of the universe’s must powerful cures.

The purple bird…
the purple fire…
the purple star…
the purple flower…
the purple dust…
the purple pulse that will always
flow back and forth through our veins
from our feet to our brains…
the purple night…
the purple day…
the purple life that we will always cherish
and we will always be in-awe of…
of the one of a kind prince of the purple flame.

Prince-thepurpleflame-date

My Poem ‘One Life Only’

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

The meaning of life
is not to be rich –
the reason you are here
is to find the one
with whom you are meant to be with;
the reason for the waves of the ocean
is the same as the reason
that everybody has emotions;
the reason why we change
when we fall in love
is because we are always reminded
subconsciously of the instant of our birth,
when we opened our eyes and we looked above,
and we came eye-to-eye
with the first face that we saw –
every day of our lives
we want to feel what we felt,
and we want to find the only other person
who could ever compare
to the first love of our lives
that we naturally and instinctively adored.

A little-known thing
that as we get older we all forget…
a seemingly small but significant moment,
like a sunset…
the knowledge that the more that you give
the more that you get…
the thing that will remain
ingrained in your brain
even after your body’s last breath…
the last thought
that will pave the way
to heaven after death…
that which will build
the landscape of the world to come next…

What you do with your life is your choice –
the repercussions of your actions
will be your true voice;
when you are low,
when you reach the wall of “I don’t know”,
when you feel pulled in every direction,
when you want to make what you do for pleasure
and what you do for love
your one and only profession,
when you can live
and be there for someone else,
when it finally dawns on you
that the most important people
in your life are what make up
the true riches of your wealth –
then you will know what you have been missing,
then you will know you have a world of everything,
then the sun will shine even on rainy day,
and then you will live the dream
that will never fade away.

If we could all go back to the beginning,
if we could all go back to the start,
if we could all know the self-titled song
of our lives that we have been singing along to
since day one,
if we could put our present
back inside time’s wrapping,
if we could find earlier
the one with whom we share the same heart,
we might find our life
slowly coming undone –
so, don’t think too much
about the road less traveled,
don’t think about wanting your life
to fly by, or to get older quicker…
take every day slowly;
don’t think, just do;
find the one for you,
even if you have to search the entire world;
let things happen as naturally as possible;
build a home of bricks, not sticks;
don’t worry about the why of things,
just make the most of your
one life only.

My Poem ‘The Gift of Ideas’

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

Ideas are like a tower;
thoughts have a structure;
dreams are like a castle of clouds;
wishes are like a beach
of long-forgotten shells;
memories are like photographs
that have faded over time;
old photo-albums
are like old songs
that remind you of people
and places from your life.

Eyes open; flowers blossom;
light shines; heart-rates rise;
life grows; the dark is exposed;
the clouds part;
a miracle becomes real
as the music starts –
and like the composer of an orchestra,
you put together the pieces of picture:
sometimes the music is loud,
sometimes the instruments are distinctive,
sometimes the players are both known
and unknown –
perhaps just one face in a crowd;
sometimes, most of the time,
what comes seemingly from the most random
reasons and places
are the most impressive,
even to the dreamer of the dream –
because they are so wonderfully inventive.

Things are not always obvious;
the seemingly unconnected
may have more in common with one-another
than they appear;
just like people,
some things sometimes speak
with a similar-sounding voice;
sometimes even a thing of extreme beauty
can bring someone to tears.

Ideas can be like a lost puppy
that you find walking the streets
without an owner;
ideas about people and things
sometimes change and can be
like the highs, the lows,
and the speeds of a roller-coaster
that go in every direction
before finally coming to a rest;
ideas can be like reconnecting
with a long-lost sister or brother;
ideas are one of life’s
most amazing and incredible gifts.