night

My Poem ‘This New Day’

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

Each new day presents new challenges;
each new day we all leave new footprints;
each new day relies on its connection
to the day before
so as to rhyme with the day to come;
each new day is a choreography
and a mix of infusions
of many styles of dances;
each new day we see people pushing their limits;
each new day our closest star shines and burns
and keeps alive life on Earth,
and until we reach our dying day
that important star will always be our sun.

This new day, this new start,
this new time to play,
this new chain of moments
are ours to do with what we choose;
this new awakening, this new cycle,
this new rising, this new drum-roll,
is ours to make something vibrant and amazing with
just as glorious as the sky above is blue.

Every new day is a new poem;
every new poem is an entry in a diary;
every new page is written on
with the ink of inspiration and fascination;
every new thought is the first step
of a writer along the way
towards the penning of a brand new
creation of poetry.

One good morning;
one good afternoon;
one good evening;
one good night;
one new drawing;
one new moon;
one new inhale and exhale of breathing;
one new burst of beautiful sunlight
will lead and will be an important seed
that will grow like vines in a jungle
in many new directions,
and the more that we all follow
these extensions of our actions
the more new ground we too will lay –
and this process will continue
and it will go on and on forever,
and the future of tomorrow
will be made of what we all do
on this new day.

My Poem ‘Found’

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

I am so lucky,
I am so fortunate,
I am so blessed,
I am so grateful
to be able to say
that I am happy,
that I am in the place
in my life that I am at,
that I am able to sit here
and feel like I am at my best.

We all need light,
we all need hope,
we all want life,
we all want to show,
we all want to share,
we all want to care,
we all have a love in our life
that we surround ourselves with
which we hold on to tight;
we all have that something
or that someone
that we dream about at night;
we all have the right
to fight like a knight;
we all have to sometimes
run through fire
to get to the place
and to the person
that we most desire.

The world is not a solid sphere;
the people of Earth are as in motion
as the tectonic plates below the ground;
hope for a peaceful future
is the glue that keeps humanity
from completely fracturing
into a state of fear;
the people who choose
to leave their birthplace
and search for a better place
to call their home
should be allowed to find
and somehow regain
what they thought for the longest time
was forever lost and gone.

I see people looking for something;
I see people everyday
doing the best that they can;
I see people everyday tethering;
I see people everyday trying
to formulate any kind of a plan;
I see people on the move;
I see people standing still;
I see people with the optimism of youth;
I see people in search of a thrill.

Our planet is a beautiful place to live;
our planet is a beautiful place
to enjoy for all its glorious beauty;
our finite existence is a beautiful opportunity
for all of us to find and share
the meaning of all life
with that very special someone;
our lives are as they are for a reason,
and even though there may have been times
when life has been indescribably rough –
the true strength that you can have in life
is to keep believing that one day
you will be given the gift of total clarity.

A tree must shed its leaves;
a parent must let their offspring fly free;
a prosperous life must have both rain
and sunshine to thrive;
a person should not have to hide;
a kite must be lighter than air
to fly high and true;
an astronaut who braves
the outer limits of space
must also have a desire
to return to the ground;
a contradiction of differing emotions
and feelings is everybody and you;
a thing must sometimes be lost forever
so that one day by someone else
it can be found.

My Poem ‘The Night Owl’

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

You stay up all through the night;
you see the shine of the moon,
as well as the rise of the morning sunlight;
your natural environment is darkness;
your natural instincts come alive
when the world is quiet
and you can spread your wings
and use to the best of your ability
your finely-honed senses;
you see more than most others do;
the daylight You is more beautiful than words,
but the nocturnal You allows you
to show parts of you
that can only be seen
by they who can see that you are
the most wonderful and magical miracle
in the entire world.

You look, you see, you hear, you know;
you take flight into the air
faster than a firefly;
when you hear the heartbeats
and the pulses of energy
of the music of the night,
before you can think
you are following your own heart,
and away you go!

When I see you,
you glow and draw me towards you;
when I look into your big,
gorgeous, dark-brown eyes,
my thoughts burn like the sun;
when you call to me,
I feel like I may soon
turn into a mythical wild animal –
like a werewolf howling at the moon;
when I take in everything about you –
when I watch you, when I follow you,
I feel with every fiber of my being
that you are my true heart and soul desire,
and I feel like I would not and could not
be me if I did not have you.

There is life that thrives
and was made to have an innate connection
with the twilight;
there are people who only know
the tranquility that can be found
in the dark when the stars can be seen shining bright;
there is life with gifts
that mostly show themselves
only when the sun has set below the horizon –
with powers to them that, to me, are in every way
amazing, epic, magical, and mythical;
there are people who feel comfortable
in their own skin who feel serene and wonderful
when they can be their natural self,
when they are up all night long
and enjoying every moment
of being the quintessential night-owl.

My Poem ‘Dreamcatcher’

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

Have you ever awoken in a dream one night,
only later to discover that the dream
that you had awoken from
was really a dream that you were dreaming
in a dream that you were having?
And really you have been asleep the entire time?
And at the moment that you wake up,
the day has already begun,
and you have no idea of what happened,
nor where you have been –
but you feel like you have emerged
and taken a deep breath
after coming to the surface of a vast ocean?

Some of our memories
can be like sandcastles on a beach;
some of our defining thoughts
can be like landmarks;
some of our experiences
can be like mountains that we climb,
and return from, that cannot be attained
nor ever topped again,
and for the rest of our lives
they may feel out of reach;
some of our happiest and joyous moments
can be like a shield and a defense
than can silently protect us from harm.

Dreams can be shared;
dreams can be a legacy;
dreams can be lived in the real world,
as well as while lying in bed;
dreams have a meaning and a language to them
and within them that not that many people
through history have ever been able to interpret
and understand fully –
because no matter how much a dream
can seem to make sense
during and after you are dreaming,
and have dreamed it,
that same dream, and every dream,
continues to live, play out,
and inform your world subtly and incredibly.

When we dream we see with different eyes;
when we do something or go somewhere
in a dream it can be both an echo, and also a prelude;
when we feel something in a dream
we are trying to tell ourselves
that our heart and our feelings
are more sensitive than we may sometimes realize;
when the cover of slumber pulls us under
and we fall under the spell of our own imagination,
we have no control of where we will go,
or what, or whom, will come to us –
and that is why sometimes our dreams
can feel like we have been dreaming for days and nights,
and some dreams can feel like
they should have gone on longer
because they were over too soon.

Our dream-selves can sometimes seem
to be having all the fun that we wish
when we are awake we could have;
our dreams keep imagining every kind of possibility –
which is why they matter;
our dream identities can be triggered
at any time of the day,
even when we are taking a long hot bath;
our dreams can be so amazing
and so fantastic, sometimes,
that they simply need to endure
and never be forgotten –
and that is why, over the centuries,
people have sought to preserve
and keep alive the dreams
that are meant to create ripple-effects
in the underlying life-connecting
consciousness of the world:
by turning them into tales, legends, stories,
and retelling them over and over again –
and the best way of allowing a dream to never die
is to seek out a kindred spirit
and to harness the amazing power of a dreamcatcher.

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My Poem ‘Short but Sweet’

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

All moments are precious;
first thing in the morning
every second rushes by like a train;
no matter what it is,
everybody remembers their first;
in the fresh and bright new morning light
the energy in the air is amazing
and addictive and always goes
straight to your head.

I like to start every day
by listening to a song or two;
some people like to wake up
and immediately connect
and engage with the world
that never sleeps and is always up and ready;
I like to begin my day with a poem of my own,
writing for a small few;
some people like to go for an early morning run,
a walk, a coffee from their favourite coffee shop,
to make sure that their day begins with a tone
that makes them extremely happy.

Morning time can feel like you are a skier
on a snowy slope heading down a mountain
faster than you can think or perceive clearly;
in the middle of the day,
some people have time to take a break
and enjoy a brief siesta of mind and body;
in the afternoon, time seems to move much slower
and can at times feels as if
the hands of the clock are standing still;
in the evening, at the twilight of the day,
is when you truly have the time
to make things happen –
and if you are not doing anything in particular,
before the end of the night and the day,
you soon will.

One day is always different from the previous,
and the day that will follow will also be
its own day with things occurring in it
that will always be synonymous with that day’s date;
every opportunity that presents itself
is almost over as soon as it begins;
there is never any limit to how much happiness
you can generate;
no two experiences has a true identical twin.

Life can seem long when you are living it,
but short and brief when recalled and remembered,
and what is said can sometimes have a half-life
comparable to that of a birds tweet;
life is meant to be made the most of…
so dive below, and reach high and above!
You can do so much in such a short space of time –
so don’t forget to cherish
every unforgettable moment,
especially those that are short and sweet.

My Poem ‘The Night Club’

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

It always been amazing to me
how a song or a piece of music
can make you and can teach you
how to move to it
within seconds of first hearing it;
it has always been inspiring to me
how a memorable character in a story
can have the unknown power
to come into the physical world
and walk around in it;
it has always been fascinating to me
why some people, no matter how soundly
they may be sleeping
wake up early in the morning,
and, just like me, begin creating;
it has always been gratifying to me
to see people sharing what they can
and keeping alive the memory
of a phenomenal feeling.

I have always been a quick study;
I have always been fast on my feet,
as well as fast in thought
and luminous and strong in spirit;
I have always known that
there are multiple levels to a story;
I have always felt just as comfortable,
alive, and sensitive to what surrounds me
in the beautiful light of a sunny day,
as I do walking in the dark
in the moonlight of night.

Everyone is a catalyst;
every day is a new day
that has echoes of the days before
as well as foreshadowing of the days that will follow;
every time you do anything
you are taking a risk;
every eventuality can evolve
from fantasy to reality at any moment
anywhere you go.

When you unexpectedly wake up,
you are being awoken for a reason;
when you randomly find something
that has been left by somebody,
that thing was left purposefully
so that you could find it
and so that it could influence
your life in some way;
when you see something, feel something,
and something within you is changed;
when you know that you are forever in love;
when you know your place,
when you know your time,
when you find yourself awake
and energized like never before –
reading, writing, watching, walking,
listening, loving every moment,
even if that place and time
is midday in the afternoon
or 1 o’clock in the morning –
and you discover that you are a member
and a reveler like so many other people
who are in their element being a star
in the constellation of a night club.

My Poem ‘The Silence’

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

I hear nothing.
Life is as it always is,
but something just doesn’t feel right;
all I can focus on,
and the only sound that breaks the silence
is my breathing;
all that I am certain of
is that I am still alive,
because I can still feel my heart beating.

The stars are in the sky;
the moon is full;
everything looks as it has appeared before –
however, I just have this feeling that I can’t shake:
that there is something lingering in the air,
something building in the darkness of the night,
that makes tonight feel like it is not just any night.

It’s probably my mind playing tricks on me;
it’s probably me thinking too much;
it’s probably something completely logical
and easily explainable, as to why I am feeling “funny”;
it’s probably my emotions running away with themselves –
however, usually when I do so,
my emotions tell me exactly what is happening,
or going to happen –
but my emotions are the thing
that I have learned to trust the most.

I have had feelings like this before –
as if I am watching a huge wave,
while standing in the ocean,
and in-awe of it and unable to move,
because I feel like I can’t look away,
and because I need the wave
to come crashing down on me somehow.
My thoughts race,
my instincts go into overdrive;
I swear in my mouth there is this odd taste;
I try to see past the darkness, and the wave,
but I cannot see beyond what hasn’t happened yet –
these days, the future feels as if
it is an ever-changing cloud.

I feel like I am looking up at the night sky
through a telescope, seeing something bright and blinding
approaching in the lens,
that looks like a meteorite
that is coming straight for me,
that is going to fall right where I am,
and the thought that I might not be touched by the impact
is one that holds no hope;
and, as I watch, as I wait, as I feel, as I listen,
I know that something is coming,
there in the silence.

My Poem ‘The Shortest Day’

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

Today is the shortest day;
tonight will be the longest night;
sunrise and sunset will happen
within no time at all of each other,
as if the entire day will begin and end
within the blink of an eye.

The time to do things and to grasp the moments
are more precious today
than they ordinarily are on a normal day;
the Winter Solstice is here –
it is not even midday,
but I can already see the fading of the day’s light.

As soon as I woke up this morning,
I had this immediate feeling that there was something
in the cold early-morning air;
as soon as I started to think cogently
my mind was instantly clear,
and as I watched the sky brighten outside my window
I could do nothing but look up
and marvel at the white clouds that met my stare.

Christmas is but a few days away;
people all over the world
are doing their last pieces of Christmas shopping;
there is an anticipation to be felt all around
that something is on its way;
everybody is filled with hopes and dreams, and genuine joy,
and there is also whispers and wishes
that perhaps soon it may even start snowing.

The air is cold;
the streets are busy;
Christmas songs are playing all around me
and filling me, the atmosphere, and everybody,
with happiness, who are sitting with me here in this cafe;
there are seasons and emotions greeting and changing
and being felt all around the world;
there is energy on the verge of being set free;
there is more than meets the eye occurring today
on the shortest day.

My Poem ‘Gunpowder’

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

There is a full-moon shining;
there are a million stars above my head twinkling;
there is the unmistakable smell of distant fires;
there is another indistinguishable aroma,
taste, sensation, in the air,
that invigorates me-
races the blood in my veins,
enlarges my heart, expands my lungs-
and that is what everyone, everywhere,
on this night, here,
which was to be Guy Fawkes’ modus operandi
a long time ago, on a similar night,
on the fifth of November:
the powder that helps propel a bullet,
that which is contained and which explodes
within a firework-
the one and only, gunpowder.

The black sky is coloured with every colour;
flashes and bangs, light and sound,
enthrall, surprise, awe-inspire, constantly
with little-to-no pause, in rapid-frequency.
Adults look up, children grin with excitement-
everyone wants to be outside, even in the cold,
so that they can feel the rush of being awestruck,
and so that they can remember, experience,
and know what is important.

A brilliant expression of celebration;
a phenomenal invention that has changed the world,
more than anything anyone may be able to mention;
a visceral spectacle that you can see and hear
that does not come much louder-
the explosive mixture at the other end of a fuse
that sends rockets into the sky,
and hearts and imaginations souring into the great unknown;
a magical dust that should always be handled with care;
that is in the air at this time of the year,
before, and beyond, the time of the midnight hour-
the defining chemistry, and DNA of a firework:
gunpowder.

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Remember remember the 5th of November

My Poem ‘Ghost on my bed’

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

When I was a child,
around the age of eight or nine,
I was sleeping in bed,
when I suddenly woke up in the dark-
I’m not sure what time it was,
but it was definitely after midnight-
and the lasting memory
that has stayed with me every day since
is that of me turning over in my bed
to look down at the light
coming from underneath my bedroom door,
and even though it was seemingly warm in my bed,
the air around me had gone incredibly cold-
as if I were sleeping in a bedroom
that was also a fridge;
and I also remember, from out of nowhere,
the feeling that I was being watched,
and that I was not alone.

I must have been lying there
for what must have been only a few seconds,
when I turned my head to look away from the light
towards the dark of my bedroom wall,
when I suddenly felt the mattress I was sleeping on
sink, as if someone was sitting on my bed besides me,
and I could feel their weight,
and their touch on the back of my neck.
It was definitely not the wind,
it was definitely not my imagination;
it was definitely someone, or something;
it was definitely a presence, a spirit,
a phantom, an apparition,
that felt real and was real-
it was a life that was still living in some form,
who had come to pay me a visit.

I did not make a sound;
I did not cry;
I did not look around;
I did feel frightened and unsettled, I am not going to lie;
I just lay there; I just listened;
I just closed my eyes and wondered whether
when I woke up in the morning
whomever was now sitting on my bed would still be there;
I just remember drifting away,
until I saw the light of my dreams glisten.

I woke up in the morning,
still with the memory of the night before
alive and burning in my mind.
I opened the curtains to let the new day’s sunlight in,
and I looked around, and I sighed.
To this day, I do not know what, or who,
came to me on that night a long time ago;
I do not know if they were once alive and they knew me,
or someone I know who is not yet dead;
I do not know who was there in the gloom of my room,
but I do know that one night when I was a boy
there was a ghost who sat on my bed.