poem

My Poem “Between Sunrise and Sunset’

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

On Tuesday, September 11th, 2001,
the eyes of almost everyone on Earth
became fixed upon their television screens
which were showing the shocking
and horrific scenes that were being
played out in the land of the free,
the home of the brave –
and the population of the world,
especially the people of the
United States of America,
have not forgotten, nor will ever forget,
where they were and what they were
doing on the day that the two towers
of the World Trade Center,
in New York City, were attacked from above
and tragically fell to the ground
taking the lives of everybody within them.

Tuesday, September 11th, 2001,
is a day, a month, a year,
seared into my memory
and I will never forget the tears
that fell from my eyes
when I watched the last
moments of life of people whose
only crime was to wake up that morning
and wish to better their lives
and the lives of other people –
and from that day on,
and forevermore, we – the world –
have not been the same,
and every day we mourn.

Whenever we witness something devastating –
like the terrorists attacks of
Tuesday, September 11th, 2001 –
everybody always wishes
that they could turn back the clock
and change history in some way
so that all the people who were lost
could be brought back to life –
but, unfortunately, the terrorist
attacks that happened on
the East Coast of the United States
of America, on September 11th, 2001,
will forever leave a scar
of memory on all of us
who are living witnesses
to a world at war with itself;
however, I still remain hopeful
that one day the entire world
will wake up to the fact
that the true meaning of life is to love
and everybody deserves the gift
to be able to live in a world without fear
in which everybody is able
to do the best that they can,
to live freely, to live happily,
and to make the most
every moment of every day
between the first light of sunrise
and the last light of sunset.

Never forget.

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My Poem “The Driving Force”

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

I have been inspired
by so many things
since I was a child:
television shows, films,
books, art, music, places, people –
and everything that I have
had a profound encounter with
has ultimately changed me
in some way, shape, or form;
however, like the after-effects
of a power-outage, as a result
of a bolt of lightning
from an electrical storm,
the realization and the rebooting
of my thoughts, feelings, and emotions
sometimes takes time to adapt
to such a new infusion of inspiration.

Every day I find new things to cherish
about some of the things that I know
like the back of my hand –
but that is the thing about life:
surprises can be found around every corner,
even in the places you visit
more often than most.

It can sometimes be hard to pin-point
where, when, and why something
in particular has the effect on you
that it always does –
but there is never any question
of how something so powerful
gets under your skin
and drives its presence deep within you,
because whether we want to admit it,
or not, each and every one of us
is inherently, biologically,
thin-skinned and fragile,
and easily capable of being influenced.

We are all a product and the end result
of so many influences:
our environment, our family, our friends,
our colleagues, our victories, our loses,
what we intake into our body,
what we subconsciously choose
to expose ourselves to via our senses –
and, ultimately, sometimes at the exact
same time that we are being
driven to distraction,
we can also be the driving force
propelling the thoughts, the feelings,
and the direction of other people
who we too are fueling with our gift
of attention and inspiration.

My Poem “The Warstone Angel”

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

In all of Warstone cemetery,
in Birmingham,
above only one of the many places of rest,
there stands the stone statue
of a single Angel, with one broken wing,
blessing the grave of lost
and reminding the living
who pass them by how important
the gift of life is –
and though the figure depicted
is motionless, because after all
they are a statue,
there is something about the look
upon their face that makes
you think, imagine, and possibly believe
that they could easily come to life
and float down to the ground
from their high plinth
and walk the paths that run
through the cemetery
so that they may bless
the graves of everybody
individually and know them by name
even though some of the grave stones
have long since had the identity
of those that they were erected
to remember eroded and erased…
it is comforting to think
that while we are alive,
and even after our time on this Earth
has come to an end,
that there are celestial beings
who do God’s work and who protect
those who need protecting,
who guide those in need of being guided
and who watch over the living,
as well as the dead,
so that they can find their way
to a place of peace –
and that is why I treasure
the gift of life, and that is why I believe
death is not the end for us when we die:
because some things, some places,
some revelations that people have,
even in a small way,
reveal that there is more to existence
than what we can see with our eyes –
but only those who have already
crossed over the threshold
between the world of the living
and the place of light and dark beyond
know what happens
and how much everybody
who is still Earthbound
are touched every day
by the hands of Angels
as they are silently blessed.

My Poem “The Virtual/Reality”

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

There used to be a clear
and present distinction
between the world of the real
and the reality of the virtual…
People used to be able to see
the truth of something
through the veil of the illusionary –
however, then illusionists became
better at presenting their craft
and more knowledgeable
about what motivated
the thoughts of a person’s mind
and what increased the beats
of a person’s heart,
and then it began to become
increasingly more harder
to see through the mirror
of reality that surrounds
everybody which constantly
reflects both the good and the bad
that a person observes about themselves
when they look at their own reflection.

The more that technology has advanced
the more elaborate illusions –
in all their many forms –
have become, and with every passing day
reality and fantasy have become
increasingly more indistinguishable
from one another…
in this day and age,
someone can put on a virtual reality headset,
they can open up an internet web browser,
and they can sign up to becoming
a participant and a player in a game –
however, without fully reading
the full extent of the terms
and the conditions by which
they may be bound to.

When a baby is born into this life
they are always unprepared
for what world awaits them…
when every child is growing up
they are always surrounded
by an abundance of messages,
pressures, and beacons of distraction
that are constantly interacting with,
and trying to influence,
their instincts, their choices,
and the actions that they will commit to…
when someone is transitioning
from being a beginner into becoming
a novice who knows the ropes
and all the rules of the world
and the society that they are tethered to
and which need to be adhered to,
while they are trying to figure out
who they want to be and what they want to do,
everybody is pulled in multiple directions,
by multiple people –
and it can take a long time before
someone realizes that the one person
who will feel the aftermath and the burden
of everything that they do is them,
and the greatest gift that someone
can possess is the ability
to be able to forgive themselves
and accept that they are a well-meaning,
maelstrom of both reason
and contradiction, human being, an avatar,
who, like everybody else,
does not have an accurate roadmap
telling them what to do
and when to do it.

At the heart of the complex is the simple,
and at the heart of the simple
is the complex…
in this day and age, everybody lives,
breathes, thinks, dreams, and feels
within a world tailored to their own
wants, needs, likes, and dislikes –
whether they know it or not –
that is as superficial
but as hard to break free of as
a machine-built matrix…
when it comes to choosing
which path to take, which reality is best,
everybody has to weigh up
with their heart, within their mind,
within their soul, what matters
the most to them: freedom? Or confinement?
knowledge? Or ignorance?
Fakery? Or the power of discovering
your true identity,
and seeing the code of interconnectivity
and learning to find the balance
needed to survive within,
and transition seamlessly
between, the ever changing
worlds of the virtual and the real.

My Poem “Being There”

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

Being there for someone
when they are in need
is sometimes all that
someone could wish for…
being that someone
on the other end of a line
that someone can talk to,
being that someone
who someone can turn to,
being that someone
who knows everything about
someone and who has seen
all the sides of someone’s personality
and who still chooses to see
and to believe in the best of them
is someone worth living for,
is someone worth fighting for,
and is perhaps someone
even worth dying for…
being there – somewhere, anywhere,
for someone, for anyone –
is a wonderful gift to bestow –
whether it be in mind,
in body, in spirit,
or in an artistic sense –
and the power of a person’s presence
should never be underestimated,
because there is rejuvenation to be felt,
there is hope to be found,
there is love to be cherished,
there is inspiration to be harnessed
simply by making a concerted effort
in some way, shape, or form,
to reach out and reciprocate
the act of beneficial benevolence
of being there for someone.

My Poem “Full Circle”

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

When you first start out
at doing something
you do not know just how
transformative what you
have chosen to do will be…
when you first start out
at doing anything
you are usually merely
dipping your toe into the ocean
of whatever new frontier
you are choosing explore…
when you first start out
looking for a reason
and an opportunity
to further develop
your new found pursuit
you usually try to practice
your art at every hour
of the day and the night
until whatever melody and rhythm
that you are attempting to play
with whatever instrument you have
at your disposal feels
and sounds just right.

When you are first starting out
and trying to figure out whether
whatever you have discovered
will be a short-term or a life-long
passion you usually have moments
when you start to question
everything about what something
means to you and why, and ultimately –
if something truly means
that much to you then you will
walk to the ends of the Earth
trying to find the end of the threads
that binds everything that makes
you who and what you are together.

When you first start creating art,
when you first start acting
on your instincts,
when you first start believing
that you can contribute something
to the tapestry of life on this
planet that is truly beautiful,
then you start to grow and become
something new at the same time
that you realize that
what you are actually doing
is walking a path that begins
and ends in the exact same place –
and when as you live longer
and as you see more of
life’s bigger picture
then you come to realize
that the universe, and the life
of everything and everybody,
is a journey that everybody takes
the long way round one big circle.

My Poem “The Underdog”

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

Underdogs are always underestimated –
however, in the same breath,
underdogs are also expected
to accomplish a sometimes almost
miraculous feat and overcome
every obstacle in their path…
underdogs are usually the ones
that a crowd of people gets behind
and roots for, because people
like the idea of being a participant
and a witness to a remarkable event
in a person’s life, their story,
their legend, their journey…
underdogs can sometimes appear
to have come from out of nowhere –
however everybody knows that someone
can only make a difference if
the right version of them shows up
and they put everything into
whatever they are doing…
an underdog is a rebel of the status quo…
an underdog is someone who does not know
when to lay down their sword
and keep their head low…
over the centuries history has recorded
the deeds and the words of underdogs
who answered a call to face an opponent
who towered above them in some way –
just like in the story of David and Goliath –
and it is because of these heroes,
and these icons of inspiration,
who chose to rise to the occasion
that they found themselves presented with,
that people all around the world
still to this day battle in arenas
of many kinds and sizes
and valiantly personify the importance
and the meaning of being an underdog.