poem

My Poem ‘The Angel’s Wings’

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

‘Where do you keep your wings?’
Asked the Blessed to the Angel;
‘I don’t see any wings on your back?’

‘Well, I keep mine in my wallet,
or sometimes folded up in my back-pack –
but not all angel’s have wings,
as a matter of fact:
some are artists, some are teachers,
some are hair-stylists, some are preachers,’
said the Angel with a smile
as they sat down next to the Blessed
on the park bench.

‘Oh, really?’ Replied the Blessed with a grin,
as they slowly opened the fingers of their hands
from how they had been clenched.

‘Really!’ Replied the Angel
as they looked at the Blessed
and could see that they were now feeling
and appearing as if they now were more relaxed.
A few minutes before, however,
the Blessed had collapsed to the ground
as if they had suffered a heart-attack.

‘Why don’t angel’s just walk around
with their wings on-show?’
Asked the Blessed, ‘Or turn on the light
above their head to tell everybody who they are?
Why don’t they illuminate their halo?’

‘Because, in this day-and-age,
if they did that then everyone would want a ‘selfie’
with them, wouldn’t they?’ Said the angel with a smile
and a chuckled laugh.
‘Most Angel’s keep a low-profile until they are needed.
That didn’t used to be the case a long time ago,
a couple of thousand years ago in the past.
Most of us Angel’s only truly stretch out our wings
when we are trying to get them dry
after we have taken a bath.’

‘Angel’s take baths?’ Asked the Blessed,
‘why don’t you just go for a fly?
I’m sure that a quick flap
would get in no time get them dry?’

‘Good point!’ Replied the Angel
with a sparkle in their eyes;
‘thing is though, the feathers of our wings
‘poof-up’ so badly after they get wet –
or maybe that could just be mine?’

‘Wow!’ Exclaimed the Blessed with a laugh,
‘I had no idea that angel’s could be so funny?’

‘You would be amazed at how many Angel’s
were also comedians when they are on Earth.
Me? I learned all my best one-liners
from Bill Murray on the set of Groundhog Day!
You know, considering that it is a movie
about a man repeating himself over-and-over again,
until he discovers that being a selfless person
is the only way break the endless-cycle,
it wasn’t as boring as you may think in any way.’

‘That is one of my favourite films, actually!
I must have seen it a million times.’

‘Mine too!’ Said the Angel;
‘that film is a classic!
And it is also a wonderful
modern-day parable, in my opinion.
To me, like all great art,
it is one of a kind.’

‘I feel so much better now!’ Said the Blessed.
‘I still can’t remember a thing
about what happened,
but thanks again for helping me!’

‘My pleasure!’ Replied the Angel
as he stood up from his seat
and helped steady the Blessed to their feet.

‘I better be going now.
Thank you so much!
You are my hero! You are my angel!’
Said the Blessed with a smile
before walking away, and looking around
at the beauty of their surroundings,
and taking in every chirp and tweet
of the birds that they heard singing.

And as the Angel watched the Blessed walk away,
they sat down again on the bench,
they crossed their legs,
they closed their eyes,
and they smiled…
and as the sun shone brightly on them
they unfurled their hidden wings of pure-white –
and then with the grace of God
they returned to heaven
in a flash of golden sunlight.

My Poem ‘The Crimson Cardinal’

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

The bold red Cardinal;
the striking male;
the vibrant and the wonderful;
the one who does not shy away
and who knows that they are something special
from their beak to their tail.

Naturally energetic;
a lover of life;
happy to help others
if and when they can…
someone capable of generating
great vibrancy, warmth,
fire and passion.

Colour in nature is deliberate;
why things are coloured the way that they are
has a deeper meaning than some may think;
some colours are subtle;
some colours are loud;
some colours are unmistakable;
some colours are meant to stand out from the crowd;
some colours are spiritual;
some colours are essential signs
for the lost and for the found.

No matter who you are,
no matter what you do,
no matter where you go,
no matter if and when
the world feels calm and still…
there is more to what you feel,
there is more to what you see,
there is more to life
than even the beautiful sunlight can show us,
and sometimes the only way to know something
for sure is to use your heart and call out…
and then, perhaps, the answer
may reveal itself to you,
just as I believe that my path, my faith,
and my destiny became clear to me once again
when I looked out into the world
and I was visited by the vision
and the living manifestation
of my internal passion…
that came one morning, in Tennessee,
in the unforgettable form
of the Crimson Cardinal.

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My Poem ‘Scream!’

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

Silence is broken…
the quiet is no more…
sound is made to say
what cannot be spoken…
a child that has not yet learned
how to talk is thinking, feeling,
and wanting something so much
that they are throwing everything
that they can reach to the floor.

Why do we scream?
Where does all that energy,
and where does all that deafening noise come from?
To me, there is something primal in a shriek;
to me, there is nothing like a noise
that seems to come out of nowhere
to attract your attention
and implode your concentration.

There are people who openly seek to be
scared out of their skin;
there are some people whose heart’s
race when they are on a beach
and they see in the distance
the unmistakable shape of a shark’s dorsal-fin;
there are some people who love
to take their senses to their outer-limits;
there are some people
who at the prospect of there being a ghost
in a house they are staying in
would be so petrified
that they would be scared beyond their wits.

Ghost-stories; camp-fire tales;
first-hand experiences recanted in great detail;
scary movies; myths of spectres
dressed in period-clothing
whose faces are so devoid of life they are pale;
to some people, to be shown something dark
and other-worldly horrific
is the greatest and the most visceral of thrills.

When the adrenaline surges through your body…
when your appendages spasm
and you literally jump out of your seat…
when you smile and perhaps even laugh out-loud
out of complete and utter shock and surprise,
brought on by the fear brought to life
by the images that you see…
that is when, even as a full-grown adult,
you can become like a child again
who is unsteady on their feet.

It’s cathartic to face your fears;
it’s good to let out what you are feeling
from time to time;
it’s incredible to see things you have never seen;
it’s amazing how a slight scare
can make your thoughts clear;
it’s phenomenal to see evil be defeated
when it crosses the line;
it’s exhilarating, sometimes,
to find yourself lost in a moment of comfort
and then have all that taken away
when something gives rise
to an almighty scream!

My Poem ‘We are all one’

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

Joy may come in the morning for you
in more ways than you might expect –
someone with a passion
and a drive and a love for what they do
cannot wait to jump out of bed,
while someone who feels like
they do not have a purpose in life
might open their eyes
and then close them again quickly
and cover themselves up again
below the covers
like a bird putting their wing
over them as they rest
comfortably in their nest –
however, the truth is
that everybody has a role in life,
everybody is meant to be alive,
and everybody is born to be
just as they are –
everybody is a necessary source of experience,
knowledge, instinct, inspiration,
heat and light, like a candle burning in the dark.

We all go through a metamorphosis;
we all go through an identity-crisis;
we all go through doors to places
we do not always know where;
we all go through stages of re-evaluating
what our priorities in life are,
just as we all sometimes struggle
to pick-out what we want to wear;
we are all a creation
and made in the same guise as the divine;
we are all here to be something to someone;
we are all blessed from birth
with the gift of infinite possibilities,
even if we are not given an endless life of time;
we are all of our time
and no matter how you see yourself,
or how somebody else sees you,
never forget that we are all reflections,
we are all human, we are all
resonators of change and emotion;
life is a lesson in accepting the undeniable fact
that we are all one.

My Poem ‘Heart of a Mustang’

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

When my pen drops to the page
there are times when I have no idea
what I am going to write;
when we take the first steps of many
we often do not know
where the path we will walk will lead,
but we know that what we are doing feels right;
when a moment of spontaneous inspiration hits me
it is often by surprise;
when something is worth doing
it is always worth opening your eyes to do it,
even if the time is a long time before sunrise.

Some things come naturally;
some things come over time;
some things appear as if magically;
some things roll off the tongue
like a memorable riddle or rhyme.

Life is mostly organized these days –
however, there are times
when the world is as wild
as the wild-west of America ever was,
perhaps now even more so;
people are mostly civilized these days –
however, there are times
when there is an imbalance in a society
that shows itself in everything that you see
no matter where you go;
life on our planet
is for the first time in human history
in the hands of those who hold the keys
to the tumblers of wealth and power
that control our destiny;
everyone alive today is spoiled in so many ways –
some people look, but do not see;
some people in need
need only to put their hands together and believe.

Some people strive all their lives
to stand out from the crowd;
some people find it hard to be confined
because their heart was born to beat and stay wild;
some people have the greatest gift –
and that, to me, is their way of being heard by many
without having to be loud;
some people have the remarkable ability
to stay calm and make sense in a split-second
what even the most-learned of person
cannot at first understand;
some people have been hoping and praying
and have never given up on the reality
of having the same thing
that has filled their imagination
since they were a child;
some people who wear the expression
of the quiet and the innocent,
in my experience, are keeping hidden
and tamed deep-inside
the feral heart of a mustang.

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My Poem ‘You’re my world’

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

You are my world.
You are my star.
You are my every word.
You are my heart.
You are my love for life.
You are my day,
you are my night.
You are my faith,
you are my belief.
You are my soulmate.
You are my dream come true.
You are my sun
that makes all the flowers
of my garden bloom.
You are my favourite song.
You are my morning sunshine
who makes me smile.
You are my life,
and with you is where I belong.
You are my sparkling diamond.
You are my beautiful pearl.
You are my burning desire
who inflames my body and my mind.

You, Melissa…
you are my world.

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My Poem ‘Cuddling’

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

Cuddling with my best-friend,
my soulmate, my love, my life,
to me, is heaven…
I love my angel, my shining-star,
my beautiful and perfect princess,
and being in her arms
and having her in mine
makes me feel like
I am flying and as light as a feather,
and as high as a sky of twinkling stars.

Holding her close,
holding her tight…
feeling her heart beating
with my heart in my chest…
falling even deeper in love with her
as I look into her beautiful eyes…
to me, she is perfect…
to me, she is like unlike any other…
to me, she is epic…
to me, she is my number one,
as well as my unbelievable lover.

Her kiss is like the touch of sunlight…
her skin feels as soft
and as smooth as silk…
her hair is like a beautiful
Tennessee summer breeze…
her freckles to me are incredible…
loving her is the meaning of my life…
for her I would trek up any mountain
and run up any hill…
there is nothing I would rather do
than hold my Melissa in my arms
and take my ease…
I love combing her golden
and beautiful blonde hair
with my fingers,
and I love breathing her in,
and I love running my fingertips
and my lips over her hands…
us being together means everything,
and there is nothing that I would
rather be doing than sitting
on the couch, or lying on the bed,
with the love of my life
kissing and cuddling.

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My Poem ‘Hold on’

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

Hold on tight,
don’t let go;
why couldn’t last night
have been an endless night?
Why do I have to go?
I can’t hold back my tears;
I can’t hold back the flood
of thoughts and memories…
I can’t hold back my hand
from touching an Angel’s face
as she lays asleep besides me;
I can’t hold back the emotions that I feel
when I hold my soulmate near;
I can’t hold back,
and I do not want to move an inch away
from the only light in the dark whom I see;
I can’t hold back how complete I feel
and how happy I am
when I am looking at my sleeping-beauty –
and then suddenly she opens her eyes and smiles,
as she looks right at me.

I want to hold on to her and never let her go…
I want to kiss her lips and let my love for her show…
I want to stay awake all night long,
just in case I wake up in the morning and she is gone…
I want to lay my mark on her skin,
so that forevermore she can look upon it
and know that she is always going to be my only one.

I stroke her cheek…
I whisper “I love you” into her left ear…
every second I hold her in my gaze feels like a week…
every thundering heart-beat in my chest
inspires every silent falling tear…
time is precious, words are unnecessary…
every tingle that I feel below my fingers
is to me like a miracle of God…
I don’t want to move a muscle,
but I know that the moment will come when I must…
I feel like I am the luckiest man alive,
because where I am feels so heavenly –
even after my instincts tell me
that I will soon have to pull away and let go…
I still continue to lay my hands
and my eyes upon my eternal sunshine,
and with great tenderness I promise
to continue to always and forever hold on.

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My Poem ‘El Transformador’

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

You haven’t lived,
in my opinion,
until you have seen and heard
the movie ‘Transformers’
dubbed in Spanish;
you haven’t lived
until you have traveled
4000 miles to be with
the one whom every day
makes real all that
you have ever wished;
you haven’t seen
true natural-beauty
until you have seen
the Great Smoky Mountains up-close
and you have breathed in
the clear fresh-air
that is in abundance;
you haven’t seen an angel,
in my opinion,
until you have laid your eyes upon
the woman who I adore and love –
because on a scale of perfection
there is no one who looks
and shines with as much
breathtaking and heavenly magnificence.

You haven’t lived
until you have walked the tracks of a rail-road,
under a perfectly-unbroken blue-sky,
that runs alongside the Nickajack Lake in Tennessee;
you haven’t known true-love, in my opinion,
until you have been loved in every way imaginable,
as much as I love Melissa,
as much as Melissa loves me;
you haven’t heard the heart-beat of life
until you have reached out and felt
the source of divine joy and happiness
that resides in the south of North America;
you haven’t heard the voice of your own soul
until you have been kissed and told
“I love you” by the light of your life
who is to you your life-defining shining-star.

You haven’t been given
a sign of the existence of God, in my opinion,
until you have taken a journey with your best-friend
and you have watched the book of life open up
and make sense of every-thing
that you have ever pondered,
and you find out that your best-friend
and your soulmate was put on Earth
to be with you forever;
you haven’t arrived at the true start
of your destined-path
until someone comes into your life
and without even having to try
reveals the true you
that you may at times keep under-cover.

You haven’t known a place of true-salvation,
in my opinion, until you have been
where I have been, and until you have heard
the song of your heart and spirit being performed;
you haven’t felt like
you have been to the moon and back
until you are alone with your one-and-only,
and every second feels like a life-time,
and every moment that you touch and are touched
you feel blessed and transformed.

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My Poem ‘Morning in America’

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

Morning light; morning silence;
morning life; morning peace;
morning in Tennessee and Georgia,
there is a calmness, a stillness,
a chance to breath in
the new day’s fresh air;
morning in my favourite states of America
is like waking up in a dream-world
that hypnotizes you
with its beauty with every second that you stare.

Star-spangled banners gently flutter and wave;
raindrops fall from the branches of trees
and from the roofs of porches
from the remnants of the storm
of the night before,
people go out in their cars
and carry out their daily routines;
every morning I look out of a window
and I see a red cardinal pass my way;
when I step outside for the first time
every morning I look around
and I am completely in-awe:
I see so much perfection,
and I feel so happy and so content
that it takes me a while to realize
that what and whom I see
is not in fact the stuff of dreams.

Birds sing; wind-chimes ring;
flowers open; morning has truly broken;
the sky is white, bright, blue, and pretty;
I feel so lucky to be here
with an intoxicating warmth of energy
surrounding me.

To me, this place is sacred
as much as it is blessed;
to me, the America that I know
and the America that I see
is like a country of heaven on Earth;
to me, I cannot wait to open my eyes
as the sun rises,
just after I put on my clothes and get dressed,
and reach out and hold the hand
of the most beautiful angel of Earth
who I have been destined to be with
since the day of my birth.

I love all that greets me
and all who speak to me
as my senses awaken;
I love driving to places
with my soulmate in our car;
I love how I feel like
every morning I have been saved
as well as taken;
I love every day when I wake up
and it is morning in America.

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