poem

My Poem ‘The Force’

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

The galaxy has no boundary,
the stars of our galactic family
are bound to each other by gravity –
but the real magic energy,
that makes everything what it is, we can’t see,
because the energy field that surrounds us all
and links every atom in our body
with those of the worlds trees
is the same that can be found
within the heart of every star
ever born that has ever shined,
which is a force that makes life,
the universe, everything possible,
which we can all feel everywhere every second
that stretches in every direction infinitely.

I have believed since I was a kid
that you should always trust your feelings,
and you should always reach
as far and as high as you can,
and never give up on being
who and what you want to be –
because anyone can do so much
and can have what they need
to bring them happiness,
if for all the days of their life
they never once stop believing.

The universe, like people, has a memory
that is the best there will ever be,
and it also thinks, plans, and experiments
from time to time, and ultimately
it wants everything and everyone to live in harmony,
in serenity, and to be free to be happy,
and understand that moments of contentment
and love are precious, and every moment
will never happen the same way again –
so you must embrace the world
and its gifts of wonderful
and phenomenal improbability.

Some of the best things
that have ever happened in your life,
perhaps even your birth,
were not planned –
but their effect will be long-remembered,
as long as the Earth is a beautiful blue light
in the dark for outer-space observers
and a paradise for those of us
who are blessed to walk its lands
and sail and swim its waters.
Nature is all about maintaining a vital balance
between the light and the dark,
between choice and fate,
between the river and the source,
and every time I feel something
that I know is special and powerful
I throw everything of myself around it
and I make it a part of me
and I feel like a sword of light
perfectly in balance with understanding
and with intense feeling
of the great and eternal
not to be underestimated
power of the force of life.

My Poem ‘Thirteen o’clock’

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

The clock has struck one too many times,
it is now thirteen o’clock,
there is a splinter in my mind,
time itself has stopped,
the past is a fantasy,
the future is an open and wide new country,
reality is broken,
the mirror of reflection has shattered,
I feel like I have awoken
and I am having to call into question
what truly matters.

There is an old riddle
about what you should do
if a clock strikes thirteen,
and the answer to that riddle
is to “get a new clock”;
there are many times in a person’s life
when they have to stand and stop,
look back, look forward,
not knowing where to go and where to turn,
as if in a state of shock;
revelations of ourselves
that occur to us should not be feared,
but they must be questioned;
mistakes are not always a bad thing –
sometimes they can be vital lessons.

There is a legend that says
that if a man hears a clock strike
thirteen times he can save his own life
or someone else’s;
I believe that the thirteenth strike
is when the true picture
of how the world truly is can be seen
by an instant amalgamation
of the fragmented pieces.

Today, right now, for me,
it is thirteen o’clock;
as I remember the road that I have walked and my path,
a shadow shrouds the events of my past as I look back;
it occurs to me that I have been here before,
and that perhaps the thirteenth strike
is the life I have been living within
every second for years;
time and life are like a time-piece,
and they can only function correctly
when going in the right direction –
and for every ‘tick’ there must follow a ‘tock’;
the spin and the orbit of the Earth around the sun
is constant, and I realize that I too
must keep my momentum going and I must
never contently stop.
There is only one way
to know true happiness:
to break free, however you can,
from the everlasting time
of thirteen o’clock.

My Poem ‘The Beach’

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

It has been a beautiful day;
it has been a day to remember
in so many ways;
the sparkling and the warm sand
beneath my feet that I am sitting on
feels amazing;
the glistening golden sea
that looks as if it could be
the surface of the sun –
because it looks in every way
like an ocean of pure energy –
is breathtaking;
as I look out and I see
the most beautiful and unbroken blue sky,
my heart skips a beat;
as I close my eyes,
I am transported in my mind
to a deserted island,
surrounded by palm trees –
in my imagination, I am a castaway
living a life free to be
whomever I want to be –
I have no worries,
I have no distractions,
I am self-sustaining
and I live off and alongside nature
and every day I walk my island paradise
and I swim in the beautiful blue sea;
I read the books that I brought with me,
and I daily write down what I see –
what I think about and what I feel
about life in my journal and diary;
I listen to the sound of the waves
and each one is like the voice of an old friend
stopping by to say ‘hello’;
I hear the music of my youth
playing from out of nowhere;
and when I think about the outside world,
and about my friends and family living their lives
far away, their faces appear
as if sculpted by the billion of grains
of sand that I see below me.

My hair is long;
my beard is substantial;
my skin is brown;
my home is a hand-built house
of cut down trees that has a roof of green
and hard-wearing leaves;
from my favourite spot,
looking out at my favourite view,
I have seen unimaginable sights:
dolphins, turtles, whales;
just off the coast, below the waves,
there is the most stunning
and beautiful coral reef.

To me, this place is heaven;
to me, this life could not be anymore perfect;
to me there is nowhere else in the entire world
where you could see the sun rise and the sun set,
and lay down on your back and see
a 360-degree view of the Milky-way galaxy’s
infinite and magnificent stars
shining their incredible and magical light,
in a place that is in every way
the definition of idyllic.

In my daydream, I look to the oncoming waves
and I see something bobbing up and down
before being washed up on the beach in front of me
and within touching distance of the toes of my feet;
I am not phased by the sight of the plastic bottle
and the evident message on a piece of paper
that is contained within –
however, when I reach down for the bottle
and I unscrew the lid and I reach in
and pull out the piece of paper,
it takes me awhile to realize
the messages’ meaning
because of how profound
the four-words of it are,
it takes a while to sink in.

I am brought back to reality in a flash!
As I look at the world, and to the sea,
everything looks even more stunning
and beautiful than it had appeared before.
Still with the message from my daydream
echoing in my mind like a bell,
I decide to write the same message
in pen on a torn-out page
from my nearby journal…
I write the same message
in the same way as it had appeared to me
only seconds before in my imagination,
and then I put the message
in an empty bottle of water
that I had brought with me earlier,
I stand up,
I run towards the ocean
and I throw my message in a bottle out
as far as I can
for someone to find in the future,
for someone to discover and read;
and then I sit back down
and I watch the sea again,
and I am again taken away
to a far-away place –
all the while, I am sitting in the sun
on the sand of this gorgeous beach.

My Poem ‘Complexion’

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

With every step you take through nature,
with every minute in the sun,
with your eyes you can see
phenomenal, beautiful, fantastic,
incredible features,
with your ears you can hear
the rhythm and the natural music of life,
of which you could only previously recall but a fraction,
and your memory can only be a reflection.

The feeling of the sun on your skin;
the shape and the colour of every flower;
the aroma that is a mixture
between that of cut grass
and the most intoxicating perfume;
the time that can seem like a blissful eternity
that in reality is like a magical glass globe
of a world in which the blossom from the trees
floats and is carried by the wind
within a matter of hours –
on a sunny spring day
there is only one song and one sensation
you want to replay and replay.

The world would not be the same without us,
and we would not be the same without the world;
just as the molecules of our bodies
are bound tightly together to make us in a certain way,
just as our genetic traits slowly become noticeable
throughout our lives and will always be present in our DNA,
humanity is like a mixture of chemicals in a test-tube
and Earth is where the reaction happens
and can be observed in the galactic laboratory
that is always making and remaking
the definition of life’s mould.

There are skies of red;
there are seas of white;
there are stories never to be known or read;
there are birds that will never take flight;
life is no accident,
but it is an ongoing experiment;
things that were thought lost forever can return;
beauty can be different from person to person,
and can have different meanings
in different places on the same planet;
ice is cold, but it can also burn;
eternity can be an unimaginably cruel gift to some,
to live forever would be the most unnatural thing
to have to endure –
because every living thing lives and dies
so that all life can carry on;
change is fundamental in welcoming
the arrival of the future;
everyone must be both a balance
of different and the same;
to see the universal differences
there must be a spectrum;
everybody has an instinct about things
that can’t be easily explained;
biological life has its own natural colour
that is truly a miracle to behold
and to watch it as it defies explanation
every time while showing the simplicity
and in the same instant the complexity
of the infinite and the multi-dimensional
complexion of the universe.

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My Poem ‘Journey’s Friend’

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

Journeys are more memorable when shared;
journeys are more meaningful
when they are unexpected;
journeys are more special
when you care about every moment
that you are somewhere;
journeys are more fantastic
when you do something epic and amazing
with a friend.

A journey does not have to take place
in a fantasy world for it to be thought of
as magical;
a journey to somewhere,
a journey to something,
can take an hour, or even a lifetime,
and can be just as profound
as watching a new star being born,
which irrevocably changes
the features of the face
of the night-sky forever;
a journey that gives you a gift
every minute and every step along the way
is one that is truly inspirational;
a journey that takes you far and wide
but also close and deep in the same breath
is a miracle in every sense of the word
beyond measure.

A companion to lean on;
a mate to understand you
and pull you through the twilight nights;
a partner you can always count on;
a sidekick to have adventures with;
an ally and a buddy beyond any doubt;
a Butch to your Sundance
you would want by your side if, when, where
you had to make the decision
to jump off a cliff.

A reader of your stories;
someone who you would walk into a burning building for;
a comrade who is one of the best things in your life
who sees the world in the same way that you see it;
a familiar face, who you wish
was always standing at your front door;
someone who you have an unbreakable bond with
that will still be there and strong, even after death;
the best person you know
who is always there for you,
because they are, as you are,
your journey’s friend.

My Poem ‘One of those days’

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

Today is one of those days
when wherever you look
the sun is in your eyes;
today is one of those days
when you want to walk
barefoot in the park
on the soft green grass;
today is one of those days
when nature comes alive for everyone
and anybody can bask
in the beauty of the world;
today is one of those days
when things happen that are beyond words;
today is one of those days
when people are having picnics;
today is one of those days
when the colours of the flowers
and the intense blue of the sky
glows as if they were exemplifying
the meaning of nature;
today is one of those days
that is perfect for a scoop or two of ice-cream;
today is one of those days
when children feel in their element;
today is one of those days
which feels like it is a dream;
today is one of those days
which feels like a constant banquet
to all your senses;
today is one of those days when everyone
should be outside in the sun;
today is one of those days
that is perfect for having all kinds of fun;
today is one of those days
when you can sit down and write,
paint, read, and listen to the world
and feel content;
today is one of those days
that is meant to be shared
because it is one of those days
that reminds everybody what is truly important;
today is one of those days
when I look around and I remember
memories of similar days
that looked as beautiful as today;
today is one of those days
which are precious to me in so many ways;
today is one of those days
when I feel intoxicated
by the energy of the sun’s rays;
today is one of those days…

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My Poem ‘Holographic’

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

Beyond what you see,
further than the horizon,
above the clouds,
above the trees,
in the art at the heart of the universe,
in the colours of the galaxy
that can only be seen from Earth with a telescope,
there is layer upon layer of light and colour –
particles of dust, laboratories of gas,
cocktails of elements,
when observed from a particular vantage-point
come together to make a picture
that is a piece of art
that has been millions of years in the making
that will slowly change over time
and evolve to be something else,
just as everything else must
that is connected to nature.

The things we see can sometimes be an illusion –
a hologram, a figment and a combination
of our vision and our imagination,
as well as our emotions,
and if you were to see the same thing
from a reversed-angle, looking back,
you would see a completely different picture
with radically different connotations.

Many things can be a trigger for great creativity;
many experiences can be spectacles
that can inspire great art;
many things must first happen in a poets life
for them to write epic poetry;
many life-changing infernos began burning
because of a well-time spark.

A face is always but a mask;
a book cover is but an entrance below
to a trove of treasure;
every planet with life
is a pearl of infinite complexity
in an ocean of dark;
a name is but a teaser
to something greater and deeper.

A library is a hive alive
with story-lovers, and story-tellers;
an art gallery is where those who
want to appreciate art and visual poetry
can go to be awestruck by a kindred spirit
that lived perhaps centuries before they were born;
everything has a story to it,
everyone has had to be a part of a journey
that may at times have been unpredictable and frenetic;
a market of any type is the best place
to see a snap-shot of an echo of something
that is primordially interstellar;
new artists rise with every new dawn;
everything that you catch with your eyes
is a layer of space and time
that exists in a universe
that when seen for all its components and projections
is fundamentally holographic.

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My Poem ‘Birthmark’

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

34 years, 408 months,
1,774 weeks, 12,418 days ago,
on the 21st of April, 1981,
a little boy was born
and two of the most wonderful
and amazing parents
anyone could ask for
were blessed with a son –
that was the day
that I arrived in the world,
and that was when the tapestry of my life
slowly began to unfurl.

Mark James Hastings,
that is the name that I was given at birth
and that is who I have been
since it was printed for all time
on my birth certificate;
son, brother, friend,
wanderer, wonderer,
dreamer, hard-worker,
and 99.9 percent of the time
a lover of life and a writer
in the form of a poet.

People are always telling me
that I don’t look my age;
people are always asking me
what my secret is to having
an old soul inside someone
with such a young face;
people ask me all the time
where I get my ideas from
when I am writing,
and my response to that question
is one word: life –
because that is the epic adventure
that is eternally and limitlessly
exciting, enlightening, and inspiring.

I have flashes of memories of my childhood
that regularly come back to me;
I have emotions of experiences from my life
that daily make me smile and make me cry;
I have mental and physical photos
that I look at with glee;
I have questions that I ask
that begin who…? what…? where…?
when…? how…? why…?
But I will always know and remember
what is important and I will continue
to spread the word about what I have learned
in my life, and sometimes I secretly wish
that I could replay certain special moments
that I have had, even though I know
life is meant to be so that I can’t.

Today is my birthday;
today is a day that is close to my heart;
today is a day when I have so much to say;
today is always the day when I think back
and I talk to my younger self,
and even at the moment that I am born
I visualize myself in the mind
of my infant-self and I leave myself
a message and a question that has no end
that I know I will carry my whole life –
like a defining and indelible birthmark.

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My Poem ‘The Art Complex’

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

There is nothing more inspiring than art;
there is no one more interesting than an artist;
discovering new art is the best part of any day
and when I do I am always touched deep in my heart;
to me art is magic –
and right this second there is so much art in the world
it is beyond the dreams of any dreamer,
and it has to be seen to be believed
and must not be missed.

Art is on every city street corner;
art can be seen in the sky;
art can be seen on doors;
art is being created spontaneously every minute,
and the true gift of art
is that it not only is an expression of spirit
but it is also being painted on a canvas
that is as deep as a black-hole
and also infinitely wide.

I believe that we are in an artistic renaissance
filled with music, portraits, paintings,
literature, poetry, creativity
on so many levels of complexity –
the rhythm is so encompassing and phenomenal,
art inspires more art,
and artists are like the choreographers
of a profoundly beautiful and moving dance.

I wake up every morning
and art is the first thing that I see;
I open my eyes every day
and I see new life in the new light;
I open my mind as I open the curtains
and I see the most awe-inspiring masterpiece
right in front of me;
I imagine something I have never thought of before
and my imagination and I are away
climbing higher and higher by the second
faster than a kite.

Watching an artist create art,
even for a fellow artist,
is powerful and inspiring;
watching a blank page or a white canvas
slowly transform into a piece of art
is incredibly amazing;
seeing inspiration come to life
by the hand of an artist
and watch their vision evolve
from being something ethereal
to something tangible is breath-taking;
witnessing the reveal of an artists poetic license
is truly fascinating, inspiring, and enlightening.

Art is words, colours, light, dark;
art is natural, meaningful,
life-changing, emotional;
art is epic, magnetic, and an artists body
and mind is never at rest;
art is never untouchable –
it always has a reason to be,
and it is always preceded by a spark;
art is reveling in the freedom of your birthright,
and focusing on attaining a never-ending goal;
artists of their time are avatars
of the world they live in which they are inspired by,
and every artist knows that no matter
how simple something appears
in actuality everything is a work of art
and is a story that is substantially
and markedly complex.

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My Poem ‘For the record’

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

Like the Earth orbiting the sun;
like the solar system
spinning around the core of the galaxy;
like the sounds that can be heard
while listening to the noise
of the interstellar background;
like the racing heart beat
of somebody out on a run;
like the natural soundtrack of life
that you can hear and feel
which you can imagine with great detail
without needing to see it;
like the sound of waves crashing on a beach;
when you listen to the music
that sings to your soul
and inhabits your heart
that has been recorded
in the most exquisite quality possible –
in memory, on CD, on vinyl,
the spirit of the music, the artist,
the magic and the depth of the human mind
and body gives you back every time
something you wait with anticipation
to be found so that it may
again and again resound
and make you feel as if
your feet have left the ground.

People love music;
music is so adored and worshiped
it is like a religion;
music can inspire people to be
and to do anything:
to be brave, to be thoughtful,
to be artistic, to be prolific;
everyone knows what their favourite song
or piece of music is,
and everybody has a personal
and a profound reason for why
their song is their song.

Music has been a part of our lives
since we were born;
albums and artists have been talking to us
and taking us to our dreams
since we heard our first old-favourite;
music is at the centre of our universe
that rotates just as fast
as the grooves of a vinyl album on a turntable;
listening to music is always a blessing,
and never a chore;
there is so much music that has been created
that is epic and great;
music is a gateway to an astoundingly-beautiful
and magical world.

Music is the eternal and universal love
that everybody and anybody can enjoy
and be blessed with their entire lives;
music is what we all share
an invisible connection to
and are attached to every second
by an unbreakable umbilical-cord;
music is the abundant source of energy
that makes life what it is,
just as much as the sun’s light;
music is the single most important,
meaningful and memorable thing
that the human race will be remembered for
by future generations and fellow space-travelers –
and all we do will live on forever
as our greatest monument of ourselves
for the record.

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