poem

My Poem ‘Did’

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

There is a beautiful sunset outside my window,
I am listening to Ed Sheeran on my iPod at the moment
to give my creative spark the get-up-and-go.

I have been writing since I woke up this morning,
and my right shoulder is literally aching;
I am about to have something to eat,
but I just want to write down in words
the things I am proud of,
and the things I wish I never did.

I am proud of myself
for using my self-taught gift of expression,
and with the help of a great friend of mine
getting two books of my poems published-
the support, the love, the miracle
to be able to share my words with the world,
in the way I always wanted,
is beyond anything that I could ever have wished.

When I was a kid I was a movie-loving boy
who made up his own stories for fun;
now I am a 33 year-old poet,
who still loves films,
and who goes to the cinema as often as I can.
When I was growing up I wanted to be many things
when I eventually became a man;
but now that I am standing tall, and looking back,
I am thinking that my life
might have been easier
if I had had some kind of life-plan;
I thought I would have been married,
and had kids by now-
at least that was my boyhood, adult-arrival, expectation;
however, a few things happened along the way
that were not part of anyone’s plan-
and those are what I see looking back at me
every day in my own reflection.

I hope there comes a day
when I can honestly say
that who I am now is who I want to be;
I hope there is a day when I can say
“this is what I have been dreaming at night about”,
and then waking up and turning it into poetry;
I hope one day I will be able to say to my own kids,
that I don’t regret the things I have done,
and if I had the time to do over again
I would still do all that I did.

My Poem ‘Doors’

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

Some are old;
some are new;
some are bold;
some are blue;
some are transparent;
some are made out of wood;
some are used to prevent;
some are essential
to keeping out the waters of a flood;
some are grand;
some are small;
some are opened with the push of a hand;
some are closed with a pull.
Some say more about the occupant of a house
than any other piece of home decor;
some you can only unlock with a specific key or a code;
some hide riches behind them;
some will never be opened wide again,
because what is on the other side
doesn’t need to be shown;
some are numbered,
and where they lead to can be easily known and read;
some are meant to be walked through and explored,
because you never know what you might find
when you open and walk through a particular door.

My Poem ‘Imago’

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

The image in the mirror,
the reflection in the water,
the memories you will never forget,
the non-mistakes you will never regret,
the changing masterpiece of your life,
the height and the stream, from which,
and into which, you dive,
is you, is everything,
is what no one else will ever see,
or will ever know,
what you will be always and forever,
wherever you go.

No one will ever know your struggle;
no one will ever feel what you feel;
no one will ever know why you walked
and were splashed by all those rain puddles;
no one will ever see the image of your ideal.

There are skies of many colours,
that all mean something different to everyone;
there are situations and experiences that are also lessons;
the more intense something is,
and the more meaningful it feels,
can also mean the more fun;
you and your shadow are the ghost,
and the angel, or monster,
you can never out-run.

What you are going to be only you can decide;
who you want to spend your life with,
in one way or another,
is the answer to whom and what resides in your heart;
how easy life feels, you can only know
when you naturally realize
that you don’t even have to fly anymore,
because you can simply glide;
who will remember you when you are gone
are those who knew you and will always know you,
because of the marks and the ever-lasting echoes
of the muses of your art.

When you dream your last dream,
when you think your last thought,
when you have taught everything that you can possibly teach,
when you have been taught everything that you can be taught,
you will know that the metamorphosis you have been undertaking
is finally at an end and will be a link to everything
and everyone before and after you, like a bridge,
your entire life and its meaning will be who, and what you are,
and how you appear, and are seen, in your last image.

My Poem ‘New Beginnings’

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

Every day we all have to start again;
every day we all have to start over;
every day we all have to clear our vision
and readjust our lens;
every day we all have to make a cross-over.

There is no one on Earth who has never made a mistake;
there is no one in this world who has never been disappointed;
there is no one who has ever lived
who has been able to forget the moments
that their heart had cause to break;
there is no one of sound body and mind
who has not been willing at some point in their life
to do everything that they had to do
for something that they really wanted.

You cannot ever heal completely,
everybody carries a scar or two;
you cannot ever know everything
about life and people absolutely,
everybody sometimes feels like the life they live
is a slow-burning fuse.

Empires fall;
castles crumble;
relationships end;
every week there is a brand new trend.
Songs have a duration;
people have their fascinations;
crowns sometimes slip to cover the eyes of queens and kings;
nothing lasts forever,
because some things must make way for the arrival of new beginnings.

My Poem ‘The Phoenix’

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

It was inevitable that it would happen,
it always happens;
it was always going to end and begin again this way;
it was inevitable that I would be burned alive
and come back to life,
because that is the pattern;
it will always be me dying to save myself,
and then rising again from the flames
with the same face, the same name,
the same heart, the same soul,
until it really is my Earth-bound last and final day.

Every time I come back from the dead
I lose nearly everything that I had,
but I do retain every detail of my past lives’ memories;
every time my world crumbles and turns to ash,
I return to the place I know,
the people I love, and the thing that is as a part of me
as I am of it- and that is my notebook and my poetry.

You always think that things will go on forever, until they end;
you always think that people will stay with you, until they leave;
you always think that you will always be someone’s hope,
inspiration, life, love, and best friend;
you always think that you know and have seen everything,
until you learn and you see something that you cannot believe.

My world imploded, and then exploded;
my identity was stripped from me and thrown away;
my life had to crash and then be rebooted;
my past, my present, my future, my horizons,
were all sent into flux, and blown away on the wind,
to be replaced by a blank page, an unknown,
and a feeling of loss and uncertainty.

Where once there was something rich, deep, bright, and hopeful,
there is now nothing to be found;
where once there was fate, destiny, reason,
the answer to everything in the entire universe,
there is now a hole in the shape of something wonderful,
special, and profound.

Night has become day,
day has become night;
everything felt simple,
even when it was vastly complicated in every way-
as long as I kept myself, in part, hidden in the dark
I would always end up turning my face away from the light.

Things ended because I was stupid;
I was ripped apart and burned,
because what happened was too far gone for anyone to fix;
I was everything that I have always hated,
but now I have died, I have been reincarnated,
I have been reconstituted, I have been tested,
I have been regenerated, I have risen again from my own flames,
and I am starting again and fighting my instincts
of continually being the human embodiment
of the mythological bird known as “The Phoenix”.