poetry

My Poem ‘All Kinds’

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

It’s nice to find a place
where you feel accepted…
it’s nice to find somewhere
to connect to and to feel connected…
it’s nice to find a place
where you can do anything,
say almost anything,
wear anything without fear
of being judged or isolated…
it’s nice to find somewhere
you can sit down, talk,
listen, work, write, share,
and perhaps even discover
and explore something unexpected.

So many different kinds of people
are drawn and find themselves
in the same place at the same time…
so many people from all walks of life
seemingly-randomly find themselves
interacting with other people every day
who serve as lamp-posts, signposts,
and talismans illuminating the path
that they must follow next…
so many different followers
of so many different ideologies,
customs, beliefs, tastes, and accents
can for a short period find themselves
walking or standing behind one-another
in the same line…
so many different ranges of ages
can find themselves within touching-distance
of those who are at ease with those
who are preoccupied by something on their mind –
and also by those who seemingly are
in their own infinite world of one and many,
but who are also at their best.

There is a reason why some flowers
and some plants need to be planted
in the right soil and in the right Earth
for them to grow and in the way
that they are meant to…
there is a reason why certain places
appeal to some people and not all –
sometimes the place where you want to be
can be somewhere that puts you
in the right place you want to be emotionally,
spiritually, psychologically,
within your own body and mind…
there is a reason why you go to things
and why things come to you…
there is a reason why when daylight
passes through a prism
it scatters into its spectral-components…
humanity, like light, is invisible when seen as-one –
however, when you look closer and deeper
you realize that for the world to be
the way that it is and the way that
it is supposed to be
it takes all kinds.

My Poem ‘Temporal’

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

There is something entrancing
about hearing the tick, the tock,
and the hidden but vital mechanisms
that lie within the wooden-body
and the beautiful face
of a Grandfather-clock –
every movement, every sound,
every second that goes by,
tells a story about how precious
and fleeting moments of time are…
in the silent stillness of an old house
when all that can be heard
is the echo of an old time-piece
there is always a special feeling
to be found in every instant of peace.

With time comes change,
with change comes choice,
with choice comes both
the familiar and the unknown,
and with the unknown comes an opportunity
and a responsibility to grow…
there is no changing the past,
because everything that you see
all around you is built upon its bed-rock…
you can’t change the future,
because it hasn’t happened yet –
but what you can do is allow the past
to influence, change, and inform
what and how the future will appear to you…
you cannot change what was,
but you can start to weave a new thread of change
that could potentially one day out-live you.

I see change… I see the wake
of the passage of time everywhere I look…
I see things that once were
that have been replaced
by that which is now the way things are…
I see walls that were once doors…
I see mirrors that were once windows…
I see the old making way for the new –
but the constant in the middle of everything
still remains: me…
sometimes we have to be like a chameleon
and blend into whatever background
wherever we find ourselves –
changing on the outside,
while an echo of who we are
and who we always will be looks up and out
through our eyes from down-deep.

Time flies… time forces us to leave hours,
days, months and years behind…
time does not stop, but with the gift of memory
you can make a moment last forever…
time cannot be out-run,
no matter how fast or how far you can run –
but what you can do is make the best of the time
that you have and make the most of the time
that you share with those
who truly matter the most.

My Poem ‘You’re going to need a bigger bookcase’

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

It all starts when you are a kid:
a book here, a book there…
a book for Christmas?
a book for your birthday?
a book that you borrow
from your local library?
and then, before you know it
you are reading a book a week,
you are day-dreaming
and imagining stories of your own…
and then every afternoon
after you get home from school
you are writing short-stories
inspired by who and what you have read…
and every night you embark
on new adventures of every kind
from the comfort of your bed.

When you first fall in love with stories,
literature, tales, myths, books,
characters and journeys…
when you first fall down the rabbit-hole
with Alice all the way to Wonderland,
or when you first get carried away
by the tornado with Dorothy all the way to Oz,
or perhaps when you first follow
the adventures of Frodo and the Fellowship of the Ring
and you feel with each and every-one of them
and you come to understand what it is like
to carry a heavy burden,
or perhaps when you travel
to a magical-land and you encounter
heroes, lords, witches, and a beautiful girl
who is also a fallen-star
which you find in the Neil Gaiman’s world of Stardust…
there is no telling what will happen to you,
what you will imagine, and where you will go next –
going on a roller-coaster of emotions while reading a book
that you just can’t put down is the best!

Some people simply do not have the time
or the inclination to pick up a book
and let it begin to build bridges
within their mind and imagination
to places that are simply inaccessible
unless you follow the words,
the sentences, the chapters,
the pages, and the characters of a book
from one cover to another…
some people read fast, some people read slow –
however, I have always thought
that the best kind of books
require time and patience to be given to them
so that they can truly reveal their secrets.

Some people are just not ‘book-people’,
and then again their are some people
who truly marvel at everything about books:
the way their printed,
the language that they are written in,
and even the beautiful artwork of the cover…
some people only own one book…
some people own physical books,
some people own ebooks –
I might be biased, but I don’t think anything
could ever compare to the feeling,
the pages, and even the smell
of a real and physical book.

I would advise anyone to start with one book
and to fall in love with it slowly –
because reading should always be
a pleasure and not a race;
however, in no time at all,
that one book may turn into one of many…
and then you may be enviably forced
to consider an apparent and glaring possibility:
you’re going to need a bigger bookcase.

My Poem ‘School Friends’

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

Throughout the years
that we spend in attendance at school,
we have certain friends
with whom we hang-out
and sit down to have our lunch with –
however, when we fast-forward
to the present day and to the life
that we are now live,
how many of those same people,
those same friends,
do we all still know,
still talk to, or ever sit down
to have a meal with?
If I were to make a wild-guess,
based on my own experience,
then I would say not one,
or very few at-all-
which, to me, is a sad thing to think about
when you think back and your remember
some of the enjoyable and the fun times
that you might have shared
with your best school-friends.

It is natural for people
who once spent a great deal
of their time together
to slowly drift-apart
and become distant with one-another,
sometimes in every sense of the word…
life, like time, like a river,
runs in one direction –
the choices that we make
can see us doing things
that when we were children
we would have only thought of as
things that were beyond our wildest-dreams:
diving with sharks deep below the waves of the sea…
having adventures in rain-forests…
seeing the spectacular Northern-Lights…
or, perhaps, packing-up all your belongings
and making a new home on the other-side of the world?

We all grow up with people…
we all meet people over the course of our lives…
we all think that when we are a child
that the fun times will never come to an end…
we all had good days and bad days
when we were at school…
we all have memories from when we were kids
of memorable mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights –
but, unfortunately, sometimes we all have to grow up,
grow from within, and we all have to make a leap
into an unknown world –
however, even though we all must move on in life,
find new things, and meet new people,
that does not mean that we should ever
have to forget who we went to school with…
who, no matter where they are now,
we will always remember them
as being our one of a kind
school friends.

My Poem ‘I’m Predictable’

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

Some things come back-around…
some things are cyclical…
some things sometimes rebound…
some things and some people
are innately predictable…
take me, for example:
I go to the same places,
I do the same things,
I order the same drinks,
I listen to the same songs,
as I have done so for years –
you could say that
I have found “my groove”
and what I take great pleasure in doing?
But the thing that binds
all the things that I do
when I am out and about
walking the streets and seeing the sights
of the city that I visit the most frequently
and the one that I know more than any-other,
is my writing: the poetry, the short-stories,
the inspiration, the musings of life
that I have written – that in themselves
tell a story of their own and of their connection
to me and why I wrote them.

I admit it, I do things…
I say things… I think about things…
I write about things that people
who know me for what I do
may consider what I do my signature?
My identity? My tag? My trademark?
However, though some things
will never change about me,
there is always the possibility
that I will do something unexpected
and out of the ordinary!

I will always return to the same places…
I will always read the same books
of the same authors…
I will always watch the same
types of TV shows and movies…
I will always listen to
my favourite artists
and the music that they make…
I will always be the same person
who is writing what you are reading –
because, the fact of the matter is
that I, like most people,
am wonderfully predictable.

My Poem ‘Poet’s Fire’

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

There have always been poets…
there has always been poetry…
there have always been optimists…
there has always been a fire
of inspiration and curiosity,
even before the first apple
was picked from the tree of knowledge…
there will always be mysteries…
there will always be love…
there have always been those
who have sought out answers to questions
from one kind of divine being
or another over the many centuries…
there has always been sources of light –
both internal and external,
both within a person’s heart
or in the sky above.

A poet is like a mirror,
poetry is like a reflection…
a poet is who brings out
the emotions from within,
poetry is the spell
of a linguistic-magician.

Children paint poetic pictures
with their fingertips…
adults can emote poetry
with their eyes…
children read poetry
in the actions of their friends
and they hear poetry
from the lips of their parents…
both adults and children
inspire poetry all the time –
enough to make someone smile,
or enough to make someone cry.

Many flames make a burning furnace…
many words make a world…
many memories make a life…
many things make us feel inspired…
many experiences only poetry can make sense…
many forms of literature
can also be a life-saving cure…
many poetic dreams are born
under starlit night-skies…
many every-day influences
keep alive the light, the heat,
the flames, the energy,
and the poetry of a poet’s fire.

My Poem ‘Recreation’

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

The morning sun feels good…
the morning coffee is just what I need…
the mornings that I get to sit,
to look, to listen, to breath,
and to enjoy every moment of being alive
are the ones that I love…
the mornings that start a day
of reading, of writing, of watching,
and of inspiration, make me happy –
especially when the days preceding
have been cloudy, grey, and wet –
and when you have that freedom
to do what you want to do,
it is like inhaling a invigorating
lung-full of fresh-air
that makes your heart beat fast
and your thoughts optimistic,
beautiful, and clear.

Those with commitments
seldom have the time, or the opportunity,
to do things for themselves, alone…
those who live the most hectic
and chaotic of lives
dream in their spare-time
of something simple,
but yet amazing and special:
like reading a book…
driving in their car…
playing a musical instrument…
singing, as if they are in the shower…
or taking the time to walk through a garden
and smelling the intoxicating perfume of a rose.

No matter what you do, no matter who you are,
it is very important to sometimes
do something just for you –
sometimes it is good for you
to go somewhere new
that you have never been before…
sometimes you don’t have to travel a long way
to find what you are looking for,
because every place that is within our grasp
can contain the magical light of a million stars.

Recreation – any time that we spend
doing something that gives us a feeling
of contentment and satisfaction
is a wonderful gateway, and getaway destination –
like a welcome oasis that you find
in the middle of an arid desert…
what we do for relaxation –
what we do that doesn’t take much effort,
but which has the power to transport us
in our mind to a perfect, idyllic,
blissful-setting that we usually
only imagine seeing in the environments
that we visit in our dreams –
is the potent cure for any kind
of stress that we may feel…
and that is why we should all
make the time to truly do something
for nothing and no one else
other than for pleasure and recreation.

My Poem ‘A Novel Idea’

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

The search for new ideas,
for an artist, is a life-long thing…
the journey towards creating something
new and one of a kind
is like living a dream…
my own personal search and journey
started deep within my soul,
and my heart, my gift,
and my love of inspiration and writing
has taken me high and it has taken me far…
a phrase, a name, a thought, an emotion,
a smile, can be the beginning
and all the spark I need
to start the flames of a fire
that may lead to a picture I draw,
or a poem, or a short-story,
that I may write –
and then it is in the hands
of a force of nature
as to where I will go and what I will say,
and to what heights and depths
I will climb and explore.

Writing a poem, to me, is like
walking in the English countryside
on a sunny Summer afternoon –
inspiration and words flow easily
and unobstructed, and my thoughts
feel energized and wild…
I could write an entire poem
about how the clouds
move against the blue-sky, and how I feel –
or, perhaps, a musing about life,
the world, people, and why we all choose
in life what we choose;
but, when it comes to writing a story –
that is where the true challenge lies,
and where the true inspiration fulfillment awaits…
writing a short-story, to me,
is a true adventure that I never plan
or know too much about at the beginning –
which grows and constantly reshapes itself,
and can sometimes find
a new identity for itself day-by-day.

A word, a title – to me they could be a poem,
to me they could be a short-story…
and then, when it starts to find its feet more,
so to speak, and it begins to run-away with itself,
it can start to become something else –
and when that happens, as a writer and as an artist,
you have to keep going, you have to keep writing,
and do not stop and do not feel any trepidation, or fear…
because, everything that happens,
and everything that inspires every writer,
happens and inspires us for a reason…
there is no way of knowing where to go,
what to do, or if what you are writing is any good
or could be enjoyable to another person’s eyes,
imagination, sensibilities, or taste,
until you sit down, and you write,
and you embrace all that follows you
in the wake of you having
your novel idea.

My Poem ‘Nomad’

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

You may see me passing by…
you may see me sitting at a table,
looking out of a window…
you may see me writing away
into a notebook with a smile on my face…
you may see me stop what I am doing,
look up, and make a sigh…
you may see me and mistakenly think
that I am alone…
you may see me, you may think you know me –
however, while you are looking at me,
I am somewhere else:
I could be imagining that I am a gunslinger
in the old-west of America,
or an astronaut on a star-ship
travelling and on my way
to exploring the wonders
that I imagine there is to be found
in the outer-reaches of deep-space.

I love to wander…
I love to go somewhere I have never been…
I love to explore…
I love to see things I have never seen…
you can’t beat family,
familiarity, and being home –
but, there is so much to be found
when you venture into the unknown.

By now, traveling is in my blood…
having lived a life since I was born
of unbounded-freedom,
it is natural for me to want to leap
into whatever sky I see when I look above…
every road you travel down
as a traveler is different –
some are smooth, some can be rough…
imagining the infinite possibilities of existence
has always been an exciting past-time of mine
that I will always love.

Some might say I am brave…
some might say I am crazy…
some might say I am mad –
however, I don’t think I am brave,
and I don’t think I am crazy…
but, if I was asked to describe myself in words,
I guess I would have to describe myself
as an always inspired nomadic writer.

My Poem ‘Welcome Back’

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

It’s been a long time
since I thought like a poet,
or wrote a rhyme…
I didn’t know if
I would be able to do it again,
when I opened my notebook
and I picked up my pen.

I have been enjoying life
living every day surrounded by love,
but now I am traveling
into the morning light
and flying like a dove…
an island on the other side
of the Atlantic Ocean is calling:
I am going back home
to where the temperature is low
and snowflakes are falling.

I don’t want to leave where my journey began –
I am happy to see my family again,
but I am truly sad to be leaving
the love of my life and my second family…
I can still see the last face I saw
before I left America behind for a while,
I can still see in my mind
the house that has been my home
for two weeks, or more,
that has the family name
hanging over it of “Dial”.

Once in a life-time memories made,
but now I am flying on a plane
to the land of Shakespeare,
red TELEPHONE boxes,
green-fields, and The Beatles…
in 10 hours, I will be back home in England –
however, already I feel a sensation
of ‘butterflies’, and pins-and-needles.

My mind is always in the rear-view mirror,
I am always reliving in my mind
moments that other people
might think too small
and too brief to be remembered…
when I left the U.S. tears fell down my cheeks –
whenever I have to make a difficult leap
it is always hard for me to know
what to say and how to speak –
however, though time has gone by too fast,
I know that this time will not be my last,
being where I think about every hour of the day,
with those whom cannot wait to see me again
and wish me a heart-felt ‘Welcome back!’