poetry

My Poem ‘Love is an understatement’

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

Could a single word
every truly describe
the sparkle of belonging
and the beautiful infinity that you see
in the love of your life’s eyes?
Is it ever possible to understand
the reason why the stars shine so bright
and yet are so far away?
Is there anything more incredible
than sharing the miracle vista of a sunrise?
What can you say when you have said so much
and yet there is so much more to say?

There you are…
there is your face that I always see;
there is my star in the dark,
there is my heart’s desire,
there is my soul-mate
who makes me Me;
there you sit staring back at me;
there I go imagining myself with you
and you with me;
there you are, my incredible angel;
there before my eyes
I see the love of my life,
and you are so phenomenal
you are beyond beautiful.

A look can speak volumes;
words only have power
when they are understood;
true love is like a flower
when it blooms;
when your heart beats for someone else
you feel like you are in the middle
of an intense emotional flood
that gives rise to tears,
makes your thoughts form
and then pop like soap bubbles,
and makes you feel like you are on fire,
and you literally cannot hold back
the rush of your blood.

The moment that I saw you
something changed in me;
the moment that I told you
that I loved you
was only eclipsed in my mind
by the moment when you told me
that you loved me;
the moment that I first heard your voice
all that completed me
and guided me from that instant
was the melody and the lyrics of your song,
and I have replayed that magical moment ever-since;
you are my princess,
and I will always be your prince;
thinking back to the start of everything,
I always knew that our meeting each-other
and us being together was no accident –
in fact, I have proof that you were heaven-sent;
to use only one word to describe what you mean to me
and how you make me feel would be impossible,
because the only word that comes close is ‘love’ –
but just saying that Love is what I feel for you
ultimately would be an understatement.

My Poem ‘Poetry or Truth’

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

Poetry has the softest of voices,
but the loudest of echoes;
truth, just as beauty,
is in the eye of the beholder;
poetry speaks and always knows;
truth is the voice within
that is tempted to life
by the whispers of the light and the dark
as if personified by a good fairy
and a bad fairy sitting either side of your ears
resting upon your shoulders;
poetry is natural;
truth is often accidental;
poetry is limitless;
truth returns trust.

A traveler is always chasing light and time;
a detective is always chasing
the perpetrator of a crime;
two lovers are constantly in a dance with each other;
two sides of anything
always share an edge that binds them together.

When an astronaut on a space-station awakes
and they float from their bed to the nearest window,
all they want to look out and see
is the planet they orbit
and the vibrant sphere of light and colour
that looks as precious as a raindrop on a leaf;
when we all look up at the stars,
those who live among the stars
are constantly looking back at us;
when someone dies and we lay a wreath
we promise to never forget them,
even while they rest in the ground beneath;
when shooting-stars fly by
they shower us all with their interstellar magic dust.

Poetry or truth –
in my mind they are one and the same;
just as a coin is a token of currency with two faces,
dualities are how life is maintained;
truth can always be read in poetry,
and poetry writes of hidden worldly-clues;
true meaning is at the heart of everything
and it becomes even more apparent
when you ponder the question:
poetry or truth?

My Poem ‘Forest of Forever’

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

Many years ago now,
in my forest of forever,
I stopped, I stood,
I looked, I dreamed,
I listened to the song
that played as the wind blew
through the trees,
I was alone but surrounded
by ancient spirits –
even though there was no other
man, woman, or child
around to be found,
I knew that I was being visited
by the ghosts of poets
and the muses of fellow dreamers –
it was as if I were communing
with my younger-self,
as well as with my future-self
and the one writing this poem:
the one who sees
and the one who believes
that every thing that happens
happens for a reason.

As I write, as I think back,
as I use the infinite sight,
as I remember all the steps
that I have taken along my path,
I am again in the woods of yesterday
and breathing in the air
and being intoxicated by the smell of pine –
I am again standing in the sunlight,
as if I have managed to leap back in time,
and I remember all that I felt
and all that walked with me
when my poetic gift was still in its infancy,
and I can know and I can remember
things that have not yet happened
but have already happened
that I have been immortalized in my poetry.

I see in my memory a land far-away;
I see the beautiful face of the one person
in the entire who is the true light of my day;
I look in front of me and I see
the man who would be me;
I turn my head and I see a boy
with blond curly-hair
who was once and will always be me;
I see an incomplete circle;
I see an unfinished masterpiece;
I see a continuously ever-changing world;
I see a shadowed version of myself
looking at me from afar
from their vantage-point
from which they can see every incarnation of me.

I cannot hold-on to my flashback for too long
before I flash-forward again;
I continue to write as if all that was
had always been just the words
that I had written by my own hand
with my own pen;
I look out of my bedroom window
and I see a floating white feather
and I am reminded of the falling leaves
that will be always frozen in time
when I return in my mind
to my forest of forever.

My Poem ‘The First of Many’

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

They say that how you spend
the first day of the year
is also how you will spend
your last day of the year,
and vice versa;
every year for as long as I can remember
I have spent the first early hours of every year
doing the same thing
that I did the year before on January 1st;
some people make resolutions
and vow to stick by them
and repeat the same steps
over and over again like a novice dancer;
every year on day one I set out into the world
and I seek to quench
my ultimately unquenchable poetic thirst.

‘Happy new year’ is a hope for the best;
a smile and a kiss when the clock strikes twelve
at the first second of new year’s day
is like the important first move
in a game of chess;
a thought about someone else
can be like a torch
to help guide someone through a fog;
your constant companion
and your best friend
will help you overcome anything
that you may be dealing with –
and they could be your partner,
your hero, or they could be
your ever-faithful dog.

This is my first stepping-stone of hope;
this is my first promise to stay true to myself
in the form of my poetry;
this is my foray into a new future
I do not yet know;
this is my first new year’s resolution, of a sort,
and I can guarantee already
that it is but the first of many.

My new book ‘Truly Madly Deeply’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , ,

Check out and get your copy of my new book ‘Truly Madly Deeply (Kindle Edition)’ on Amazon right now! Truly Madly Deeply by Mark Hastings – dedicated to my beautiful fiancé Melissa!Truly-Madly-Deeply-Amz-sq1

My Poem ‘Balloons’

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

Where we have been
and where we are going
are tied together
by the threads of our lives;
while we are enjoying a good story
we never want it to come to an end;
darkness and light ties night to day
and day to night;
sometimes when we know
we are approaching the end of a great book
we will put it down and bookmark our place
so that we can pick up one day where we left off;
however, just as every writer
must finish writing their story,
every reader must follow a tale
to its conclusion,
and when they reach the last word of the last page
promise to return to the same story again and again –
the same, but different –
like periodically catching up with an old friend.

We all sometimes look at our own reflection
and do not immediately like the face that we see –
though someone else may look at the same face
and see the face of unparalleled infinite beauty;
we all should remember that a mirror
can only show us a distorted image of how we appear,
and the only true way of knowing
who the world sees when they look at us
is to go to the one person who knows us best
to describe us and tell us who they see
and what about us they most revere.

We all have reasons for what we do;
certain things and special people
have an indefinable gravity about them;
we all love people in our lives
in ways that we show every day,
but we sometimes feel a need to prove;
we all leave many clues;
I, myself, could never deny
an unbreakable connection –
once made, never severed –
because, just like the bound pages in a book,
bound people are linked forever
because that is what was always meant to happen.

Some people rise and fall by the resonance of a voice;
some hearts beat in perfect-time with other hearts,
and even when they are far-apart from one-another
they constantly sing “see you soon”;
falling in love is uncontrollable
and it is a fundamental instinct without choice;
all stories have chapters and twists,
beginnings and endings,
and some have a pace and a depth to them
that is as vast as space;
and though its true meaning and message
may not be as blatant as a telephone ringing,
the best thing about any story
under any cover is one that you can hold,
walk with, and even tie to something,
and is that which you should never let go of –
because once a story rises too high out of reach
it will become someone else’s,
and slowly drift away like the wind
carrying away a balloon of your own making.

My Poem ‘Keeping Mum’

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

I knew that this day would come again,
I knew that the moment would come
when I would write a new poem –
but today, now,
in the silence of Christmas morning,
after opening some presents,
I am sitting here in my room
unable to stop thinking…
I am thinking about my own Christmas Angel,
I am thinking about what this day
in particular means to me,
and I am thinking about my parents –
both separated from each-other as they wake up,
both deeply in love with each other,
both wanting so much to hold one-another,
both together and apart
who have had to go through so much.

As I sit here thinking about my Mum
waking up in her hospital bed,
as I flash-back to the moment
when the reality of what was happening hit me
and I cried and I held my Dad,
I must admit that I do feel sad,
and I just wish that there were a way
for me to stay hopeful
and to keep my faith
that my Mum will be alright
without feeling upset.

I have been going through
several stages of shock at-once
over the last few days
since I heard the news that devastated me
and clouded my thoughts;
my Mum told me that:
“we have to take every day as it comes”,
but, even though she is right,
I just feel like it is going to take me a while
to find my own way of accepting everything
and move forwards –
however, I guess that when any person
who we love is sick it is always tough.

I know that I need to be there for my Mum
now more than ever, because right now
is when she needs me the most;
I know that when I see her later
I am going to want to cry,
but that is not what she needs
or would ever want;
if I never had the light of my life
to guide me through the darkness of uncertainty
then I would feel truly lost;
I would not be here if it were not
for the people from whom I came from;
I am staying hopeful,
and I will never lose hope or give up,
and I will not allow my Mum to lose me,
and no matter what happens
there is nothing and no one
who will ever stop me
from keeping my Mum.

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My Poem ‘Perfect Beauty’

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

There is nothing in my life
that means more to me than you;
every day of my life
will always be beautiful
because I will always have you;
there is no one in my life
who has seen me for who I am
as much as you;
every day for the rest of my life
I will truly madly and deeply
always love you.

I wish I could hold you;
I wish I could kiss you;
I wish there were never a second
when I wasn’t with you;
I wish there was a way
I could touch your beautiful face
with my fingertips
and never have to leave your side,
because there isn’t a moment
when I do not miss you.

All that we’ve been through,
all the poetry and the inspiration
that brought me to you,
all those afternoons that I spent
dreaming at the base of a tree,
all that you had to go through
to finally find me.

I lose my breath,
my eyes burn blue,
my heart beats
as if it is moments from death,
I fall more and more in love with you
every second I look at you;
I see your face,
I daydream that I am with you,
I can still remember running my fingers
through your beautiful hair
that to me feels as soft
and as light as lace;
in my mind I travel the universe,
but when I come home from the stars
I always see the most beautiful miracle
that I have ever seen
every time I look at you.

When the last word is spoken from my lips…
when the last poem is written by my own hand…
when the moon finally covers the sun’s light
for the last time and I fall
below the dark veil of an eternal eclipse…
when my spirit prepares to leave my body
and the light of heaven elevates me
to something more than a man…
when my time of life ticks beyond the clock
of my last Earth-bound hour…
when I am lying in your arms,
and when you are lying next to me…
when in my mind I climb the steps
to the top of my own Dark Tower…
when all that I see, hear, feel,
and all I could ever want
and all who I have ever wanted is with me…
that is when my life and your life
will come together as-one
and everyone alive will see
the light of us both shine,
and I will be eternally complete –
because I will be with you,
my perfect beauty.

Perfect Beauty poem-sq

My Poem ‘The True Gift’

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

The true gift of Christmas,
the best present you could
ever receive or give;
the truth of the season
you can always trust,
the spirit that you can
walk a thousand miles with;
the touch to heal all scarred hearts,
the light that shines like the North Star;
the beautiful angel who shows you
the true meaning of life
that so many have for years
been in search of;
the true goodwill of somebody
that everybody at one point or another
has been touched by.

Christmas is, and should always be,
a celebration of shared ties
and meaningful connections;
Christmas can only be Christmas
if you give without any expectation
of anything in return;
Christmas is always full of passion,
and if you are fortunate
then whatever thoughts that you think
may return to you in more amazing and wonderful ways
than could ever be mentioned;
to open your heart for another, whenever you can,
is the true message that resonates
every moment of the season.

Christmas trees; shiny ornaments;
one of a kind shared and special moments;
the miracle of rejuvenation and joy
that constantly brings to life
a story that will always exist;
the motto on the family-crest of St. Nicholas;
the true meaning of life
that is more than a myth;
giving, sharing, remembering,
meeting, living and breathing,
every thing about everything
is how you know in more ways than one
the true gift of Christmas.

My-Poem-'The-True-Gift'

My Poem ‘Yesteryear’

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

Sitting in the same spot,
wearing the same shoes,
unlocking a door
usually kept shut,
looking out through a window
and seeing a unchanged view;
remembering the past
without reliving it,
remembering poems that I wrote
right here about a time in the future;
everybody is nostalgic, especially a poet;
the more I see, the more I think,
the more I write, the more I remember,
and the more that the pages of my mind
flick back and forth,
I pick up on things that I left behind
from the last time that I was here.

The past is a story that we all tell ourselves,
and for good reason when we come up upon
moments from our lives we do sometimes find
blank pages full of words written in invisible ink;
the present is like being at a crossroads
of time and possibilities;
the future is sometimes not going to turn out
just how you think;
the Earth keeps turning,
the people keep moving,
the seasons keep changing,
life keeps evolving as it has
and as it will continue to do so
for centuries upon centuries to come.

We sit across from ourselves more than we realize;
we are constantly searching for commonalities;
we all want to see ourselves reflected
in another person’s eyes;
we all imagine different realities;
some things will always change,
some things will always be the same;
some things are other things
just repackaged in a different box
with a different name;
some things come back time and again.

Tears must fall;
forests must grow;
flowers must rise tall;
rivers of all colours must flow;
life can sometimes feel like you are walking
through a hall of mirrors;
we must all learn to capture every miracle
and make it a part of us
before it disappears;
a life of anticipation can feel like
you are constantly waiting
for a parcel to be delivered;
as I get older and as I travel
and I am pulled along by destiny’s slipstream,
I constantly find reasons to say
that I am glad to be here –
and now, as before, I walk forward
while closing again and walking away
from the door of yesteryear.