psychic

My Poem “You + Me”

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

Our psychic connection
extends over oceans…
our love is like the sun
that shines above…
our hearts beat in time
and as-one…
our dreams at night
are always of one another,
as are our waking thoughts
during the day…
our lives are synchronized…
our magic is the music
that we effortlessly make
without even knowing it…
our world is incomplete
without what gives colour
to our all-seeing eyes…
our shared souls lift
both of our spirits
to the outer limits…
our never ending dance
is a constant blessing…
our constant communication
is as rich, vivid, deep,
and as open as any could be…
our song is the one
that we never want to stop singing…
our natural spark of physical,
emotional, and spiritual electricity
that we share is what gives meaning
to our mutually-assured and shared love,
and what inspires and what is at the heart
of the life-changing formula of you + me.

My Poem ‘The Messenger’

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

Everybody is here on this Earth,
everybody is a part of this world,
for a reason – but, sometimes,
most of the time, more often than not,
people have no idea why…
I, however, know exactly why I am here,
why I am alive, and what my reason to live is
and will be until the day I die:
I am a messenger, but not a messenger
that you may expect,
I do not look like any “messenger”
that I have seen in my life –
I do not wear a uniform,
and what I does not always require me to drive…
I suppose I am like an old-fashioned telephone receiver,
and when I receive a very important call
with a very important message to be delivered to someone
I answer it without question or hesitation
and I go to pass on what I have been asked to deliver.

I never know who the sender is,
I never know who the recipient will be –
I only know a face, sometimes I even know a first-name;
I do not know what the message I am delivering is
sometimes until the moment that I deliver it…
I don’t even know where I am going
until I see the signs showing me the way
to where I need to get to –
it’s like I am painting a picture of something
that hasn’t happened yet as I take each and every step,
and it is only at the end of my delivery
that I can see the complete picture in its entirety,
like stepping back and looking at a canvas
newly-framed and mounted on the wall of a gallery.

I have delivered more messages than I can remember:
a young man sitting on a bus…
I remember telling him something
that his older sister wanted him to know:
that even though she had run away from home she still loved him
and that they would see each-other again one day –
some of the messages are so emotional to deliver,
I cannot help but break-down in tears
as I give them their message,
but in the same breath I love being the bearer of hope
and that sometimes invisible and silent hand
upon a person’s shoulder
telling them that every-thing is going to be alright.

I am not sure why I was chosen…
I am not sure who it was who chose me…
I am not sure if I am doing God’s work…
I am not sure what happens next
after I reach out, on behalf of someone else,
to another person…
I am not sure if my delivery of the message
is delivered in the same way as was intended –
most of the time I can deliver
what the message is with a look
and with a burst of thought,
like I am the conductor
of some kind of psychic-electricity;
sometimes I just let the message do all the work
and I just watch from behind my own eyes
while my body acts as if it has been possessed
by some kind of magical curse.

To most people who meet me,
I am nothing more than a stranger;
to a higher-power,
I am the one whom they chose
to be their psychic-amplifier;
to the sender of the messages that I send,
I am a link to someone who they want to talk to
without having to use their own voice –
I am their secret-teller,
I am one of their story-tellers…
I am here, I am there,
to be close and near to someone,
so that I can be who from a small child
I was always destined to be:
‘The Messenger’.

My Poem ‘Thoughtform’

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

Who has not imagined something, or someone,
who is not there, but what, or whom,
appears before them as if they were real?
When they are a child,
everybody has an imaginary-friend –
even if they do not know their name,
or see them as clear as day.
Who has not created a reality
and a world within their minds
when they are going through
a stressful time in their life
as a way for them to deal?
Everybody, every-thing,
requires thought behind it –
and it is the power of thought
and of intention, and of emotion,
like that of a ‘happy thought’
that can be enough to revitalize a person’s hope
and chase the wolves of fear away.

Our thoughts are what make
things real and come to life;
it is our obsessions and our dependency
upon things that make them seem
impossible to live without;
our thoughts can illuminate the world
no matter how dark it may appear –
like a beacon of candle-light;
it is how we worship our own
personal god of the miracles
that blesses our lives
that speaks the loudest about us,
and in-turn puts the words that we say
into our mouths.

People live many incarnations of themselves
from their first step to their last breath;
people wear many faces and they speak in many tongues
depending on where they are,
and what they are doing, and with whom;
people never stop changing –
every day the world remakes us,
even after the moment of our death;
even god himself sometimes has to speak
in different ways and with different voices –
depending upon the knowledge
of how the intended-recipient of their message
or call reacts to certain things;
a change can sometimes be triggered in someone
often by something innocuous –
such as a blooming sunflower,
or being exposed to the light of the moon.

A person’s out-ward, physical, appearance
is nothing but a mask that we all choose to wear
in one way or another;
a person’s actions are manipulated and coerced
and secretly directed from the day that they are born;
a person’s in-ward, inner, ego, and true-identity,
almost stays under some kind of a cover;
a person can be anybody, a person can be anywhere –
sometimes a person can want something
and can imagine something so much
that they can become a distant manifestation of themselves
that evolves naturally from who they see in the mirror
and who they project themselves as
through their ‘thought-form’.

My Poem ‘Psychic Arithmetic’

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

We all know our own minds,
but other people see more of us
than we do;
we may spend all of our time
with ourselves,
but we do not see
all the things that we do;
we may all know our own
personal likes and dislikes,
but we may not all be familiar
with all of our routines;
we all may look in the mirror,
but it is other people
who see the face that constantly changes.

By acting on instinct
we all can sometimes
take our own actions for granted;
by repeating the same tasks for a while
we can find it hard to imagine
a life that is not already
a picture and a memory in our own head;
cycles and predictive patterns
are important to life on our planet;
everybody has their preferences:
what they like to drink?
what they like to eat?
what they like like to listen to,
and what they like to watch?
Some people just do not “feel right”
if they do not keep on their
preferred side of their own bed.

Some people just know us;
some people can just read us;
some people are just like an open book;
some people can tell the story
of who they are from a single look;
some people constantly analyze;
some people speak as well see with their eyes;
some people love us – no matter how predictable
and bound by our own insecurities,
obsessions and compulsions we are;
some people think that when they see us
we shine like a star;
some people are so incredibly psychic
that their gift can be deceptive;
some people teach us every day
that there is more to learn
about all forms of nature
just by looking, observing,
understanding and deciphering
the signs and mimicking the techniques
used by the best of those schooled
in the performance of psychic arithmetic.