sensation

My Poem ‘Soul of the Summer’

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

Summer is the season of the sun;
summer is the time when everything can shine;
summer is sometimes different
in different places around the world,
it depends where you are from;
summer is when all life can flourish
and share its colours far and wide;
summer brings about new experiences,
new music, new inspirations,
re-invigoration of soul and spirit,
and it is when anyone and everyone
can get out and enjoy the beauty of the world
and see the face of nature close-up,
and if and when you can
to have a good time.

The sunlight of a summer morning,
the heat of the summer air,
the vibe of a summer spent walking,
talking, recalling, and memory making;
the incomparable and intense summer glare;
the constant mood medicine on the summer breeze
that keeps you smiling;
the summer sensation that you feel
when your skin changes colour;
the summer days spent rocking
from side to side in a hammock
that feels like you are lying calmly on a cloud
as you spend hours just relaxing.

Every summer is unique;
you can capture important moments
in photographs, memories, impressions –
but you can’t every capture everything;
every summer has its valleys and its peaks;
you can often recall a particular summer
by recalling the songs that were constantly playing
on the radio that everybody was singing;
every summer is revealing,
and it is a time to say and to do
absolutely anything.

Sneakers, sandals, tennis shoes, flip-flops;
shorts, skirts, t-shirts, low-cut tops;
shades, sunglasses, baseball caps;
sun-screen, jackets, thirst-quenching drinks on-tap.

The message of the summer in which you find yourself
is always to allow things to be see, and to feel free;
the golden season is when you can seek out and enjoy
all that the world has to offer;
the meaning of every season
is to make the most of the gift of life’s beauty;
hope is meant to rush through the bloodstream of everybody,
and finding hope in something that makes you happy
is what it means to have found the soul of the summer.

Advertisement

My Poem ‘Click’

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

You know that moment
when you have got so much to say,
but you don’t know how to say it;
you know that time
when it feels like your mind and your body
feel like they are stuck in cement;
you know that instant
when your mind goes blank
and you just forget something you knew
only a day or so ago,
but now it has seemingly disappeared into the ether;
you know that sensation of déjà vu
that comes over you
that completely convinces you
that you are reliving something over;
you know that story that you hear about
that you read that accurately
which completely describes you and your life,
as if you were the one who wrote it for you to read;
you know how magical it is to see something grow
into something big and amazing
that once started out as a small and simple seed.

Some “thank yous” don’t follow
immediately after a favourable deed has taken place –
it can take some time, and a flash of realisation,
to understand what a moment truly means and what it meant;
some people are truly unforgettable
and you constantly see echoes of their face;
some people mean more than other people,
and that is why they can come to mean to you
as if they were more like family than friends.

What makes something “great”,
what makes something “the best”,
what makes something “special”,
what makes something stand out,
is indefinable –
however it is individualistically natural;
when something goes and “feels right”
it feels like nothing else of Earth
and like you have been blessed.

It feels great when you find your rhythm;
it feels fantastic when you find your number one;
it feels awe-inspiring to come face to face
with a real-life legend that has an air
and a mystery to them like a myth;
it feels like a true miracle
when everything goes as it supposed to
and you see, hear, and feel
that undeniable ‘click’.

My Poem ‘I Look Above’

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

Above my head,
caught in the branches of a tree,
I see a red balloon –
a former gift and token of love
from one person to another on Valentines day –
that had floated away,
so that it could be seen by me,
so that it could inspire me,
so that I could start a new poem,
while looking at it,
as I wonder where it came from,
who it used to belong to,
who bought it, and how long it will be as it is,
as it was always meant to be –
and as with most things that I witness and see,
I know that the red balloon in the tree
will only be a sight to see
that is temporary.

Above my head, I see clouds of white
that look like a frozen blanket of snow hovering in the air;
above my head, I can hear an invisible airplane –
invisible to sight but not sound,
and the unmistakable noise of travelers on their way;
above my head, there is always something
that I can look up at for hours, and simply stare;
above my head, is a dream of an endless, perfect, day.

As I look above, I remember being above –
I remember being among the clouds
and imagining the sensation of flying like a bird;
as I look above, just as when I remember looking below,
I am frequently lost for words
and in full belief and feeling
that I have all that I could ever want,
and there is nothing more to life
that I need to see or know.

I look above a lot;
I look above, because I cannot yet imagine
seeing or knowing enough;
I look above, because I am reminded
every time that there is more
to a small pin-prick of light
than there might at first appear –
just as there would be more to see
for an extraterrestrial astronomer
looking at the Earth from their observatory
and seeing only a faint blue dot.
The sky is just a veil
to many wonderful and magical things
that cannot be seen with the naked eye,
and that is one of the reasons
that I will continue to look above.

image

My Poem ‘Board Life’

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

Backpack on their back,
baseball cap on back-to-front,
wearing a black hooded-sweatshirt,
skating, standing, talking with one-another-
young, like-minded, boys and girls;
young, similarly-dressed, men and women-
weaving quickly and easily
through the city streets and paths,
getting from place to place,
enjoying themselves, laughing, joking,
smiling, having fun,
jumping, chasing, doing tricks,
doing whatever they want,
and going where they want to go,
by board and by foot,
nothing seems to slow them down-
they are all doing something that they genuinely love.

Seeing so many people with the same interest,
wearing nearly the same colour and design and style of clothing,
I have a momentary flashback to when I was a kid:
when I too had my own skateboard.
I didn’t take skateboarding as seriously as some of my friends did,
but I do remember loving the experience of learning to keep my balance,
changing direction, and when going fast
learning the art of knowing how not to fall.
I didn’t go far on my skateboard,
I probably only went up and down my road,
or maybe around the black;
I didn’t ride around with other skateboarders,
or do too many tricks, or flicks,
and I never felt the sensation of being weightless for a few seconds
after skating down a ramp and going ‘over the top’.

To be a skateboarder, you can be anybody, you can be from anywhere,
and you can speak with any accent,
and still share a common tongue,
with your fellow ‘boarders that doesn’t need to be explained;
to be a skateboarder,
there isn’t a particular code that you have to live by;
to be a skateboarder, you can be yourself,
as well as being a member of a club
in which everyone is one and the same;
to be a skateboarder, means never to have a day
when you think that you have a bored life,
because you are free to go anywhere –
because you live a ‘board life’.