stories

My Poem ‘Vampire State of Mind’

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

What makes a vampire a Vampire
is all in the blood…
what drives a vampire
and what a vampire dreams about
would send shivers down a human spine
and strike fear into the heart of a man
and freeze their blood faster than
a river that runs still
under the sky of winter moonlight.

When the darkness falls,
and the stars above reveal themselves,
that is when the creatures of night-mares rise
and are filled with over-flowing power
and revitalized health
that feeds their hunger
just as much as that which they crave,
and it is then when nothing and no-one is safe
from the blood-drunk
who are in search of fresh prey –
and if your neck does have the misfortune
to come close to the sharp fangs of a Vampire
then say a prayer to god as fast as you can
before you sadly expire.

Stories have been told for centuries…
Vampires of all names
have risen from their coffins after-dark…
there is an allure for some people,
and there is an aura that surrounds
those who find peace
kindling the miracle gift
that is life’s spark.

A lust for life…
an endless thirst…
an aversion to sunlight…
a vocabulary of other-worldly words…
an understanding that death
is just another word for transformation…
a dance with the devil…
a passion and an obsession…
a secret desire to be the master
over another’s fate and will.

A vampire is of a time…
a vampire is eternal…
a vampire can only live if others die…
a vampire’s spirit is the most indomitable…
a vampire drinks blood as if it were red wine…
a vampire constantly walks the twilight line…
a vampire will always find a way to survive…
there are those who are not actual Vampires,
but who share many Vampire-like attributes,
and who have, what some may call,
a Vampire state of mind.

My Poem ‘The Mermaid’

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

Before writers started looking
above the clouds and imagining
the wonders of creation
that may live on other worlds,
orbiting around other stars…
before philosophers started dwelling
on the burning questions of human existence…
before any child ever dreamed
about setting foot on another planet…
before rockets, before planes,
before trains, before cars…
before there were countries with governments
led by the will of presidents…
the ancient seven seas of Earth
were believed by many to be
where the most amazing and fantastic,
supernatural and magical,
being and life resided –
and there must have been many
a sea-faring captain of a ship
who must have stayed up all night long
dreaming about capturing
a mythical creature from the ocean depths.

Epic and gigantic monsters…
tentacled behemoths…
giant and colossus monstrosities…
the nightmare characters of those who spent days,
months, even years, battling the forces of nature
over vast expanses of the oceans of the world
hoping to come face to face
with the unseen and the undiscovered…
in the days when and where dragons were thought
to live on the literal edge of the Earth…
gods of all names, sizes and colours, were worshiped
and had monuments erected in their honour…
when the possibility of traveling to another country
on the other side of the world
was so incredible to think of
it could only be the stuff of fantasy…
it was in the days before
the world fought itself in war after war
that everybody believed there was more to be found
than anybody had ever seen before.

Even in this day and age,
even in this decade and century,
we are still discovering life on our planet
that for some reason or another
had remained hidden and secret in seclusion
and were only the spoken or written word
of a story told and retold
by people who claimed to have had
a first-hand close-encounter;
every day something extraordinary
has a light shined upon it
and the knowledge of it actually being
a living-thing is so miraculous
it creates shock-waves;
there is no more powerful reminder
of the infinite possibilities of life
than nature – and there are countless times
when that fact has been abundantly clear;
everywhere you look,
every day around the world,
even today in the 21st century,
we are all surrounded by images
and iconography of myths that still live on –
be they leprechauns, dragons, epic crusades,
or a beautiful green and white mermaid.

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My Poem ‘Scream!’

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

Silence is broken…
the quiet is no more…
sound is made to say
what cannot be spoken…
a child that has not yet learned
how to talk is thinking, feeling,
and wanting something so much
that they are throwing everything
that they can reach to the floor.

Why do we scream?
Where does all that energy,
and where does all that deafening noise come from?
To me, there is something primal in a shriek;
to me, there is nothing like a noise
that seems to come out of nowhere
to attract your attention
and implode your concentration.

There are people who openly seek to be
scared out of their skin;
there are some people whose heart’s
race when they are on a beach
and they see in the distance
the unmistakable shape of a shark’s dorsal-fin;
there are some people who love
to take their senses to their outer-limits;
there are some people
who at the prospect of there being a ghost
in a house they are staying in
would be so petrified
that they would be scared beyond their wits.

Ghost-stories; camp-fire tales;
first-hand experiences recanted in great detail;
scary movies; myths of spectres
dressed in period-clothing
whose faces are so devoid of life they are pale;
to some people, to be shown something dark
and other-worldly horrific
is the greatest and the most visceral of thrills.

When the adrenaline surges through your body…
when your appendages spasm
and you literally jump out of your seat…
when you smile and perhaps even laugh out-loud
out of complete and utter shock and surprise,
brought on by the fear brought to life
by the images that you see…
that is when, even as a full-grown adult,
you can become like a child again
who is unsteady on their feet.

It’s cathartic to face your fears;
it’s good to let out what you are feeling
from time to time;
it’s incredible to see things you have never seen;
it’s amazing how a slight scare
can make your thoughts clear;
it’s phenomenal to see evil be defeated
when it crosses the line;
it’s exhilarating, sometimes,
to find yourself lost in a moment of comfort
and then have all that taken away
when something gives rise
to an almighty scream!

My Poem ‘Paracosmic’

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

Within all of our minds
we all live in a paracosm of reality;
by mixing the real with the imaginary
we can all see sights beyond imagining;
with our eyes we see,
with our ears we hear,
with our insights and our intuition
we create a map of our universe
that is coloured by the memories
we have made that are all
the more beautiful and amazing
because they are too deep
and too perfect to be in any way
artificially designed.

We all hold the key
to the lock of a doorway
that leads far beyond the stars;
we all fly with a burning tail
that contains the fire of rebirth
like the feathers of a phoenix;
we all can watch people take giant leaps,
and then take epic leaps of our own
and imagine we are the first human on Mars;
we all like that moment in a story
when we reach the point
when the story becomes
about something unexpected entirely
with a wonderful dramatic twist.

Stories have a structure,
life is naturally more organic;
stories have characters
that have defining characteristics,
intentions and motivations,
that tie the beginning and the end together;
life is like an untamed animal,
and like any wild creature –
when you come face to face with it
it never pays to run, blink, or panic.

I can return to my dream-scape, my paracosm,
my imagination mansion of infinite rooms
whenever I close my eyes
or whenever I look at the world
and I see rhyme and reason happening
and dancing with one-another in-tandem;
everybody has a world within themselves
where they can be the monarch of their own kingdom;
to me, fantasy is just reality re-imagined
and transformed as if with the dust of Morpheus
into a dream, a wish, or a prayer;
with our mind we can all envision
a way to solve every and any problem of the world –
and sometimes what starts within us
can manifest and be seen and heard
like a dragon awakening from their lair.

People dive deep below
the surface of reality
into the sea of a story
when something tells them
that there is something about it
that they need to know;
books are self-contained galaxies
that have hidden bridges within them
that link them to each other,
as well as to the future and the past;
the times when the more that we blink,
the more that we think,
and the more that we want to make a moment last –
that is when we run, we fly, we dive, we fall,
and take with us our memories of a time
so that they can live forever within our paracosm,
and always have the power of them
to make us feel paracosmic.

My Poem ‘Infinite Stories’

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

There is no greater story
than a true story;
there is no greater true story
than the story of someone’s life;
there is no greater way
for an individual story
to touch another person’s heart
than to tell it true
and to see it run free;
there is no greater epic
than a death-defying survival
to stay alive.

We all have stories;
we all love stories;
we have meet each other
because we need to;
we all know someone
who has a story from their life
that is so amazing and incredible
it is almost unbelievable to believe
that it is even true.

Passengers on a plane,
passengers on a train,
strangers on a journey,
strangers on a trip,
who can truly be honest
about who they are,
because the only thing that they share
is the shortest of connections and history –
brief encounters, stories that matter,
short exchanges, instances of new changes;
new chapters, fresh banter;
a rush of endorphin’s;
marks of beauty,
like freckles on person’s skin.

Because life is constantly asking
something new of us all,
new stories are being made all the time;
because people are constantly meeting new people
life stories are constantly inter-twinning;
because the rain will always fall,
and the sun will always shine,
somewhere, everywhere,
the pen, the keys, the fingers of a storyteller
will always be writing.

New stories begin every second;
old stories continue and are shared
time after time, day after day –
as if they are once again brand new;
legends are made for us to find
that allow us to see things
in ways that we can understand;
for every story to be
there must be a me and a you.

For better, or for worse,
all of our true stories
are ours and no one else’s;
fortunately, or not,
all of our memories are ours –
our losses, our tears,
our smiles, our glories;
for the best, all of our living days
will one day be like grains of sand on a beach,
and like the countless stars of the universe,
and that is what makes them truly ours
and truly special;
for all of our collective spoken and recorded time,
everything and everybody will always be the reason,
the source, the microphone and the speaker,
not to mention the writer and the reader,
consequential and important
in sharing the world’s inspiring
infinite stories.

My Poem ‘Ruminant’

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

A deer walking through a green wood;
a horse galloping across
a beautiful open expanse;
an eagle soaring and gliding
through the air above a vast herd of buffalo;
an adventurer trekking through a jungle,
with a pack full of all that they need
to survive in the wild,
as the raindrops fall on them
and down the lip of their coat’s hood;
a small dog resting outside in the sun
in their favorite spot,
with a look about them
that says that they are feeling
inconceivable emotions of happiness;
a writer writing
while listening to their muse of music,
writing rhymes as if each word
had its own distinctive sound to them,
that sound like
that of the notes of a musical instrument.

As with everything that is made up of
and from the combination of many ingredients,
all things must ruminate and coalesce
and be infused naturally over time
by the mixture of nature and identity;
just as the present is an echo of the past,
as well as a prelude for the future,
some things must always stay the same,
and if necessary thrive on being different –
because in life strict conformity
can be the true enemy.

Inspirational people
have taken countless people
on journeys throughout history,
and the stories of their deeds
have long out-lived them
and are read and retold every day
to a whole new generation
of free-thinking and inquisitive people
looking for answers to life’s questions,
far and wide;
writers, artists, musicians,
have been struck by instant and deep inspiration
while staring at a flower swaying in the breeze;
children have been recognized for being special
because they chose to work hard
and dig deep and go that extra mile;
animals are sometimes revered for being exceptional
because they represent and they talk
to the needs that we all feel
for contentment and connection
with our surroundings
based on our ever-present instincts.

When I truly allow my thoughts
to flow and to float,
they are like a big fluffy cloud in a blue sky;
when I truly open up
and let my feelings bubble up,
they can sometimes spread
like the waters of a flood;
when I truly focus on the journey,
and not the end, I believe and I know
that life for us all goes on,
even after we die;
when I truly live and breathe
every second of the one that I love,
I feel things that almost defy description
and definition – as if I were
a part of an infinite, amazing,
cosmologically-vast and meaningful meditation.

My Poem ‘Inter-dimensional’

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

The fast moving clouds above my head
remind me yet again
that the world is constantly in motion;
the slowly decreasing volume of coffee
in my coffee cup reminds me perfectly
that everything has an end;
hearing and seeing people
conversing with others
reminds me every time
that language is like
an audibly addictive stimulus
for communicating stories,
memories, and emotions;
reading the last words of an author
is like celebrating and saying goodbye
to an old friend.

Life goes on;
heaven exists;
everybody is someone;
sometimes life is like walking through a mist;
there are worlds beyond the horizon;
there are universes where everything
and anything is possible;
there are dimensions
that stretch to infinity beyond this one;
there is life elsewhere
that is as abundant and beautiful
and as magical to behold as sea-coral.

When you are staring at a painting
you can feel like you are being drawn into it;
when you are reading a story
you can imagine yourself
as the character that you are reading about;
when you are listening to your favourite songs
you can feel every note and every word
as if there a part of you,
and you understand all that they mean
and all that they meant;
when you are watching life unfold
and real-life events take place right in front of you,
sometimes reality can be more real
than any version of anything
that our minds would ever be capable of constructing.

Some people never leave the city, the country,
the mindset of the place where they are born –
while others take flight at the first opportunity
to follow their dreams;
some people miss their calling to great things –
while others are just great at everything
and in anything that they do in life,
however some people sometimes need
to be shown what a miracle they are
and what acts of magic
they are daily witnessed performing;
some people find peace and solace
when traveling inwards;
some people find release
the more that they explore outwards;
some people go far
without having to physically travel;
some people are capable of so much
and they are so gifted in so many ways
that when they do travel to when and to where
it is always inter-dimensional.

My Poem ‘The Ember days’

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

There are days in the year
when so many of us gather together;
there are days when we meet up
with our family and friends
and reminisce and tell stories,
as if we are all basking
in the glow of everything
while sitting around a camp-fire;
there are days when we happily
give gifts to each other;
there are days when we are held,
and we hold the thing
that truly matters in life,
and share love and feel love –
like holding, without fear of being burned,
a glowing red-hot ember.

There are days of the year
when the energy-level is extraordinary;
there are days when every hour
is a treat as sweet as chocolate;
there are days of the year
when you can look around
and truly take-in just how lucky you are,
and remember the glory days of your life-story;
there are days which are too important
to ever be forgotten.

There are days that are significant to us,
because the anniversary of a particular day –
where we were, with whom,
and what emotions were stirred
and what memories were eternally made;
there are days that can come to define our entire lives
in special and magical ways;
there are days when our internal spirit
rises up and overflows out of us
and we show a side of us
that leaves people in a daze;
there are days when words are just not enough
to say what you want to say.

Every day of our year
is about remembering the days
and the times that were,
and continuing traditions of connection
so that we may realize time and time again
that each and every one of us
only has one chance of making our lives
the way we want it to be;
days soon become months,
months soon become years –
however, our lives are timeless;
and even if every day isn’t light and bright,
filled with gifts, presents,
smiles, flowers, and candy,
there is always something there for us to take with us,
and there are always lights in the dark for us
to look at like the illuminations of a Christmas tree.

Never forget the people you have known;
never forget the people who would
never knowingly leave you alone;
never forget the happiness you felt
that continues to live on deep inside you
that you will take with you to the grave;
never forget the days of light and celebration
that will continue to blaze throughout your life,
and bring you back always to the ember days.

My Poem ‘The Book People’

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

Every book lover
has their favourite author;
every literary enthusiast
has their favourite book;
every storyteller,
every story reader,
knows that books
are really secret doors;
everyone with an imagination
can go on a journey
and cherish every word,
as if they had never read
a single sentence before.

I love hearing people say:
“oh my god, I love this book!” –
especially from the mouths of the young;
I always smile when I see
a fellow fan of an author
and a book that I love.
Stories have the power
to make you feel something amazing,
to greater depth and effect
sometimes than a song;
there are tales and characters
that shine for me and show me
the way to somewhere I have been looking for –
like the stars that shimmer like glitter
in the dark sky above.

A library is like a gold-mine of riches;
a bookstore is like a fountain of wishes;
a mind is a place where stories become a part of us;
a network of like-minded people is absolutely wondrous;
communication is the best way to feel free and boundless;
language is the supreme method
to teach someone about themselves;
sharing your dreams can inspire the dreams
and the imagination of countless generations;
the world that you live in with everyone else
is full of art that is truly timeless.

Books are meant to be opened and read,
and books are meant to share your life with you,
and they are meant to change as they live their own life –
being carried from place to place
and being held by person to person;
every book and every story, to me, is a limited edition;
any and every book has words and worlds within
that are uniquely special;
everybody has their own attractive qualities,
but to me their is no greater gift and attribute,
and no greater example of enlightened character,
than to be one of the millions of people,
of all ages all around the world,
who happily count themselves
as one of “The Book People”.

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My Poem ‘Burning Bright’

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

‘Poet of the Sphere’,
‘The Sound of Mark’,
‘The Eternal Boy’ –
I am my books, and my books are me;
just as Ray Bradbury is ‘Fahrenheit 451’,
‘The Martian Chronicles’, ‘The Illustrated Man’ –
just as those books will forever be
Ray Bradbury.

An author has a connection to their books,
to their stories,
that is even beyond the words that they have written;
a published writer is a part
of each and every one of their books –
deeper than the cover, the ink, the paper, the ideas;
a storyteller knows what it is
to have true unburdened and unbounded imagination;
a wordsmith embodies their words and their works,
and their power cannot be taken away from them,
not even by fire.

To me, there is no greater sin in this life
than to burn a book, to try and destroy a story,
to undo what was done and written;
to me, there is no greater crime
than ignorance of the truth;
to me, everyone of Earth with a story to tell
deserves to speak aloud and stand under a hot sun;
to me, and to a lot of writers,
the knowledge of life that each and every one
of us possesses is what keeps us Human,
and it is what makes us unique –
magic is real,
and language and stories are the proof.

J.M. Barrie is Peter Pan;
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is Sherlock Holmes;
Terry Prachett is every character
that lives on the ‘Disk World’;
William Shakespeare is every character
that he wrote and gave life to in his plays;
Stephen King is Roland Deschain
from his epic ‘Dark Tower’ series of books;
Neil Gaiman is ‘Shadow’ from ‘American Gods’;
Douglas Adams is Arthur Dent;
J.K. Rowling is Harry Potter;
J.R.R. Tolkien is Bilbo Baggins;
and I am every one of my poems,
that to me are like rhyming short-stories.

Every writer of every book,
is each and every one of the characters that they write;
every myth, tale, and story, is an inspiring light;
every author deserves to have their books
remembered and embodied until the end of time –
from the sunrise of every morning,
until the moon fades away again
at the end of another night;
every story can live forever and be retold,
if people take them into their minds
and into their hearts,
and allow them to never stop
burning bright.

In memory of Ray Bradbury;
and all authors, all books;
and all myths, tales,
characters, and stories.