time

My Poem ‘Analog’

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

The world is like a ticking clock…
the universe is the most breathtaking
and complex time-piece…
the Earth is far more than
a green and blue planet
of trees, oceans, and rock…
life is a monument
and an unfinished puzzle
of an infinite number of pieces.

All worlds turn silently in a vacuum…
all life is unique…
all explosions create a plume…
all things have the ability to speak…
nothing is by accident…
every song is the offspring
of the trinity of a musical artist:
heart, mind, and soul…
all music is like a thing of magic…
the random and the unexpected
is what makes life feel
ever the more real…
sometimes the more unmarked
and the more perfect something appears
the more fake it can seem…
sometimes the more you add to something
the more that you take away from it…
sometimes the more you dream about something
the more that you build a bridge
between the imaginary and the seen,
and that is when something phenomenal begins
like a tempest of energy behind your eye-lids.

We all share, and we all receive…
we all upload, and we all download…
we all like our freedom,
and we like to be loyal in our own way
and return home to the place
and to the people we love…
we all think… we all breathe…
we all code… we all have our very own
introduction, life, story, and epilogue…
sometimes the best things in life
happen when you embrace
the unedited version of something,
and to me there are fewer things purer
than those that can be enjoyed in analog.

My Poem ‘Almost too much’

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

Life can be tough…
life can be mean…
life can be rough…
if you have seen what I have seen,
and if you have felt what I have felt,
then you will know exactly what I mean.

Is life really a game of luck?
Is life really a lottery
that we don’t know we are a part of?
Has life got to be hard
for us to understand how precious it is?
Have we got to struggle and fight
to know what this world we all live in truly is?

Sons and daughters
should not have to watch
their mothers and fathers suffer;
I know that life isn’t always fair,
but I just wish that all the love within me
and within all the people of the world
who truly care about others
could be to every cancer the most powerful cure.

I am hopeful…
I am romantic…
I do believe that the world, the universe,
is amazing, miraculous, and wonderful…
I believe that no matter what happens in life
the best thing is to not panic –
but that doesn’t mean that I do not fear
losing those who I love and who make me who I am,
and that does not mean that I do not
sometimes get scared
and my thoughts and my emotions
regress to those that I remember having
before I grew into the man that I am.

Life is a journey of mind, body, and spirit;
life is a storm of surprises, sometimes;
life goes by faster than you might think,
and there ultimately comes a day
when you look back in time
and you wish that you could relive
the moments that made you the happiest in your life
that you can’t help but miss;
life can be both a blessing and a test of soul –
it can sometimes take all your will
to keep you from losing your mind;
the days that you spend in life in love
and being loved are never enough;
life can almost be too much…
however, no matter what,
never lose what matters the most: your love.

My Poem ‘Too Close To The Sun’

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

Just like Icarus’ wings of wax,
everybody has something precious
that keeps them flying;
just like Achilles,
nobody is completely invulnerable –
even if they believe themselves
to be blessed by immortality;
just like Adam and Eve in the Bible,
there is nobody who has not looked
at something and has not been tempted
by the prospect of tasting and trying;
just as our eyes can only see
the light reflected back at us,
nobody should ever mistakenly believe
that they know or may have seen
everything that there is –
because just one step beyond the horizon,
above the clouds,
past the silver crescent of the moon,
there lies knowledge and wonders
that number into the realm of infinity,
improbability, and endless possibility.

There are times when our minds
can feel like a cave of echoes;
there are times when our memories
flash-back to life
like the lightning of a thunder-storm;
there are times when a brand new song
can be composed and heard
as the leaves of trees rustle
and as every-day objects
become instruments as the wind blows;
there are times when a heart
can be broken and then remade again
in an instant –
it is a moment that many mothers and fathers
have felt simultaneously
when they heard the first out-cry of life
from their newborn.

It is better to risk and fail
than to fail by not ever taking a risk;
it is better to take a chance
than to have your chance
at something taken away;
it is better to see what happens
than to live a life
as if ticking off things
on a check-list;
it is better to grasp
and fill a moment of time,
even if with a world of silence,
or music, than to watch a clock
tick down to the last second of the day.

Most great discoveries
are those that you have to dig for;
most great adventures began
by taking a running-jump;
most great relationships came to be
because the feelings and the connection
that you instantly felt
eclipsed all those that had come before;
most great myths were written,
and most great stories were inspired,
by those who chose to throw caution to the wing
and consciously flew too close to the sun.

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My Poem ‘Forensic’

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

Mystery, like love,
in my opinion,
is the most potent drug
known to man,
and also the only one
capable of delivering
someone to the deepest of states
of pure intoxication;
mystery haunts the mind
and walks the Earth silently
until the time is right
for its voice to be heard;
mystery makes detectives of us all –
however, the greatest of mysteries
have long-since remained unsolved
and their secrets live on
in the prism of history,
just as the intrigue of their story
will continue to inspire and enthrall
many for all eternity.

There seems to be a constant struggle
between order and disorder;
there are times in life
when something happens
and the only response you can give is: why?;
there are some people who are incapable
of staying on the right side of the law;
there must be something in the genes, I think,
that motivates and compels someone
to commit any crime.

Every whisper contains a seed of truth
that is only a minute part of a much larger story;
every detail of every-thing is evidence
of a structure of moments that goes deep,
as well as towers high;
everybody leaves a trace
that can be followed forward in time,
as well as back;
everywhere there are things
that some people can so easily miss and not see;
everyone is gravity-bound by something
that they live because of and are made whole by;
every instant and every moment
we leave something behind us
that we do not realize,
because time goes by so fast.

A state of being is psychological;
a state of reproducing is biological;
a state of acting without thinking is instinctual;
everybody trips, everyone falls;
everybody utters words of inspiration
from time to time over their lips;
everyone at one time or another
hears an empowering call;
every mystery has an answer;
every magician and illusionist
has their signature magic-trick;
every unknown gives someone a reason to wonder;
every puzzle can be solved
if you look for the coincidences
that are not just coincidences –
because in reality all things are clues
in the fascinating world of forensics.

My Poem ‘The Hummingbird House’

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

Standing in a room
surrounded in every direction
by flying hummingbirds;
the childhood dream
of a little girl walking
through a vast field of yellow daises
beneath a cloudless bright-blue sky;
standing on a green hilltop
looking down at your home below;
the adventure of a not-yet
grown up boy’s life-time,
and a return to a place
that he knows so well
it is almost as indelibly under his skin
it could almost be a tattoo;
on a cold winter’s day
the light shines differently
than it does at the same time of day
during the summer;
people change just as much as the seasons do;
a simple act of kindness can be something
that some people hold on to for luck
like a four-leafed clover;
when you become intoxicated by a moment
time goes wonderfully slow.

Dreams are our life’s internal movie-theatre;
our dreams are like the software
that runs the most powerful super-computer;
emotions are our way of interpreting
the meaning of what we see,
what we hear, what we feel,
and what we think;
all of our memories share and are
connected to an infinite number of mutual links.

Two different people
can look up at the same cloudy sky
and see two radically different formations;
a hundred people can be in the same place
at the same time for many different reasons;
a thousand people could each give you
a thousand and one different answers
to the same question;
all of human-kind begins anew
a different cycle every time
there is the rise of a new generation.

A house made of glass tells no lies,
but at the same time is precious to the touch
because of what it is;
a rose is one of the most beautiful gifts of nature,
but it also has the means to protect itself;
to me, someone with a thousand books to read
is richer than someone with a thousand dollars to spend;
a dream that has come true for you
is also known by another name: happiness;
heaven is a story that has no end;
everybody and anybody who has ever stopped
and stood, and who has ever looked
at a beautiful sight with an open mouth,
knows intimately what it is like
to have been inside a hummingbird house.

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.

My Poem ‘Interview with an inspirer’

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

Across a table,
over a mug of tea
or a cup of coffee,
over the years I have sat down,
spoke and communed
with the truly inspirational –
and every ghost of everybody
who has chosen to come
and pass on their wisdom to me
lives on in the words of the verses
within the lines of my poetry.

A long time ago,
William Shakespeare himself,
with quill in hand,
taught me how to write
and how to tap into
the well of inspiration
of my own heart;
only a couple of years ago,
I was sitting in a coffee-shop,
when who do you think it was
who sat across from me?
Why it was the ghost of Vincent van Gogh –
who instilled in me
the importance of every brush-stroke
that we all make, in art and in life,
and to not be afraid to make our marks
that number as many as a sky full of stars;
the white-suited spirit of John Lennon
regularly sits down with his guitar next to me
and inspires me to imagine and to see the world
for how it should be.

Only a few days ago,
I was having a deep and meaningful conversation
with the legendary ‘Starman’ David Bowie;
Amelia Earhart wants me to remind
every man, woman, and child
to never stop overcoming the odds
and reaching for the stars;
Audrey Hepburn has stopped by
to share breakfast with me –
she teaches me every time I see her
that being happy in life is all that matters;
Agatha Christie likes to drink
a cup of hot black-coffee
when sitting down with me
and explaining the importance of a great mystery;
“don’t be afraid to let your mind run wild
when you are writing anything”
was an inspiring piece of advise given to me once
by the author of ‘Frankenstein’, Mary Shelley.

I have been visited many times
by amazing people with epic stories
to tell from and of their lives –
Robin William, RIP, comes by often
to tell me a joke and to give me
the answer to a question
that I did not even know was on my mind;
everybody who sits across from me,
or beside me, talks to me, I believe,
because I listen and because I care deeply,
and perhaps because my imagination
and my heart burns like a fire;
special people never stop having
something to tell you and pass on –
even after death the light of a person’s spirit
lives on, and I am always ready and waiting
if somebody who used to walk the Earth,
but who is now in the after-life,
wants to return to life
through words and through memories
by allowing me to talk and interview
those who will always inspirational
and an eternal inspiring inspirer.

My Poem ‘Please give generously’

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

Anything is better than nothing;
time is our greatest currency;
compassion is something special
that not everybody
is instantly capable of feeling;
being there for those in need
when they need a hand to hold
and no other form of hand-out
should be the core principle
of every charity.

It isn’t until you are personally
touched by a tragedy,
or by a shock to the system,
that you start to look at the world
and realize how important
and how much another human being
can make a profound difference to your life;
it isn’t until you look for support
from someone else that you realize
there are other people out there in the world
who have at one time
been where you are
and have gone through
what you are going through;
it isn’t until you struggle
to put into words how you feel
that you realize how important it is
to have someone to wish you sweet dreams
before you fall asleep at night;
it isn’t until you accept
that you do not know every-thing
that you can have your own breakthrough.

Our loved-ones are always those
who we see and who we think about the most;
our emotions for those
who brighten our lives
are always the closest to the surface;
our memories of people we used
to know and love are our ghosts;
our time with others is precious,
and sadly there are few things
in the end that last.

In my opinion,
100% of all that is given
to a cause should make it
to the intended-recipient;
in my opinion,
the act of giving is diluted
when it becomes a means towards an end
for someone who is not directly effected by
and who knows nothing about
what it means to be someone
who feels ashamed
to ask for help from anyone;
in my opinion,
you can’t help to save a life until you see
why everybody to everyone is important;
in my opinion,
there are some people who do not realize
that if we do not all share responsibility
for the continued survival of our species
and our planet then some fights
and some struggles will never be won.

We don’t truly think about something
until it gets personal;
we don’t truly act on something
until we are effected emotionally;
we don’t truly know how hard life can be
until we are made to feel vulnerable;
we don’t truly know
how much we can contribute
to saving a life until we try –
so, whether you do it by-hand,
by using your feet,
or whether you choose
to make your mark to help others
in a way that is wholly anonymously,
give whatever you can
to someone else in need…
and, please give generously.

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 ‘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.