White

My Poem “Frozen Tears”

Mark Hastings life, me, Podcast, Poetry , , , , , , , , , ,

The snow fell slowly…
the snow fell deep…
the snow fell quietly…
the snow fell so peacefully
that while I was watching it
I drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, as I looked out
at the blue sky above
and at the white snow below,
I felt like I was a child
and I wanted to go outside
and walk in the snow –
and that is exactly what I did:
I put on my walking boots,
my coat, my scarf, and I threw
my rucksack on to my back
and I set out, one step at a time,
to explore the frozen beauty of nature
and the wonderful sights
that most of the time remain hid
before it was too late –
because even in nature things
are not always meant to last.

The sound of the snow cracking beneath
the soles of my boots was invigorating –
most likely because the sound of my own
footsteps was all that I could hear…
the way that the crystallised snow
sparkled and glistened as the sun
shined upon the pure white path
before me was dreamlike –
untouched, vast, like being within
a moment of time in which
there was no beginning and no end:
like staring at an eternal representation
of life and nature and feeling so moved
by this overwhelming and profound landscape;
and yet, even though I wanted to cry,
I was unable to conjure any tears –
I instead choose to close my eyes,
to breathe in and to breathe out,
to smile from ear to ear,
and to feel more blessed
that I had felt for years.

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My Poem “The Harvest Moon”

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The Harvest Moon
shone high in the morning sky…
The Harvest Moon shined so bright
I became entranced by its light…
The Harvest Moon
hung huge and breathtaking
against the blue of the clear air above…
The Harvest Moon –
the coming of a new season
and a beacon of natural beauty,
and as awe-inspiring and as white as a dove…
The Harvest Moon
captured my attention, sparked my imagination,
and filled my vision that twilight October day…
The Harvest Moon is a sign
that winter is on the way…
The Harvest Moon has long been used by early-risers
as a torch to guide them in whatever they do…
The Harvest Moon, to me,
is an amazing celestial event
and an inspiring sight to see –
and I hope that it is not too long before
I get to see another beautiful Harvest Moon.

My Poem ‘Snow-where to run’

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

I am not sure if it is just me,
but I’m sure that it used to be,
that more than often than not
it used to snow only at Christmas time?
I’m not sure if it is just my memory
playing tricks on me,
but I’m sure that it used to be the case
that every Christmas when I was a kid
was a white Christmas –
however, now it is as if
the seasons have shifted slightly
and the weather of December
has now moved to the months
of January and February.
As I look around the world,
and I see the photos taken
by people of where they live,
snow appears to have fallen
and countless cities around the world
are now covered in a thick blanket of white.

New York City at the moment
is a winter-wonderland;
Washington, D.C., will soon be waking up
to what fell from the sky the night before;
people who usually wake up every morning
and go out for a run around Central Park
are putting on their winter coats
and knitted hats and scarfs
and instead they are planning to go for a walk;
the Potomac River has a layer of ice over it
so thick that it may take days for it to completely thaw.

From Rossville to Nashville, Tennessee,
a world of white is all that you can see –
perfect conditions for anyone
who likes throwing snowballs,
or perhaps going down to the local store
on a pair of ski’s
all the way up 7th Avenue in New York City;
from Times Square to West 59th St.,
adults and children are walking down roads
frozen in time in every sense of the word –
cars and taxi-cabs still stand
in the same place they stood the day before.

Here in England,
we have been lucky up until now –
three years ago, at this exact time of the year,
I remember walking down lanes
in the countryside of my home
and thinking that the only thing
capable of getting from A to B
with any kind of speed
would have to be a snow-plow;
when snow falls here in the United Kingdom
the entire country almost comes to a stand-still –
the kids love it when it snows though,
because their schools close for the day
and they can run around the streets and have fun.

There are some cities
and some countries around the world
that have a temperature of -20 degrees Celsius,
and where a day without seeing a single snowflake
would be to someone who lived there
just as miraculous as walking
across the surface of the sun;
for most people when it snows
it gives them a reason to stay indoors
and turn the heating up,
catch up with family and friends,
and share their pictures and memories with the world,
and it gives them an opportunity
to look out there window
at the snow that they see
and remind themselves that
where they are is where they are meant to be
and no matter where they look
they have nowhere else to run.

My Poem ‘Christmas Time’

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

“So this is Christmas,
and what have you done…”
sang John Lennon on the radio
as I sat with my pen and open notebook,
as the sun shone through the windows
and reflected off the chrome panels
of a nearby building;
I was near an open door all the while –
but not for a second did I feel cold;
the Christmas songs kept playing,
the air was cozy,
and everybody around me
was locked in their own world;
the Christmas colours and lights
were bright and bold,
and just as I got to the end
of the first verse of my new poem
a familiar voice sang loud:
“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”

I sit. I stare. I blink. I smile.
I write. I think about how much
I have in common with the life of a sundial –
because I too would be nothing
without the light of the star from afar
that gives my life meaning
and endows me with all that I need
to be who I am supposed to be.

As Louis Armstrong sings
of the “trees of green”
and the “red roses too”
and the blue skies of our “wonderful world” –
I know, I see, I remember
all that he sang about
and what I too believe makes out planet
standout from any other
in the entire universe;
so often, I become both lost and overflowing
with words to describe
all that I see and all that I feel;
I do not know who I would be
if I could not write the language of my heart
on a page in connected verse of poetry.

“White Christmas” starts to play,
and instantly I am back in time
and I am imagining things that happened
so many years ago –
I remember the snow of my childhood,
I remember the happy times I spent with my family,
I remember imagining that if anybody
were to walk on the surface of the moon again
then of course I would;
I remember seeing true beauty
in fallen snowflakes
and knowing that there was more to me and to life,
and twenty years before I would ever have thought
to write anything that I would now
consider in any way poetic.

One last song plays
before I have to leave the place where I am now;
where I am going next I do not know for sure,
because I do not have a fixed plan –
however, as I think of a title
to sign-off my brand new chain of rhymes,
I decide to use the last words
of the song that I hear…
and as my poem is about the world of today,
about me, and is in itself a snap-shot of life –
this poem is about this moment,
and at this moment it is definitely
Christmas time.

My Poem ‘The White Rabbit’

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

I sometimes feel like
I am akin to the white rabbit of Wonderland;
I almost always find myself late,
because even in my mind
I am always rushing off to somewhere;
I sometimes feel like I am in an hour-glass
being slowly rained on by a constant dusting
of falling grains of sand;
I sometimes struggle to know
when to go and when to stop and wait;
as I watch time tick by,
like the hands of a clock,
I am very rarely seen standing still –
when I am writing,
when I am talking,
when I am thinking,
are the most likely of times
that you will ever see me motionless,
and even then, my muscles are on the move –
in some way, shape, or form –
and, to be honest, for me to be in any way
like a statue I would have to be ill.

Some things do take time
to fully come to fruition;
some things can happen
and must only happen in the moment;
some things that are what they are
are driven by emotion;
some things are so important to us
their effect on us is incredibly potent.

I have learned over time
that you have to follow your heart;
I have always looked for the rabbit hole
to the unknown, and ran down it at full-speed
without any thought of stopping myself, or looking back;
I have always been enamored by every sentence
that I have read that has ever ended
with a question mark;
I have always considered every opportunity
as if it were a doorway to somewhere
that is so full of inspiration and wonder
it would and will always be impossible
to ever pin-point the location
of everything there on any kind of map.

I have always believed
that there is no such thing as coincidence;
I have proof that every thing
and every person comes into your life
and is a part of your life for a reason;
I have vowed to myself to never stop
doing what I do, and to will keep going –
to keep walking through every open door,
and to keep jumping over every fence;
I have watched people leave others behind
when they feel like they have to
if they want to have the thing that they most desire –
I, however, do not give up on people
or on anything that matters to me lightly,
and if I could I would be there
when and where I am wanted and needed
for those who need me
through all the colours and shades of every season.

Anything can last forever,
if you don’t give up on it
and if you don’t forget it;
while you are looking around
and taking in life and your surroundings,
try to see the signs that you should follow,
if you want to experience
your eyes being opened wide
by a thought as amazing
and as dazzling as a bright light;
the things that may happen to you
if you choose to sometimes not worry
about all the things that could happen,
and if you learn to grasp the secret of everything:
that everything happens all at once,
and that the past, the present,
and the future are all one and the same –
and, if and when you do, that is when life
will feel even more beautiful and epic…
so, make sure you look around from time to time –
so that you may see, and perhaps choose to follow,
you own personal, life-defining and enlightening,
white rabbit.

My Poem ‘The White House’

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

In the white house where I grew up,
in the only home that I ever known,
in the place where I wrote every poem
of my first poetry book,
in the sanctuary where I have always
felt love all around me,
and have never felt as if I were on my own,
within the walls of my childhood make-believe castle,
within the rooms of the heart of our family,
within the memories captured in every family photo,
within every thing that I can still see,
I can feel anchors of time
that will always be tied to me.

In the garden where I used to play as a boy,
in the green oasis where I spent an entire summer
reading the ‘Dark Tower’ series of books by Stephen King,
in the protected and safe paradise
where my sister Clare and I used to cut the green grass,
swing on the white swing that our Dad made for us,
and where we used to pick green and red apples
straight from the branches of our apple tree,
in the hallowed ground where we used to play
outside with our toys,
in the wonderful world that was our back garden,
where I vividly remember running, smiling, and laughing,
in the open air where I remember feeling the most free.

In the house that is a part of me and my family
as we are of it,
I cannot imagine living anywhere else;
whenever I ran out of my house’s back door,
I had no idea what adventure I might be embarking on:
an expedition to a far-away land,
an underwater diving adventure,
a Formula One race while driving my Go-cart,
or an out of this world voyage
to the final frontier of space
where I might see the imagined lives
of civilizations on other planets –
and I can say with my hand on my heart,
that my childhood home was one of the most
beneficial of things that gave me
true, happy, and great health.

My room in my house
was that smallest bedroom of the three,
but the magic box room that was my bedroom
is like the core of a star,
and is where I still keep the building blocks
of what makes me Me;
my home is a reminder of the past,
of my childhood, of what is important
in the here and in the now;
my home will always be my home,
but it will also always be
more than I could ever put into words –
because on the inside
my home is a palace of many treasures,
but if you were to look at it from the outside
all that you would see would be
a simple painted white house.