writing

My Poem ‘Catching my breath’

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

The world is a crazy place,
sometimes I wish I could
transport myself high-above
and see the world
as an astronaut in orbit does –
beautiful and glowing green and blue
against the black backdrop of space…
sometimes, especially in a busy city,
it is hard to find an oasis of peace –
somewhere to go to get away
from the constant bombardment of sound,
somewhere wide-open:
like a park, or a forest of trees,
that you can walk through,
where you can smile to yourself
and close your eyes at the miracle
of being able to take your ease…
sometimes you just want to sit back and relax
and let the minutes and the hours stretch out
until you can’t tell them apart…
sometimes just owning a moment,
and swimming out into a metaphorical
subconscious-ocean, is just what you need –
you could simply just get your feet wet
by imagining you are sitting on a wooden boat-dock
and looking down at your own reflection in the rippling water,
or perhaps diving down to see
the coral-reef of your imagination
and then resurfacing with your head above water again
and realizing that you have traveled far.

We all need that place…
we all need that world within our world…
we all need to travel in different ways…
we all need a language that we know and understand:
art, music, sound, touch, a look, a smile –
finding the right words to say at the right time
is like completing a cosmic word-search.

We are all lighthouses guiding the way…
we are all sunrises and sunsets
to significant other people in a myriad of ways…
we are all messages in bottles
riding the world’s waves…
we are all looking at someone
and are being looked back on
by someone with a different face –
we are all both the observer
and the observed, you could say.

Inspiration does not always flow
as easily as water from a tap…
you could sit down and want something
to come to you and there is nothing there…
and then… zap! you get struck by something,
like a bolt of lightning,
and your eyes widen, your heart races,
and you create and you make something
that did not exist before,
and the energy and the art flows,
and you take a journey with it
all the way until it is something to you
that you would think of as if it were a new friend –
that is when you stop and you sit back
and you find and you finally feel
your heart-beats start to slow,
and you smile with joy,
as you put your hand up to your chest,
as you catch your breath.

My Poem ‘The Ghost Train’

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

Ever wonder how ghosts get around?
Ever wonder how ghosts travel from town to town,
when they are not hanging around in cemeteries
or scaring people as they haunt a particular house?
Some ghost are haunt-o-holics,
some ghosts just can’t move on –
but there are some ghosts
who like to get out-and-about
and who like to go to other places – hey, why not?
It’s not as if ghosts need to wait in-line or buy a ticket?
While some ghosts are essentially agoraphobic, you could say,
and don’t like going anywhere
and would much rather just stay at home –
there are some ghosts, however,
who don’t want to rest in peace for too long
before wanting to make a break for it
and see the rest of the world.

There is a “train” for the dearly-departed
who choose to stay on Earth
when they are given their choice
to either pass-on or stay right where they are;
there is a train that is the fastest in the universe
that runs 24-hours a day, all-year-round,
to every corner of the planet,
that is the quietest form of transport ever envisioned –
this train is so underground
it doesn’t even make a sound.

Ghosts have a lot of time on their hands;
ghosts still like doing what they loved
to do when they were alive –
ghost may be dead,
but that doesn’t mean
they can’t make plans.
Ghosts know more than anyone
how short life for the living really is…
some people die and become ghosts
and instantly get bitten by the “travel-bug”
and in no time at all become tourist-spirits.

Getting on the “Ghost Train”
is no problem for the no-longer-living;
if you know how to board the “Ghost Train”
then you can get on whenever and wherever you are –
all the world is the “Ghost Train’s” station;
there is no place that the “Ghost Train” will not stop,
and there is no limit to the number of passengers
it is capable of transporting –
to those do not know about the “Ghost Train”
at first it can seem like an absolute sensation.

There are many things that the living cannot explain;
there is knowledge and there are answers to questions
that those who are still breathing
are not able to understand
because they have too much
clogging-up their already over-active brains.

There is something that travels farther than a plane,
along rails that could be thought of
as if they were some kind of speed-of-thought fast-lane…
there is a way to get from anywhere to anywhere on Earth
for ghosts, and for all intents and purposes
it is aptly called by those who ride it:
“The Ghost Train”.

My Poem ‘Where do you go?’

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

Where do you go
in a moment of silence?
Where do you go
to find yourself?
Where do you go
when people see you
looking off into space?
Where do you go
to feel safe and sound?

To some people, music is a place –
a world which they visit every day
that makes them happy
and which inspires them to create
a work of art that becomes so real to them
that can no longer be bound
solely within their mind;
to some people, their imagination
is like an ocean of fantastic
and mysterious discoveries
to be found every time they choose to dive;
to some people, everything that they see
is like a strand of inspiration
which they cannot help themselves
from pulling and seeing what follows;
to some people, it is a castle,
it is a kingdom, it is a reality,
it is a place built by them,
but influenced by many different things
that they retreat to –
and sometimes what is going on
on the outside, in someone’s life,
has a dramatic bearing
on the destination and the colour-palette
of the place within where they go.

Some people revisit the past…
some people imagine the future…
some people slow down their life
as the world around them races by too fast…
some people hold-on to hope with all that they have,
while others worry too much
and are incarcerated and paralyzed by their fears.

To day-dream is an amazing thing;
to be preoccupied by something on your mind is natural;
to realize a dream-come-true
sometimes you have to let your guard down
and lower your defenses so that your voice can sing;
to overcome something, which to you at the time
feels impossible, is incredible –
our limitations are ussually those of our own making,
and to truly turn your life around and be content
you have to sometimes drown-out the voices of doubt
and paint the picture that you want to see.

Walking through nature
is a great way to open doors in your mind
to new and undiscovered frontiers
that are just waiting to be created and unveiled;
when your attention is completely focused on something
it is like being on a one-way highway
with no way to go but straight-ahead;
saving some time for what you love
and for what makes you smile,
no matter what other people may say or think,
is more important than you could know;
everybody must have a sanctuary…
everybody must have a place of peace…
doing something, doing nothing in particular…
everybody must take a moment of time,
make it last, and make the most of it –
because time is as unique
and precious as a snowflake…
so, my question to you is:
where do you go?

My Poem ‘Torchbearer’

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

I don’t know where it came from…
I don’t know where it began…
I don’t know if it was passed on
to me by my Mum or my Dad –
but I know that I am
the beholder of a fire,
a spark, a light, an energy,
that brought about the creation
of the universe and life-itself…
I feel it constantly burning in my chest…
I see it every night when it illuminates my dreams…
I hear it every morning when I wake up in bed…
I know what it is and I know what it means.

I have known of this internal fire for a while…
I have been driven by this incredible torch
since I saw its rise…
I have tried to describe it
and write poetry about it before,
and every time I do just knowing
that it still burns bright and wild within me
always makes me smile.

I am sure that more than one person
in my life has seen my light
sparkling in the blue and the sometimes green
irises of my eyes –
I see it too when I look in a mirror,
and I know that no matter what happens to me
and where I may end my days
that the light of me
will touch and inspire another
and another and another,
and when humanity finally makes itself
another home on another planet
orbiting another star
that same flame will help fulfill
the destiny of a countless number of people
in an infinite number of ways.

It is a comfort to me
to believe and to know
that I will never truly die…
it is hard to put into words
something that I know instinctively is a part of me,
but also a part of a continuum
that transcends both space and time…
it is why I was born…
it is why I am here…
it is why when I look up at the sky
I believe that I can fly…
and I am not the only one
here on Earth blessed with a gift
to be a beacon of the universe’s divine light –
we are everywhere…
and I never take the fire of my birthright for granted,
and I am honored to be one
of a universe full of torchbearers.

My Poem ‘Cherish the Light’

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

Light is a gift…
light is a beacon…
light is the life that we live…
light is a signal…
light is what paints the colours
and the hues of nature’s seasons…
light is what everything rises towards…
light is what highlights the beautiful…
light is the source
of what is constantly driving
every one of us forwards.

A life without light
is a very dark place indeed;
a night-sky without stars shining in it
is like a life without love – incomplete;
a life spent without artificial illumination
is one that truly understands the importance
of the sun and the moon to all our lives;
a child born in the glow of fire-light
who does not think to take it for granted
knows that light is the most important miracle
known to the entire universe,
and that the greatest repeating spectacle
that anyone can witness in life
with their eyes is the epic, silent,
beautiful, breath-taking,
ascension of the sun
at the moment of a sunrise.

It is almost heart-breaking to watch the sunset
and to see the world around you fall dark;
it is amazing to look up at the sky at night
and see an almost-infinite number of stars
beckoning and telling their silent stories
of space and time, distance and journey, life and death;
it is sad to think that because light and life is so precious
that it can so easily be taken away
as quick as extinguishing the life of a spark;
it is every living-thing on Earth’s right
to have a light to live by and gather-around –
light can be found on the outside,
however within our own mind and heart
there lies a light that is more important
to keep alive and burning bright until your last breath.

Cherish the world…
cherish people…
cherish the magical…
cherish love…
cherish the sun…
cherish life…
cherish imagination…
cherish the light.

My Poem ‘Sights to see in Birmingham City’

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

Even from far-away
you can see the towers of the city on the horizon;
as you get closer to the centre of the city
the buildings both old and new glisten;
when you catch a glimpse of the spires
of Saint Martin’s church,
and of the shining disks that cover
the imposing Selfridges store,
you cannot help but be taken-aback by what you see;
when you climb the steps that lead
to the entrance to the Bullring,
that is but the start of a path
to things that always attract my attention
and capture my fascination
every time I see them
as I walk around the city.

I love walking up New Street,
from the famous bronze Birmingham bull
to the statue of Queen Victoria
that stands tall atop their plinth
at Victoria Square –
there are always musicians and street-performers
playing and performing hoping to draw people to them
so that they can bedazzle with the talent;
I love going into my favourite restaurants and stores –
in particular Starbucks, Waterstones,
and also my favourite bookstore ‘Foyles’
which to me is the jewel in the crown
of the newly-refurbished New Street Station –
and simply looking, perusing,
people-watching, and listening;
one of my favourite places to go in all the city
is the amazing and inspiring
Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery –
the exhibitions and the art to be found within
to me is always a treat to behold…
and another place I love to revisit is of course
the phenomenal new Birmingham library –
somewhere I have spent many an hour
enjoying every moment of walking through
the near-infinite number of books on their shelves,
and also sitting outside almost on the library’s roof
looking far and wide and also below
at the beautiful city beneath me.

I love walking the towpaths
of the canal-side near The Mailbox;
I love walking from one end of Broad Street
to the other and marveling
at the number of restaurants and bars
that can be seen as you follow the stars
and in the footsteps of the famous and the renowned;
I love how no matter if it is a sunny day or a rainy day
that I cannot deny that this city
constantly speaks to me and to my sensibilities;
I love those times when I can walk around,
or just sit down on a bench near St. Philips Cathedral
that stands at the heart of the city,
and allow my thoughts to runaway in my mind;
I love the many cultures, accents, colours,
and sounds that echo wherever you find yourself in town;
I love every time that I get to see the sights
that always inspire me in Birmingham City.

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My Poem ‘The Chosen One’

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

You are The Chosen One…
you are here for a reason…
you are capable of more
than you could ever imagine…
you are where you are…
you are doing what you are doing…
you are shining like a distant
star in the dark…
you are silent,
yet your voice is echoing…
you are instrumental…
you are elemental…
you are indomitable…
you are integral…
you are saying something…
you are expressing the intangible…
you are hearing something:
music, rain-drops, a concert,
a down-pour, a stream of consciousness,
nature, beats, a distant rumble in the clouds,
poetry, to be embraced, to be held,
to be grasped, to be assimilated –
because it all matters,
because it all makes sense,
because it all entrances…
think about it all:
who you are, who you choose to surround yourself with,
what has led you here and what has carried you this far…
for me, it is my heart that has brought me here;
this time was chosen for me
to shine my ray of light as the rain falls;
for me, moments are precious and timeless,
unregrettable and unforgettable;
my parents would have moved heaven and Earth for me
if they could while I was growing up, and even now…
choices are so important…
time should not be wasted
by wrapped yourself up with a chain of what if’s?…
an idea is magical…
realizing a mental-picture is potent…
seeing something that nobody else can see
is blessed and celestial…
if a flood looks like it is on the way,
if you think that you can’t weather it,
save what you can anywhere and any way that you can,
and try to swim through whatever comes rushing towards you,
and if all else fails build yourself a life-raft
out of anything that you can find,
and never lose the one thing that will save your life
if you let it… never lose hope…
because The Chosen One’s do not often
get a say as to when and why
they are thrust into the lime-light;
heroes become heroes because they save lives
and they give themselves freely to another
at their time of need;
the divine conductor sets the stage,
writes the melody, keeps the orchestra in-time and on-pace,
and gives gravity to everything,
and they are present every second of life –
when we die our destiny has been fulfilled,
however our impression on the sandy beach of life
still remains long after we pass-over
to what lies beyond the horizon;
anybody who touches, anybody who teaches,
anybody who takes a hold of their life
and who wants to love and share life’s
infinite riches of experience,
inspiration, and light from their perspective
does so because they must –
because they were given a choice
and asked a question, the answer to which
was in their heart their entire life –
because right from day one,
they were, as you are,
the chosen one.

My Poem ‘Correspondant’

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

When I was 12 years-old
I had a pen-pal from France;
when I was in school,
I and the rest of my french-class
were asked to write a letter in french
to someone who had written a letter in English
to the person with the name
whom they had randomly picked out of a hat…
I was picked by a boy called “Sebastian” –
who I believe went to school in a town in Normandy –
and over the next few months
I would write in my best french to Sebastian,
and Sebastian in-turn would write
in his best English to me.
Sebastian would tell me about where he lived,
about his family, and about his love of the English-language.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Sebastian’s letters to me –
however, my competence in replying to Sebastian in french
left a lot to be desired, and after a while
I did not reply to Sebastian in the same frequency
as he was writing to me.

Sebastian sent letter after letter
about a myriad of different things that were happening to him –
but, unfortunately, my letter-writing to Sebastian
had gone from once a month to none-at-all,
which to this day still makes me feel horrible
and it is one of the many things that I regret
and which still picks away at my conscience.

When I was 12, I was not the writer that I am today.
When I was 12, “social-media” had not been invented,
neither had what we call today the “internet”,
and talking to someone in another country –
even as geographically close as France is to England –
felt as hard as talking to an alien a far-away galaxy.
When I was 12, school felt like a place
where I was forced to attend.
When I was 12, I did not understand
what in life is the most important.

I am in my thirties now,
and high-school, or secondary-school
as we call it here in England,
feels like it was many moons ago
than I can remember with as much clarity
as I have for yesterday –
however, as with many moments from my childhood,
there are things that still stand-out
and there are some moments
that rise to the surface of my mind randomly
when I least expect them to…
and today, on a rainy Saturday afternoon,
here in England, as I sit behind my desk,
in my bedroom, writing in my notebook,
is one of those times when something
and someone that I haven’t thought about in years
has flashed back to me and made me ask
with genuine fascination:
I wonder whatever happened to “Sebastian”,
my life-time ago pen-pal from France.

My Poem ‘Autumn’

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

The summer serenade has come to an end…
the leaves are changing colour
and are spiraling to the ground…
the door of a new, but familiar,
season of nature opens…
the outside air is growing colder –
even the tone of the music
that the wind blowing through the trees
and the buildings makes a different sound…
Autumn is with us now…
it is now ‘Fall’ as they call it in North America…
in some states and in some countries
they are beginning to take off the covers
and dust off mighty snow-plows,
and some of the birds in the trees
that have been nesting in the same nests
all summer-long and have been singing loud
their morning and evening songs
are taking flight and are heading
thousands of miles south.

Pumpkins are being harvested;
winter-coats are coming out of the closet;
when walking through a still leafy woodland
at the right time of the day,
when the sun is shining bright
and blissfully in the sky,
you can find yourself in the middle
of a shower of golden light;
when it is dark later in the morning,
but still breathtakingly beautiful,
and in the evening time,
the new season heralds the arrival
or darkness and stars far earlier
than at the same time on a Summer night.

Now it is the favourite time
of the year for some people;
now, when the children return to school,
is when there is a great buzz of enthusiasm
in the air – just as intoxicating
as the smell of a forest after a rain-storm;
now is when a great anticipation of delights
begins to build;
now, when change is at its most tangible,
is when, if are lucky and out among nature,
you can come up-close and see with your own eyes
marvels of the world like that of a baby fawn.

All is in transition;
a new filter to view the world through
descends before our eyes
as the Earth is now at its farthest from the sun;
moments experienced and shared
are like magical miracles sent from above;
now is the season to embrace what comes to you
while you are among the wilds of the open
and make the most of one of the most
magical seasons of life on Earth… Autumn.

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’.