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My Poem ‘Poetry or Truth’

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

Poetry has the softest of voices,
but the loudest of echoes;
truth, just as beauty,
is in the eye of the beholder;
poetry speaks and always knows;
truth is the voice within
that is tempted to life
by the whispers of the light and the dark
as if personified by a good fairy
and a bad fairy sitting either side of your ears
resting upon your shoulders;
poetry is natural;
truth is often accidental;
poetry is limitless;
truth returns trust.

A traveler is always chasing light and time;
a detective is always chasing
the perpetrator of a crime;
two lovers are constantly in a dance with each other;
two sides of anything
always share an edge that binds them together.

When an astronaut on a space-station awakes
and they float from their bed to the nearest window,
all they want to look out and see
is the planet they orbit
and the vibrant sphere of light and colour
that looks as precious as a raindrop on a leaf;
when we all look up at the stars,
those who live among the stars
are constantly looking back at us;
when someone dies and we lay a wreath
we promise to never forget them,
even while they rest in the ground beneath;
when shooting-stars fly by
they shower us all with their interstellar magic dust.

Poetry or truth –
in my mind they are one and the same;
just as a coin is a token of currency with two faces,
dualities are how life is maintained;
truth can always be read in poetry,
and poetry writes of hidden worldly-clues;
true meaning is at the heart of everything
and it becomes even more apparent
when you ponder the question:
poetry or truth?

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 ‘The First of Many’

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

They say that how you spend
the first day of the year
is also how you will spend
your last day of the year,
and vice versa;
every year for as long as I can remember
I have spent the first early hours of every year
doing the same thing
that I did the year before on January 1st;
some people make resolutions
and vow to stick by them
and repeat the same steps
over and over again like a novice dancer;
every year on day one I set out into the world
and I seek to quench
my ultimately unquenchable poetic thirst.

‘Happy new year’ is a hope for the best;
a smile and a kiss when the clock strikes twelve
at the first second of new year’s day
is like the important first move
in a game of chess;
a thought about someone else
can be like a torch
to help guide someone through a fog;
your constant companion
and your best friend
will help you overcome anything
that you may be dealing with –
and they could be your partner,
your hero, or they could be
your ever-faithful dog.

This is my first stepping-stone of hope;
this is my first promise to stay true to myself
in the form of my poetry;
this is my foray into a new future
I do not yet know;
this is my first new year’s resolution, of a sort,
and I can guarantee already
that it is but the first of many.

My Poem ‘Above and Beyond’

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

Some people fly all the time,
while some people have never left the ground;
some people have always dreamed
since they were a child
about leaving Earth
and looking back at our planet’s
divine blue and green light,
while some people have delved deep
into the human soul
and have exposed and made loud
the voice of a heavenly sound;
some people have only had one love
in all their life,
while others have had to search
many countries, many miles,
for many days, over many nights,
to find the one whom for them
was their love at first sight.

Reaching space for an astronaut is not the end,
it is only the beginning…
diving deep for a diver is an adventure
into a beautiful and magical realm
that we as a species will never stop believing
has a captivating call;
conservationists want to preserve our planet
and its many species,
and they understand that for Earth
to continue to be the beautiful jewel that it is
as many of the life that now lives
must continue existing;
writing for a writer is an obsession,
and the perfect decoration
for a writer’s home and sanctuary
would be books on bookcases on every wall.

Our planet would die without our sun;
humanity would no longer be human
without our unbreakable connection
to planet Earth, and our reciprocal duet
of the same song;
every story that we tell each other
is distinctive of who we are
and where we come from;
what we see always has an effect on us
and on our lives –
whether we look far or deep,
below our feet,
or above the clouds
above and beyond.

MarkTheAstronaut

My Poem ‘Missing Letters’

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

Messages can be exchanged
in an instant;
feelings can be communicated
with a heart-beat;
some letters
that never reached
their intended recipient
and destination
could be those
of the highest importance;
gone are the days
when you would literally
have to wait weeks for a single reply –
however, I still believe
that the most powerful of contacts
that there could ever be
are those that are made
by using your feet.

First-person perspective,
face-to-face,
eye-to-eye and infinitely expressive
is always the best,
especially when it does not wholly
require the assistance of a satellite
orbiting in space –
but in this day and age,
we who are living here on Earth
are so lucky to have
all the means of technology at our fingertips.
I must admit that I too would feel bereft
if I could not speak what I am thinking,
as well as express myself
via my facial-expressions –
like the blowing
the one I love a goodnight kiss.

The written word and the printed white page
is a thing of beauty, to me –
but the power of text and the images
of a back-lit and bright screen,
I must admit, are, to me,
a draw, and to one
I am like that a moth to a flame.
I adore books and stories
written be fantastic and phenomenal writers,
but what you can see and share online
on the internet is an incredibly evocative,
vivid, and epic, world-changing domain.

I recently read a news story online
about the discovery of an amazing find:
a leather trunk from the 17th century
had been unearthed that contained
over two thousand letters –
most of the letters that have been translated
tell stories of a people
and what they were feeling and thinking
at a particularly eventful
and momentous time in their life,
while most of them thus far
still remain a mystery
as to what they say –
and I truly believe that such a discovery
is one of a treasure
that may never again come to light,
because those letters are fragments of time.

Letters can be lost, misplaced, forgotten about
sent out across the sea in a bottle –
however, messages that are sent electronically
follow you wherever you go
and are like coin thrown into a well
that never reaches the watery bottom.
Our electronic messages are like our own
digital ghosts and shadows
that we are responsible for;
our electronic images and profiles
can be seen by everyone and anyone,
24-hours a day, from the last light of dusk
to the first light of a new dawn.

There is a lot to be thankful for
about living in the times that we do;
we have discovered answers to questions
that our ancestors prayed to god
that they wished they knew;
there are things that we all do well –
but we as a species, in my opinion,
can all do better;
we may all find what we have been looking for
all our lives if we too were
to somehow miraculously discover,
or rediscover, buried over time
a treasure trove
of lost or missing letters.

My Poem ‘Embrace’

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

The caress of a face;
the holding of hands;
the hypnotism of a trance;
the perfect touch
of a beautiful embrace.

The spiritual, the emotional,
the physical, the transcendental,
the look, the love,
the feeling, the instinctual,
the rush, the spark,
the explosion,
the silence of light and dark
that makes real the impossible,
that is indescribable,
that is a miracle,
that is heaven on Earth,
that is as beautiful as a hummingbird,
that is the ultimate force in the universe,
that poet’s obsess over while putting into words,
that many crave, that we all know,
that can surround you and lead you
like the path of a maze,
that is exciting and phenomenal
in the way that it can make someone glow.

A wish and a prayer
can blossom like a flower;
a thought and a memory
can steal your time;
a source of happiness
can have infinite power;
a destiny can be a life-line.

Until you feel the raging fire of desire,
until you let yourself fall in love
like a crashing meteorite from above,
until you see with your own eyes
what grows and what sustains
and what reinvigorates,
and what goes on and never dies,
only when you let things happen
and you do not resist,
can you know what it is like to be a star,
or like a pacific beach near an ocean
that has been newly sun-kissed.

To have someone.
To hold someone.
To love someone.
To be as precious as gold to someone.
To accept, to support, to champion,
to be a devoted companion,
and to be the one who leaves an indelible mark
on the inside of someone
but who on the outside
only leaves an invisible trace,
is to be the beholder of light, love,
perfection like that of an angel’s face
that is as timeless and is as ever-present
even after the first embrace.

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My Poem ‘The Zone’

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

The best days
have yet to be lived;
the best poems
have yet to be written;
the best of things
anybody is able to have
and are able to give;
the best way to learn
how to create
is to look, to listen,
to think, and to imagine.

Moving forwards;
stepping backwards;
looking left, looking right;
learning new words;
discovering new worlds;
saving the best for last;
constantly reaching towards the light.

What gives a writer such power,
what gives a warrior such strength,
what gives a cheetah such speed,
is the same heart that helped
build the tallest of towers,
is the same will that once made
knights of armour fight to the death,
and it is the same fire of inspiration
within me that can be found
emblazoned in every line
and verse of my poetry.

If you want to be strong
you have got to walk tall;
if you want to get through
to the other side of something
you have got to push;
if you want to savour the moment of something
be sure to remember not to rush;
if you want to know
the right way to go
then sometimes you have got to feel the path
before you see it
and make the final judgment call.

Everything is a resource;
every spark is a power source;
every idea is a leap into the unknown;
everyone has a secret place they can go to
when they need to truly focus on something
and get into the zone.

My Poem ‘Zenith’

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

The time is now,
the place is right here;
life can be heard
clear and loud,
the conditions for new inspiration
and new poetry are so perfect
they could bring about
both laughter and tears.

I am focused,
I am listening,
I am being sprinkled
with the world’s magic dust;
I am watching,
I am experiencing,
I am participating,
I am observing everybody and everything;
there are no worries, there is just me,
my pen, my notebook, my muse;
there are thoughts running through my mind
every second that burn hot and bright
and as fast as a burning fuse.

Words are wonderful,
however words are also limiting;
words can say so much,
however words only have the power that they do
when they are used with each other –
and even then, without emotion
and intention behind them,
they can sound as if something important is missing;
music is a different language entirely from words –
words can have so many meanings and translations,
but music is what the stars sound like;
and like planets circling their parent star,
music- depending on your proximity
and your connection to it-
can be a whole new wonderful and different world.

Every artist has their opus;
every person has their perfect moment;
everyone has their own life;
every experience has its peak;
every eye has seen its own sights;
everybody has had a flood of emotion
and an indomitable power overcome them
and take over them
when they must stand up on their own two feet
and vow to never admit defeat.

Everyone is like an ocean,
and everybody has a force of gravity
and a source of change and waves in their life-
like the Moon is to the Earth;
everyone has times when they are an insomniac
and they cannot for the love of good ever switch off;
everyone emerges into a different life
from anyone else from birth;
everyone knows the allure of a flame,
and everyone has a moment
of being a human moth.

There is no true definitive end to anything;
believing that you have total control of chaos is a myth;
there is a reason for everything;
dreams are both conjugations and premonitions;
and there are things that start out so distant
and random that come together in the end
and eventually reach a mutual and lasting zenith.

My Poem ‘Eudaemonic’

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

A simple act of kindness
can give you an upbeat feeling;
a new arrival can instantly make you smile;
a message in a bottle is always a thrill;
a new idea is like a newborn child.

Watching a child grow before your eyes
is like going back in time
and seeing your early life
acted out in front of you;
watching a plant grow and then wilt
does not have as much of an impact
on some people as it should;
watching an animal grow so quickly,
be so active, however only live a short life
in comparison to a human being
can be a joyous but sometimes
incredibly hard thing to do;
watching the world change around you
makes you wish frequently
that if it were possible
to live inside a single special moment forever,
if you could you would.

Some days go by fast,
some days go by slow;
the art of happiness
is to make something last;
the art of acceptance
is to not worry too much
about what you do not know;
some days are filled with fireworks;
some days are spent in reflection;
some days are so perfect
that you could swear
that there were some invisible inner-workings
making everything in life run like clockwork;
some days you are just waiting
for something to grab your attention;
the art of life is to live.

There are words in every language
that are rarely used,
but still exist;
there are faces hidden behind masks
that not everybody are able to see;
there are people who win;
there are people who lose,
but who never stop
and never give in;
there are unique pieces of art
created solely to be one of a kind
and temporary – like graffiti –
that in time will fade from view
and be covered over and forgotten –
but the fact that even one person
knew about them and remembers them
makes the artist that made them
more of a magician than anything else,
because they were able to make the once seen
the thing of a person’s dreams.

What keeps me upbeat is love;
what keeps me writing is hope;
what keeps me smiling only I could think of;
what keeps me from not retreating is never doubting;
what I have always known is that
if you try to silence your doubts,
if you try to see past the illusion of walls
that sometimes feel like they surround you
that can almost feel like a prison cell,
if you try to come to terms with the fact
that not everything that happens to you
is not always all your fault –
then one day you may wake up
with a smile on your face
and realize that all is good
and all will be well.

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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.