writing

My Poem ‘Complexion’

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

With every step you take through nature,
with every minute in the sun,
with your eyes you can see
phenomenal, beautiful, fantastic,
incredible features,
with your ears you can hear
the rhythm and the natural music of life,
of which you could only previously recall but a fraction,
and your memory can only be a reflection.

The feeling of the sun on your skin;
the shape and the colour of every flower;
the aroma that is a mixture
between that of cut grass
and the most intoxicating perfume;
the time that can seem like a blissful eternity
that in reality is like a magical glass globe
of a world in which the blossom from the trees
floats and is carried by the wind
within a matter of hours –
on a sunny spring day
there is only one song and one sensation
you want to replay and replay.

The world would not be the same without us,
and we would not be the same without the world;
just as the molecules of our bodies
are bound tightly together to make us in a certain way,
just as our genetic traits slowly become noticeable
throughout our lives and will always be present in our DNA,
humanity is like a mixture of chemicals in a test-tube
and Earth is where the reaction happens
and can be observed in the galactic laboratory
that is always making and remaking
the definition of life’s mould.

There are skies of red;
there are seas of white;
there are stories never to be known or read;
there are birds that will never take flight;
life is no accident,
but it is an ongoing experiment;
things that were thought lost forever can return;
beauty can be different from person to person,
and can have different meanings
in different places on the same planet;
ice is cold, but it can also burn;
eternity can be an unimaginably cruel gift to some,
to live forever would be the most unnatural thing
to have to endure –
because every living thing lives and dies
so that all life can carry on;
change is fundamental in welcoming
the arrival of the future;
everyone must be both a balance
of different and the same;
to see the universal differences
there must be a spectrum;
everybody has an instinct about things
that can’t be easily explained;
biological life has its own natural colour
that is truly a miracle to behold
and to watch it as it defies explanation
every time while showing the simplicity
and in the same instant the complexity
of the infinite and the multi-dimensional
complexion of the universe.

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My Poem ‘Birthmark’

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

34 years, 408 months,
1,774 weeks, 12,418 days ago,
on the 21st of April, 1981,
a little boy was born
and two of the most wonderful
and amazing parents
anyone could ask for
were blessed with a son –
that was the day
that I arrived in the world,
and that was when the tapestry of my life
slowly began to unfurl.

Mark James Hastings,
that is the name that I was given at birth
and that is who I have been
since it was printed for all time
on my birth certificate;
son, brother, friend,
wanderer, wonderer,
dreamer, hard-worker,
and 99.9 percent of the time
a lover of life and a writer
in the form of a poet.

People are always telling me
that I don’t look my age;
people are always asking me
what my secret is to having
an old soul inside someone
with such a young face;
people ask me all the time
where I get my ideas from
when I am writing,
and my response to that question
is one word: life –
because that is the epic adventure
that is eternally and limitlessly
exciting, enlightening, and inspiring.

I have flashes of memories of my childhood
that regularly come back to me;
I have emotions of experiences from my life
that daily make me smile and make me cry;
I have mental and physical photos
that I look at with glee;
I have questions that I ask
that begin who…? what…? where…?
when…? how…? why…?
But I will always know and remember
what is important and I will continue
to spread the word about what I have learned
in my life, and sometimes I secretly wish
that I could replay certain special moments
that I have had, even though I know
life is meant to be so that I can’t.

Today is my birthday;
today is a day that is close to my heart;
today is a day when I have so much to say;
today is always the day when I think back
and I talk to my younger self,
and even at the moment that I am born
I visualize myself in the mind
of my infant-self and I leave myself
a message and a question that has no end
that I know I will carry my whole life –
like a defining and indelible birthmark.

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My Poem ‘Heavy’

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

My eyes are heavy;
the time is getting late;
I have just enough inspiration
and energy to write something poetic;
I feel like I am going to be
‘out like a light’ any minute now –
but before I do drift off to sleep
like a boat down a river,
I wanted to write something
about life, dreams, and as always
something about me.

I come to everything
with an open mind
and an open heart;
I face everything
expecting a hopeful and optimistic resolution;
I always get up strong after I have fallen hard;
I keep going no matter what,
because that is my everlasting constitution.

Life, the world, people, fascinate me
and amaze me every day –
I learn something new about something
and someone daily;
one thing that I have learned
is that there is no telling
as you live your life
who you are going to meet
and talk to along the way;
one motto to live by
that I have always liked,
which is also the motto
of the U.S. state of New Hampshire,
is to “Live Free or Die” –
and if that motto could sum up a particular person,
it would have to be me.

I love to talk;
I love to share;
I love to walk;
I love to dare.
The freedom to be who I want to be
means more to me than anything,
and I think that most people take their freedom
to do, to love, to buy,
to express, to have whatever they want for granted –
but I don’t and I never will,
because at any moment anything could happen,
and taking an actual account of what you say
to me is very important.

Words are a promise;
words are a declaration;
words are indelible to some people;
words cannot say everything,
but that does not stop them
from being and sounding magical.
I have loved words since I first earned to read;
I have taken people for their word,
and I have unfortunately on occasion been led astray;
I think about words when I dream at night in bed;
I am always listening and remembering
the words that came out of peoples mouths,
even if they don’t themselves –
a single sentence has repeatedly
been read and recited over and over again
by me in the past for days after days.

I am about to fall asleep,
I can feel a wave of fatigue cover me like a duvet;
I am about to be carried away, and sink beneath;
I can’t remember all that I was going to write
and what I was going to say –
however, I don’t think that it matters:
I think and I believe that the simple act of writing,
thinking, remembering, and dreaming
is enough justification, if there needed to be one,
for me to be who I am, doing what what I am doing;
and if there is to be one last thought
that could become a monument of today
it would have to be this poem –
a piece of me, a method of madness,
a beating heart, which is also the source
of all joy and sadness –
which for me is always heavy.

My Poem ‘Dear Friend’

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

Dear friend,
how have you been?
What have you heard?
what have you seen?
What have you been doing?
How have you been feeling?
It’s spring here,
and the days feel longer;
it’s starting to get steadily warmer,
I have to say –
and every day, just recently,
has been sunny and bright,
and above my head has been
an endless blue sky.
Winter was cold,
however we had no snow –
and it felt like everything
was holding its breath;
but now everything and everybody
can breath regularly,
because everything now is clearer.

I saw a magician last week,
and I am still amazed by what I saw
and what I felt during their show;
I began reading an old favourite book of mine,
‘The Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy’,
and I am convinced that wherever I look
I am seeing the number ’42’ –
the answer to ‘Life, the Universe, and Everything’;
I went to London again a few weeks ago,
and I had the most fantastic and inspiring time;
I have been going from place to place,
and I have been compelled to take pictures,
ask questions, and write a poem or two;
it has been weeks since I went to the cinema
to watch a film – however there are a few movies
that I am looking forward to seeing –
every time I go to the cinema
it has mostly been a special experience for me:
it always has, and always will be.

My life has been a roller-coaster
for a while, as you know,
and I have been through a lot –
not as much as some,
but I think my fortunes
may be on the rise again, like the rising sun.
I must go now, but I hope to hear from you soon.
Whatever you are doing,
I hope you are happy and having fun!
I hope you continue to live a blessed and happy life,
and I wish only the best for you,
my dear friend.

My Poem ‘Energy’

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

The life-giving light
and heat of the sun
that fills us all with energy,
zest, and drive –
like a solar-powered battery;
the rush of adrenaline
that courses through our veins
and gives us the stamina
and the vigor to keep going;
the inspiration that writes itself
in verses of poetry;
the motivation that keeps
the constant creation of new ideas flowing.

Energy can be felt;
energy can be sensed;
energy can be our richest source of wealth;
energy cannot be fenced;
energy has a spirit;
energy never dies;
energy has no true limit;
energy is everywhere –
it is abundant first thing in the morning at sunrise,
it can be seen when snow is falling silently at night;
energy can turn into tears
and can be tasted when someone cries.

Love is the energy of the gods and the heavens;
light is the energy of the stars;
memory and magic is the energy that enchants
an entire life and gives nature
and the universe its essence;
imagination is the energy that allows us
to travel to different worlds
and imagine the human race one day
living on another planet,
perhaps even Mars.

Our thoughts create waves
in the ocean of energy
that connects every shore on Earth;
our emotions can change
our entire perspective of life;
our relationships with people and things
are constantly changing, evolving,
and are in different stages of rebirth –
even when the sun is in the sky,
it can sometimes be hard to realize
if it is in fact day or whether it is night.

Energy comes in many forms;
hope is the energy
that is always ringing my doorbell,
and knocking at my front-door;
the energy of purpose,
the feeling of belonging,
the source and the muse of the artist,
can grow to become as important
as the blood being pumped
by your heart around your body;
wherever you go, wherever you look,
whatever you instantly ‘just know’,
whatever you touch,
is a fountain, a volcano,
and is like a magnet
that is constantly drawing people and life to it,
that is like a lightning-rod
and a furnace of unbelievable
and incredible energy.

My Poem ‘Random’

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

The randomness of the world
is a wonderful thing to see;
the diversity of people’s choices
is fascinating to witness;
for a keen observer like me,
seeing the combination of colours,
shapes, styles, and individual obsessions,
is, in and of itself, a work of poetry.
Seeing the similarities that people share,
and how they knowingly and not so accidentally
emulate each other, is to me
like receiving an infinite number of presents
at Christmas.
Despite the randomness, however –
there is undoubtedly an underlying order and reason;
a chaotic and random universe, to me, is a myth;
there have been too many coincidences
that have been revealed to be fateful
and pivotal decisive choices
which have changed entire lives
for me to ever stop believing
that there is a system, a structure,
a network, a complex modus operandi at work
that governs the entire universe –
and to grasp such a phenomenal concept
you only need to think about and observe
the moon orbiting around the Earth,
or the Earth orbiting around the sun.

There is no such thing as an accident;
everything is happening in relation to each other;
memories and emotions play their part in our decisions –
but most of the time we do need to keep
the intensity of our feelings more or less undercover;
and deeper down in the undercurrent
of the universal consciousness,
there are things occurring
that will invisibly but quietly noticeably
affect everyone, as there is the rise to prominence
of new creations of wonder.

In the moment is like a laboratory;
inside the genetic structure of a person
there lies a charm of causality
and a pattern of evolution
and adaptability called DNA;
even in a drop of rain from the sky
there is evidence of a cycle of life
that is far from random.

My Poem ‘My Dream’

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

When I first started writing poetry
my dream was to touch someone;
when I first began this adventure
my dream was to tell someone
that I loved them;
when I first started writing poetry
I wanted someone to read,
feel, and understand that my words,
my poetry, were me –
and that I was giving
a part of my heart to them.
Not one of my poems
could ever have been written
by anyone else,
my poems are my dreams in black and white
and the things that I have seen,
the places I have been,
the people I have met.
Everything that I have felt
is the most important thing
anyone could ever know about me;
I am a dreamer, and I am a dream;
I am the writer, and I am the story;
my life is my own;
my poetry is my voice, my echo,
my world, my universe –
but there is so much I still have yet to see;
I will write until my dying day;
I will continue to embrace
the wonderful, the intense, and the extreme;
I will be me in every way;
I will never take for granted for a second
my life, my gift, my moment to live my dream.

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My Poem ‘Wanderlust’

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

I am a ‘wanderbird’,
I am a traveler;
when I look up at the moon,
and I see it split in-two –
one side as white and beautiful
as the colour of snow,
and the other side of the moon
obscured by shadow –
I imagine a writer, or an artist,
in the future on the surface of the moon
looking back at the Earth,
trying to capture its magnificent beauty
in photography, in a painting,
or in a verse of poetry;
and I wonder what a poetic astronaut
would think about themselves, where they are,
and what the sacred home of the human race means.

Whenever I have looked up at the moon,
I have never been able to stop myself
from wishing that I were there;
if someone were to offer me
a ticket to the moon,
so that I could look back with love
at our beautiful blue marble,
I would suit-up,
and be in the cockpit of the rocket like a shot!

I am an explorer,
I always have been – even if it were only
imagined journeys that I embarked upon,
every expedition was one that I was excited about,
and nothing was going to stop me;
I have always been a great navigator –
I have always been able to find my way
to where I wanted to go,
and even from a young age
I understood there where you are going
is not the important part:
the thing that makes you who you are is the journey.

Looking at the stars
has always made me want to travel between them
and see interstellar sights
that would defy explanation, or description;
the sky, the heavens, the galaxy, the universe,
is where my head has always been –
because, above the clouds and on other worlds,
to me that is where adventure awaits;
the thought of what lies in the dark
has always filled me with fascination;
the future of humanity
is something that I care about,
and where we are all going as a planet
is something that I think a lot about.

The Earth is special;
our world is the only one we have;
no matter how many planets we discover,
nor where our star treks take us,
the planet we live on will always be
the most wonderful and beautiful,
and the life that is unique
and can only be found
on this blue and green sphere
will always be the end of our celestial path.

There is more to the universe than we know;
there is more to life to be learned
than can be taught in a rush;
there are things that are universally important
to remember, no matter who you are or where you go;
there is a word to describe people like me
who live every day with an impulse in their heart
and a love for life like no other:
I am constantly in a state of unbelievable
‘Wanderlust’.

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My Poem ‘Writing the blues’

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

Writing the blues
is writing about what you feel
deep in your heart;
writing about your feelings
is sometimes like telling a story
that you don’t know how, or where, to start;
writing is one of the most important things
in the life of a poet;
writing poetry is sharing your soul beautifully,
and seeing your dreams travel to the stars.

Only a fellow poet can know what it takes
to put your emotions and memories into words;
only a fellow artist can understand
what it means to create something important,
as a gift to the entire world;
only a fellow dreamer
can possibly go on a journey with you,
and give you hope when you need it the most;
only a fellow friend
with the most amazing generosity of spirit
can pick you up and bring you back to life
when you feel lost.

Things in life happen for a reason;
even the most beautiful and gifted of humanity,
some of the most gorgeous people that we know,
have to go through pain and confusion –
however, those friends, those dreamers,
those artists, those poets, those kindred spirits,
I pray will always remember that,
no matter how near or far away we are,
we are all on this planet
and we all live in this world
to be there for each other.

To you, my fellow poet of the blues;
to you, my fellow poet of the universe;
to you, from me the poet of the sphere;
to you, for you, because of you –
in the form of this poem,
I just want you to know,
that I am here for you.
Let your tears flow,
collect them and let the wave of life take you –
but stand tall, stay strong, think of me,
and continue to dream beautiful poetry;
when you sleep, and when you wake every morning,
continue to write from the heart,
and, as if you were singing,
continue writing the blues.

Dedicated to the wonderful poet Zula Blues Poet

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.