writing

My Poem ‘Let me go, and I will run’

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

It’s fun to let your thoughts drift away from you;
it’s good to let your thoughts run away from you;
it’s exciting to experience your thoughts changing;
it’s incredible to have an idea
that spontaneously pops into your head,
as if from out of nowhere,
which just takes over every other thought of your mind
and function of your body –
and which also becomes all that you can talk about,
and to you it is all that is worth saying.

I have a brand new idea for something,
usually for the title of a new poem,
every hour of every day;
however, of the sixty ideas that I have,
by the end of every hour, they have become one idea,
and by the end of every day –
usually just before I fall asleep –
the first words of a perfect thought,
and the first verse of poetry of my own imagining,
has been ingrained in my consciousness,
and is just waiting to be written,
in my own unique way.

Ideas are important;
every idea that I have ever had
has set my imagination on fire;
ideas are building blocks, as well as foundations;
of all the ideas that I have had,
deciding one day to write down
what was on my mind at the time
was the one muse that is still a constant;
ideas are the offspring of desire;
every idea I have had has enlightened me in some way;
and following the path of an idea,
and taking the journey of the eternal dreamer,
is my way of reaching a higher state of consciousness,
and in a way it is my own form of meditation.

Ever since I was a kid,
I have been used to exerting my body
and using every physical muscle at my disposal
to achieve feats of strength and speed;
as a child, as an adult,
I was off like a shot,
running my heart out to somewhere I needed to get to,
and perhaps to someone in need;
ever since writing has become my passion, my devotion,
my love, and one of the defining parts of my heart, my soul,
my identity, there has not been a day that has gone by
when the question ‘what am I going to write about next?’
has not been uttered by me –
and even now I am asking that question, and answering it also,
and to me there is no more perfect
and beautiful form of writing than poetry.

When I can be myself;
when I am not constrained by glass, brick, wood, metal,
windows, doors, walls, and locks;
when I can step out into the daylight
and feel the beating warmth of the sun;
when I am unaware of time, and I can move with stealth;
when I am thinking wholly, completely,
and tantalizingly, out of the box;
when I can cut the strings and the ties
of anything that might be holding me, my mind,
my imagination, back in any way –
I promise you, world: let me go, and I will run.

My Poem ‘The Perfect Song’

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The perfect song to wake up to;
the perfect song to get you ready for the day ahead;
the perfect song to work to while listening to;
the perfect song that you can’t mute,
which just continues to replay over and over in your head.

The perfect song to listen to while writing;
the perfect song to listen to while you are exercising;
the perfect song to make you happy;
the perfect song to listen to while drinking a cup of coffee.

The perfect song to inspire you;
the perfect song to motivate you;
the perfect song to make you feel;
the perfect song to help you heal.

The perfect song to walk down the aisle to at your wedding;
the perfect song to unlock your memories;
the perfect song to walk through the beautiful countryside,
while listening to that which magically enhances
everything that you see –
like being shown the muse of an epic and moving painting;
the perfect song that is also the most wonderful and incredible,
insightful, amazing, gift of spoken word and musical poetry.

The perfect song to soak in the bath to;
the perfect song to listen to while on a long journey;
the perfect song to sing to, and make your body move;
the perfect song to show you the stars,
and allow you to hear the music of infinity.

The perfect song says everything that you want to say,
and it may even be a song that was created before you were born;
the perfect song says more;
the perfect song says that there is someone who understands you,
and they know what you have been through;
the perfect song is the perfect song to you,
because it can lift you up when you are down,
and when the world feels wrong;
the perfect song says everything about you
at a particular moment in your life,
and from the first second that you heard it,
and it turned a switch inside you permanently on,
you knew in your mind and in your heart
that you had found the perfect song.

My Poem ‘Bless You’

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

Saying “bless you” when someone sneezes;
holding a door open for someone;
saying “thank you”, saying please;
doing and making simple acts of kindness
and thoughtfulness that do not cost a thing
are wonderful things,
and to someone in need of a smile,
or of a bit of happiness,
you can make a person’s day that much more positive
and not as bad – especially if they are having a day
in which they are feeling down and glum.
Giving a stranger a song that you love to listen to;
giving a friend an idea they have been looking for for days;
giving a few minutes of you time to talk to someone,
and to listen to someone;
giving a couple of pounds to someone who asks you for it,
and who looks like they need it,
and not asking why they need it,
but giving what you have so that they can use it
to have what they want.
A thought, a touch, a smile, a look,
a light, a shade, a promise,
assistance in finding a way;
giving advice, giving someone tips,
saving a life, telling someone that you give a spit;
saying “I’m sorry”;
opening up about your own worries and troubles;
being there for someone when everything that could happen
has happened and seems to have all come
at once for someone, like a funnel;
telling someone that you love them;
doing something for someone out of the blue;
lending someone a pen;
giving someone a glance in their direction,
and a second thought of their health and happiness,
by saying when they sneeze “bless you”.

My Poem ‘Tales of Wonder Lands’

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

Every great and compelling character of literature
was inspired by a real person, actual people,
idyllic dreams and memories of imagined places;
every great story, every great tale,
came to life by bringing together
within the vivid and infinite imagination of a writer
lots of influences and sources of inspiration –
from one to a hundred different amazing lives and faces.
All my favourite stories, and characters, as a child, and now,
were adventures with heroes at the centre of them,
who did the impossible, who went where I,
nor anyone, had ever gone before;
my favourite tales of wonder featured superheroes
who had the power with a single leap to leave the ground
and to be able to soar among the clouds;
the most important role-models of mine
of literature and fantasy were those who had unbounded life,
energy, hope, and a thirst to overcome potential
circumstances and obstacles, for the greater good of others,
and help those in need, in any and every way that they could.

Peter Pan, Super-man, could easily fly
without a second thought,
and travel to far away worlds,
and shine a light for others to follow;
Robin Hood, Spider-man, stood up for the plight
of the oppressed, and those who had been wronged by someone,
and who were not afraid to bend the rules of the law
in their own way: by robbing the rich to give to the poor,
or fighting to save the life of a stranger in trouble,
because it is the right thing to do;
The Man With No Name, Captain James T. Kirk –
men traveling and exploring their own individual
amazing and sometimes tumultuous and lawless frontiers,
encountering allies and enemies around every corner,
and leaving an impression of themselves, their name,
their face, and their inspiring values wherever they go;
Alice from Alice in Wonderland, Neo from the film The Matrix –
characters of different gender, age,
and from different stories about different worlds,
but who both were given a choice and an opportunity
to follow a White Rabbit, and free their minds,
and see the world that you can find
when you step through a looking-glass,
and be gifted an experience that is only bestowed
to a chosen few.

The easiest way for a writer
to create a brand new character
is to base their appearance
and their demeanour on someone familiar;
the best way to craft a memorable epic
is to populate it with characters of depth and soul,
and a reason to be as strong as a living,
breathing, physical person;
even characters capable of performing the fantastic
have to have something, or someone, to which,
or to whom, they care about and are forever anchored to,
who have flaws to them that readers and watchers
can associate with, sympathize with, support, and champion.

Some of the best stories and characters
are based in realities and worlds
in which there is no true black and white,
light and dark, and the characters have to walk a grey line,
and have to question themselves and the roles in the time
and society that they live;
most of the stories that live on through the ages
have human characters who are given great power
and great responsibility to do something amazing,
and to make a difference with;
writers, poets, storytellers, dramatists, directors, artists,
envision worlds, and immortalize people, that in real life
they have a relationship to, like family, and old friends;
everyone can find people and places in stories,
books, films, poems, which they enjoy reading about,
returning to, going on adventures with,
seeing things that can only be seen in the dream-scape
of a persons imagination, and what we all bring back with us
from these times, and universes,
and what we learn from the fictional and real people we meet
may one day be the muse and the inspiration
for brand new tales of wonder lands.

My Poem ‘The Rain Over Queen Victoria’

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

It’s raining today.
It’s not raining too hard, or too fast,
as I walk across Victoria Square in Birmingham,
and I step up the seven rain-soaked steps
at the foot of the pedestal atop of which
a teal coloured statue of Queen Victoria
stands looking out regally.
I am on my way to my favourite cafe,
when for a few seconds I stop myself:
I take a step back, and I look at the world.
It always amazes me how some people think
and remember to bring an umbrella with them
when they leave their homes;
I, myself, never carry an umbrella,
and probably never will –
I do, however, buy umbrellas as gifts for people,
but I never think to buy one for myself…
perhaps I enjoy getting wet so much
I do not want to, nor would I ever, use an umbrella,
even if I were bought one.

I eventually reach my favourite cafe.
I order my favourite drink.
I choose my intended dining table as I wait in line,
and I buy for my lunch something to eat
that I have never had or tried before:
I pick out a “Jambalaya Chicken” wrap,
that from the description consists of
“A flavour of the American South East
tender roast chicken, in a spicy Jambalaya sauce
with red peppers, white rice, coriander, and spinach
in a tomato tortilla”, and even in the few seconds that I had
to read what it was and what the mix of ingredients
of my potential lunch were made up of,
my taste-buds were already rocketing into overdrive,
and my stomach was already rumbling,
like an oncoming express train over the American mid-west.

When I sat down at my already chosen table and chair,
I unpacked my spicy lunch from its packaging,
I took a sip of my hot drink,
I placed my mobile phone on the table in front of me to my left,
and then I took out my notebook and my pen
and I placed them right in front of me.
After a few minutes of settling myself,
and taking in the atmosphere of where I was,
and then looking out of the door
at a Victoria Square that was now being
pummeled by heavy rain,
I took a bite out of my tortilla lunch,
and almost immediately I felt heat,
I tasted spices, my mouth was already salivating with pleasure,
and I was for a few minutes, and long after,
satisfied, happy, and filled with thoughts,
sensations, and inspiration,
and all the more intensified than usual –
I am not sure if it was the Jambalaya in my tortilla,
my latte coffee, the sound all around me,
or the sight of the wet weather getting worse
outside the cafe’s window, as I sat dry and content.

Within no time, I was writing a new poem about everything
that I was thinking and feeling – this poem, if fact;
and then within minutes of finishing my written down
feelings and musings, it was time for me to leave
the warm and comfortable place where I was,
pack away my belongings, put on my coat,
and return to the outside world in which the pour from above
was far from over, and the rain was still falling
over Queen Victoria.

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My Poem ‘My Favourite Poet’

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

My favourite poet is a wizard of words;
my favourite poet is a magician of music;
my favourite poet is a force of feelings
that spark like a duel of swords;
my favourite poet is a dream-maker, a storyteller,
someone who has taken a journey,
and who is on a journey that is unique, personal, and epic.

My favourite poet has looked up at the stars
and knows how to harness the infinite energy
that they see, hear, and feel;
my favourite poet has known and has been in
every state of love, elation, and fusion,
and has had to walk a thin line, or two, in their time;
my favourite poet has woken up more than once in their life
and wondered whether the world they are living in
and the life they are living is really real;
my favourite poet writes their poetry all the time,
but not always on paper, and not always in words,
and sometimes their poetry comes to life and to light
in their actions and in their thoughts,
that are mostly an expression of their soul,
and wonderfully kind.

My favourite poet has inspired,
and has helped more people than they will ever know;
my favourite poet is a voracious observer,
who feels deeply, and who believes in things passionately;
my favourite poet writes at all times, and at any moment,
and wants to capture a moment in time timelessly
in any way that they can, wherever they go;
my favourite poet listens to every kind of music,
to every type of singer, who embraces every form of art,
and who reads anything and everything,
and who shares a connection with every artist –
some who may not even be aware that they are creating art or poetry.

My favourite poet uses the means and the instruments
of creativity of their time to reach high, and wide,
and to go far, and low;
my favourite poet is also your favourite poet;
my favourite poet is fearless, adaptive, articulate,
loving, caring, who feels just at home
with the people he adores and loves,
as they do walking the busy streets of a city,
walking over the hills and fields of the countryside,
or trudging ankle-deep in the freezing snow;
my favourite poet will continue to change the world
just by being a presence, a spirit, a voice,
an artist, an inspiration, in it,
and that is why they are and they always will be
my favourite poet.

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My Poem ‘To the dogs’

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

There is no more trusted,
nor a more loyal companion and best friend,
than man’s best friend;
there is no more attentive, comforting,
and loving, protector of a master,
than the part of the family
who loves nothing more
than to lie at the foot of your bed
and warm your feet as you sleep at night;
there is no more excited person on Earth
who could ever compare to the one
who would sit and wait for you all day long,
and want to greet you when you walk through
your home’s front door,
with an enthusiasm that feels sometimes
as if it has no end;
there is no more pure look of love
than that of your faithful family dog,
who is loyal to their owner to a fault,
and who would in a fight stand with their paws before you
and save you with every ounce of their bark and bite.

There is a bond that is bound eternally
between a dog and their human parents and friends
from the time they are a puppy;
there is a trust that is forged that is hard to break;
there is nothing gives a dog more joy
than making their master happy;
there is a beautiful connection made
when a dog is given a name by their owner,
and you can tell that after they realize
that the name that is being called in their direction
is in fact the name that has been gifted to them
from the wagging of their tail,
and it is an acceptance of identity and obedience
that cannot be faked.

A lucky child is one who grows up with a pet to feed,
to look after, to play with, to walk, and to wash –
however, the most important thing that a child learns
from having a pet is that love and loyalty are a two-way street,
and that if you show true love you will receive love back in return,
especially from our four-legged canine friends
who look at us as if we were a god;
man’s best friend can also be woman’s best friend,
and without their human best friend they too would feel sad and lost;
I still remember my family pet who I loved when I was a little boy,
who brought to my family great joy
until she fell into an everlasting sleep never to wake again from,
and in honour of ‘Jess’,
and every member of her wonderful breed and species,
this poem of mine goes out and is dedicated to the dogs.

My Poem ‘Missing Words’

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

We read in sentences, not words;
we sometimes see words that are not there,
but are meant to be there;
we sometimes hear in our mind the unheard;
we all make connections
and take leaps of logic and imagination
when trying to make sense of something
that makes us feel, think, jump with joy, and care.

We all give a part of ourselves
to what we create, read, love, and see;
we all see and sculpt shapes of the clouds in the sky
in our mind and vision that resemble things
from our hopes and dreams;
we all take trips of instinct and intuition
when thinking about what is and what could be;
we can all draw the shape of a heart and share it,
and receive it, and instantly know what it means.

Our brains and our minds are more powerful
and more capable of navigating a path than we believe,
even one that might appear treacherous and impassable;
our accumulated knowledge
is deeper and richer than buried treasure,
and we sometimes know more than we think;
our individual way of seeing hope in chaos
is something that is truly magical;
our gift of seeing things before we see them in front of us
is an unbelievably incredible source of fantastic vision
and inspiration that take us anywhere and show us anything
with a blink.

Missing words are like puzzle pieces that we fill-in silently;
missing words are like invisible bridges
that come to life naturally and give meaning and feeling,
and they capture something’s spirit, like poetry;
missing words are always found,
and they always make themselves heard –
like nature does at sunset, with the evening song of all birds;
and if and when the moment calls for it,
you and your amazing mind will instantly seek out
and reach for the right words and they will be what were once
the missing words.

My Poem ‘Away We Go’

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

I am like the future.
I am the unstoppable;
I am the indomitable;
I am the unquestionable;
I am as I have been
and always will be;
I am here; I am there;
I am the unforgettable;
I am the poet of the forest;
I am the walker of the world;
I am the observer and writer
of the wonders of every sphere;
I am the proof that there is a strength in enduring;
I am a believer and true storyteller of tales
and experiences that point to a shared destiny,
that includes, connects, and combines,
every person and every life that has ever lived,
or will be lived;
I am someone who has seen hope brighten the world,
and given someone else, and myself,
the reason to be something and someone beyond imagining;
I am someone of infinite capacity,
whose story will go on beyond this life,
and whose voice will forever echo
along with the story of the stars;
I am someone who trusts his feelings and his instincts,
and I know a good person and an amazing person when I meet them,
and I can tell by just hearing someone’s voice,
and by looking into someone’s eye,
what lies in their soul and what is important in their heart.

I am hopeful; I am human;
I have a view of the universe and of life
that will never stop being beautiful;
I have in my heart and in my life a love and a power
that I promise will burn brighter and longer
than all the days and the seasons of the sun –
however, I am not on my own in this world of mine,
I am not the only one who sees the world as I see it:
in fact, I have shared a spectacular experience
and vision with a great many of the people that I have met,
and I constantly hold on to what I know, what I feel,
and what I have seen, and what I see
when I am struck by the lightning of connection and inspiration.

There is always somewhere you have not been;
there is always things that you do not yet know;
there are things out there to be found
that not even every dreams in all eternity
could completely imagine;
there are thoughts and dreams that are so breathtaking and special
they can give you the wings to fly,
and with them we can all defy gravity and dance with nature…
and before you know it you are off doing what you only dreamed of doing;
and with nothing in our way to stop us,
it is literally a matter of away we go!

My Poem ‘Epilogue’

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

Just as the sun must set,
so too must the last chapter of a story be written and told;
just as you might look back on your life
and remember things that you would much rather forget,
so too must you never forget that things happen
as they were always meant to happen,
and nothing that feels timeless can ever be old.

You never want a journey to end,
especially when you have been having the time of your life;
you never want to reach the end of a book,
because then you know all about the story within, its conclusion,
and even if you do read it again it will never be the same;
you never want to fall asleep,
especially if your life feels so amazing and dreamlike –
because you don’t want to wake up
and perhaps find out that your world
has just been a fantastic, idyllic, paradise;
you never want to put memories of places
and people to the back of your mind –
me, personally, I would rather have a moving picture gallery
of the good times in my life all around me,
and each one mounted beautifully in a gold frame.

Like most people,
I have known the very best of times,
I have known the very worst of times –
and usually both extremes of the other
within a short space of time;
like most people,
I have made the best of everything that I could –
especially when the road ahead, and my head,
felt like they were a winter field of dense fog;
like most people, I am a poet of his time –
however, what makes me who I am
will always be something that is hard to define;
unlike most people, at the start of every new day,
I write a brand new introduction
to introduce myself to the rest of the world;
and at the end of every day and brand new night,
I dream a dream that completely captures
and reflects my entire life –
like a mirror, or like a song –
in a brand new and beautifully written epilogue.