Something special,
something wonderful;
someone beautiful,
someone inspirational;
something invoking,
something flowing;
someone there,
someone who is like air.
Everything has an origin;
everyone has a birth;
everything and anything can be a win;
everyone is a product of the Earth.
Everything is a window;
everyone is a walking and talking autobiography;
everything can tell you what you want to know;
everyone has the right to be happy.
Something unexpected;
someone addictive;
something you have known and have held on to since you were kid;
someone who you enjoy, love, live, think about,
share, have to hold, and jive with;
something outrageous;
someone gifted;
something dangerous;
someone who feeds on life,
like the world relies on a constant charge from a power-grid.
Everything is multi-cultural;
everyone, at who and what they know they are, is a natural;
everything is fragile;
everyone is renewable,
and they can be someone,
and something, special.
There are morning stars,
there is morning music,
there are morning flights,
there is morning light,
there are morning people,
there is morning life waking up in cities,
towns, villages, homes, rooms, apartments, houses,
in families, in beds, in nature, in nests, in barns,
peacefully, calmly, dreamily,
and sometimes with a shock or a fright-
morning time for some is the best and the most wonderful,
for some when they wake up and they look out the window
the world looks as if it could stretch to infinity.
There are morning moments that can’t be replayed
at any other time of the day;
there are morning delights that make you smile;
there are morning voices and faces
that tell you that everything is going to be ok;
there are morning trials that you must sometimes run through
to make everything that you do worthwhile.
There is morning inspiration;
there is morning fascination;
there is morning creation;
there is morning elevation;
there is morning gravitation;
there is morning communication;
there is morning articulation;
there is morning anticipation;
there is morning illumination;
there are morning constellations,
still bright in the sky and shining,
as they have been for a million years;
there is a new day that I always enjoy exploring;
there are beautiful morning views that bring you to tears;
there is a miraculous magic to be found
in the light, the sounds, the time, the rituals,
of every morning.
I have loved music for as long as I can remember;
in all honesty, I have loved music
longer than I have loved poetry;
I have loved music, I have been changed by music,
I have felt more alive than ever
when listening to music,
I have been overcome with emotion when listening to music;
I have closed my eyes, been taken,
carried far, deep, and high-
as if I were swimming in the voice, the lyrics,
and the sound of the music, the energy of the music,
and drifting peacefully, contently, effortlessly,
free like a feather.
Music has been a big part of my life since before I could talk;
music had me running before I could walk;
music sent me to sleep and coloured my dreams;
music awoke me every morning as a child,
and within the heart of my soul
it has always been and will always be.
I must have heard thousands of songs;
I must have heard hundreds of artists,
singers, musicians, and bands;
I must have dreamed that I were John Lennon
playing guitar and singing along with the other Beatles
about fifty times, bu I could be wrong;
I must have had more favourite songs in my life
than I could count with the fingers on both of my hands.
I love songs, styles, speeds, of every type,
and possible genre, and classification, of music;
I love songs that take a hold of both my mind and my heart,
and make me feel epic;
I love songs that have unique, poetic, empathetic,
sometimes tragic, lyrics;
I love songs that are nothing short of celestial magic.
I love female voices;
I love male voices;
I love instruments;
I love voices that are soulful, special, lyrical,
incredible, unbelievable, beautiful, different;
I love who I am when a song makes me want to dance;
I love when a song puts me in a trance;
I love what I think about when a song is playing;
I love where I go within myself,
as I sing along to every song,
and as I repeat every line without mistake,
it is almost as if I am chanting or praying;
I love a song that to me is nothing short of perfect;
I love life, art, inspiration, memories,
feelings that were made, created, felt, captured,
made infinite, because of, and for,
the love of music.
‘Goodbye’ is the saddest word there is;
saying goodbye is the hardest thing
you will ever have to do in your life;
goodbye can seem like a full-stop,
and a reminder of all the things about someone and you
that you have in common that you are going to miss;
saying goodbye is something that I run away from doing
and I will do anything to avoid,
like a magician trying to make sure
he isn’t hit by fast-flying knives.
The season is ending;
people are going their separate ways;
relationships are fading;
people are making a new start somewhere else,
and are saying that “I hope we will see each other again some day.”
I don’t want to see anybody leave
the places where I always know they are going to be;
I don’t want things to change,
but I don’t want to stop anyone
from doing what they must do-
I don’t want want to think or say anything selfishly,
because I do want everyone to be happy,
and I have always been a big believer
that nothing and no one that was born free
should ever be restrained and held in a cage.
I could not live with myself
if I thought that I were holding someone back;
I cannot think of worse prospect
than not being able to follow
the energy and the path of your passion-
support, love, belief, in me and of me,
is something I have always had;
inspiration, happiness, contentment,
a sense of belonging,
are things that I would never dream to ration.
I will never be able to truly say “goodbye”,
to say “see you later”, to say “see you in another life”,
or to say “remember me, and don’t forget me”,
with a straight-face to someone,
without having a tear of sadness welling up in my eye;
I know that life is a cycle,
I know that people have to go sometimes,
but I will never like or want to truly be
a part of the cycle of goodbye.
Some people find perfection in stillness;
some people find perfection in silence;
some people find perfection in chaos;
some people find perfection in the instance
that they find balance.
Some people find perfection on a beach;
some people find perfection in a smile;
some people find perfection in what lies out of reach;
some people find perfection in a mosaic picture of broken tiles.
Some people find perfection in a photograph;
some people find perfection in a sunset;
some people find perfection in the sound of someone’s laugh;
some people find perfection in the sound of a clarinet.
Some people find perfection in a meal;
some people find perfection in a ceremony;
some people find perfection in being able to heal;
some people find perfection in the flowers, fruit, and leaves of a tree.
Some people find perfection in a waterfall;
some people find perfection in a coral reef;
some people find perfection in art painted on a wall;
some people find perfection in a recurring motif.
Some people find perfection in sharing;
some people find perfection in keeping something a secret;
some people find perfection in being daring;
some people find perfection in keeping the things
that no one would ever have thought to have kept.
Some people find perfection in words;
some people find perfection in music;
some people find perfection in telling someone something
they have never heard;
some people find perfection in the people, the places,
and the things that will forever be perfectly imperfect.
The day had been planned for for months;
the moment had been imagined and re-imagined
over and over over in my head;
the thought about what I would say gave me goose-bumps;
the alignment of all the stars that had to happen
to bring about a meeting of minds, lives, books, authors,
still makes me feel like a kid at Christmas again;
the anticipation, the journey,
the waiting in-line outside the grand Waterstones bookstore
in Birmingham with my friend,
is something that I will always remember,
and it will always be special to me-
I remember bringing more than one book to get signed
by one of my favourite authors,
but just the thought of what I was doing
and who I was doing it with,
and the memory and experience that I was sharing
was what truly made me happy.
Being a writer can sometimes be a solitary endeavour,
and by its nature writing must be a personal act
that only you can do alone;
being a writer can sometimes feel like you are a traveler
off on an adventure,
and the only person who can truly understand what its like,
what it means, and what you can do,
is another writer who is on their own journey-
while sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by sound,
or a writer in their own space,
writing feverishly on their computer or in their notebook,
in the comfort and solitude of their home.
What I loved about waiting in-line for so long
was that I got to listen and notice people around me,
who were just like me,
and who were just as excited about coming face to face
with someone who made them imagine, think, feel,
something, and share something with someone else-
that is exactly what happened with me:
I read something, I was touched by something,
I was gifted an amazing story,
because of a phenomenal and magical writer,
and I instantly felt the need to share it-
as if I were under a spell.
When my friend and I reached the top of the windy stairs,
and finally came eye to eye with the author
that we had both been looking forward to meeting,
I honestly felt like the author, myself, and my friend,
were the only people in the bookstore,
at the book signing event,
and that everyone had suddenly, magically, left;
it was amazing looking down at my favourite writer,
talking to him about how I loved his writing
and the inspirational commencement speech
that he gave a few years ago
which made me too go off on my own creative quest-
however, the truly amazing and the most epic thing ever
was when I took out my own book that I had signed for him
and I handed it to him as I told him that I too was an author,
and to this day I still remember what a thrill,
and what an honour, it was when my favourite author
accepted my own gift and then extended his hand to me,
and in that infinite and fantastic moment
I felt a connection and a transference of knowledge and wonder,
and storytelling magic, from one author to another.
Hi, everyone! 🙂
If you have been reading my poems, and visiting my site, regurlarly,
or perhaps if you are a new reader, and a new visitor here,
I am sure that you will have already figured out that I am a very
passionate, intense (sometimes), inspired, imaginative,
deep-feeling, hopeful, optimistic, lover of the written word
and of the power of imagination and dreams-
and I am here to say that dreams do come true,
and I know they do because they have come true for me
on more than one occasion,
and there is no greater example and gift that I can present to you
as proof of dreams and the importance of following your passion
and doing everything to make your dreams come true no matter what,
than my book ‘Poet of the Sphere’ and my new book ‘The Sound of Mark’,
which are availible to buy right now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and The Book Depository!
My first book ‘Poet of the Sphere’ was a miracle and dream come true,
on so many levels, and I will forever be in awe of it,
and hold it close to my heart;
my new book ‘The Sound of Mark’, that was published just a few days ago,
is a reminder and torch of hope for me, and I hope for a lot of people,
for me and everyone to take a hold of, look at, and do with it what they may.
My poetry means something to me, because my poetry is literally my life:
my feelings, my thoughts, my interests, my observations,
my hopes, my dreams, my heroes, my fears, my friends, my loves,
my world- my poetry is very personal to me,
and my poems are better read and understood, I would guess,
as diary or journal entries written by me about what is happening
and about who I am at a particular, fleeting, precious,
moment in time that will never come again,
and that is how I believe each and every one of us should think about
our lives and about life itself-
because you only have one life, and you only have a short window of opportunity
to be who you are, and who you want to be,
and to live like their is no tomorrow.
‘The Sound of Mark’ is me, it is a journey, it is my journey;
however, when you read it, if you read it,
think of yourself as me and give yourself to the words that you read,
and relive my journey with me, and allow my poetry to inspire you, hopefully,
to go off and be the adventurer and writer of your own journey,
and be the best person that you can be!
I hope you will buy, like, and enjoy my new book!
Every poem in the book can be found on my site already,
but when read as a book and as a story in book-form
every poem is like a key to a door within a house of over a hundred rooms,
and as you go from room to room, and from poem to poem,
you will discover something about me,
and perhaps something about yourself! 🙂
The paperback and Kindle version of ‘The Sound of Mark’
is available online @ Amazon.com: http://amzn.com/1938082036
@ Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1938082036
@ Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/ZtqWMM
@ The Book Depository: http://bit.ly/1r5ctB2
-Mark
Eggs and bacon;
tea and toast;
coffee and waffles;
everybody craves something inside them
so that they can awaken-
something that they can eat
while picking up the early morning post,
something that they can savour every bite of,
something that they can eat with a gobble.
A full-English breakfast;
a blueberry muffin;
a bowl of fresh-fruit-
something you have every morning
and will have every morning
until your last;
something new you have been meaning to try,
and this morning you have decided to take a breath and dive in;
something hot; something cold;
something to look at and salute;
something that just hits the spot;
something that in its on right
is a gorgeous thing to behold.
Healthy, or unhealthy;
simple, or extravagant;
a boiled egg that when you break the shell
the yoke is still runny;
a gift from your own garden, perhaps,
and a gift of one of your own plants.
Breakfast that you yourself make;
breakfast that you share;
breakfast that you bake;
breakfast that you eat for a dare;
breakfast on holiday;
breakfast in bed;
breakfast that is like a buffet;
breakfast that is so tasty and amazing
just one bite instantly goes to your head.
A bowl of cereal;
a tub of porridge;
a delicious, succulent, and juicy, melon-
that tastes so sublime you swear that it can’t be real;
a pretzel that you eat on a busy street;
a stack of pancakes that you share
which are dripping in honey on a plate,
on a kitchen table, in a cozy country cottage.
In a cup, on a plate,
in a bowl, as a way to raise your heart-rate;
in small bites, or something you have in one go and whole;
in paper, in a glass;
something of infinite flavour;
something you can eat slow;
something you have got to eat on the go and in a dash-
there is no more important meal
to make sure you have and don’t pass,
and that is breakfast.
I have written on planes;
I have written on trains;
I have written in cars;
I have written in bars;
I have written while working;
I have written while searching;
I have written on paper;
I have written on a computer;
I have written for someone;
I have written about someone;
I have written for myself;
I have written for my health;
I have written with a smile;
I have written while walking a mile;
I have written in tears;
I have written for hours that felt like years;
I have written in the sun;
I have written for fun;
I have written to make things right;
I have written just so that I could write.
The Life, the Light, the Tears, of the Poet of the Sphere 