Author name: Hayden Veil

In an earlier incarnation, Hayden Veil enjoyed a successful career in software engineering, writing late-night poetry in pursuit of sanity. On 2 February 2020, the world of Hayden Veil changed: Ghosts became real and with its soul laid bare there was no turning back from the perpetual path of poetry.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
the last snow had melted and the sun
never rose above the horizon. 

I wasn’t just having a bad day,
shades of grey stained the sky
and people faded into ghosts. 

I wasn’t just having a bad day,
echoes of the perished ones
reverberated like gongs at night.

I wasn’t just having a bad day,
the exit of the labyrinth of night
was lined with gleaming knives. 

I wasn’t just having a bad day,
blunt utensils and silverware
mixed with scents of cinnamon. 

I wasn’t just having a bad day,
suppressed-memories jokes
lingered like mist in early morning. 

It wasn’t just a bad day, it was a day
like every other.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Picking low-hanging fruit
in the orchard of complaisance,
you came and I followed
your drum, beating beating
out of step out of time. 
Sprinkling fine fairy dust
I await the advancing storm
to restore my lost autonomy
in the orchard of complaisance.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
When the words run out 
and the pin drops
all you see is hay;  
the wire binds no truth 
to fictional strangers; 
but kindnesses forms
in unexpected places; 
expect words
to break the silence.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Shirt and tie, bleached and ironed,
I wore respectability once; twice
I sought the band of gold,
both turned to lead; three times
three times I ran away
from everything, seeking every thing
missing, finding only the same
shirt and tie; stained and crinkled;
kissed by moths, and memories.

Poetry Drafts / / By

24 years
24 months a year
24 days a month
24 hours a day, yay
24 minutes an hour
24 seconds a minute
24 years a second.
How long was the pierce of string
you gave me,
anyway … I might be wrong
about many things, but 24
is not my age
– yay.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Ding. Dong. Donkey Kong.
I ran and ran up the stairs,
climbing to the upper floor
and safety; ghosts chasing
but never catching
the boy running up every stair
as if chased by ghosts.
Ding. Dong. King. Kong.
I walk up every stair. Slowly.
No floor harbours safety.
Every ghost a ghastly presence
from the past, present, and future.
Ding. Dong. The door bell tolls.
The world of ghosts
— calling.

Poetry Drafts / / By

There are notes in my head
I have never played,
words that no longer carry meaning
and doubts of ever becoming
otherwise; Else wise,
with a taste of metal on my lips,
dropping pennies and shoes
then walking in another’s pair
down the cold dark backstreets
of another life,
through another lifetime of nothings.
There are things in my head
I will never understand, never play,
never express in truth
– to anyone.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Is there an expiration date on 
ever 
mutating it into never?
Like you’ve never been hugged
but recall a long long time ago
you felt the warmth of another;
never kissed that special one
yet memories of lips touching lips 
linger in your mind. 
Is there an expiration date 
on life? On becoming numb
to the hint of kindness;
stiff at signs of softness;
taking flight at the first signs 
of doubt; finding a clock
that stopped ticking.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
The ladling out of fried crumbs
to an unset table, whispering 
Grace to the shrouded few;
saucy steamy vegetables
favoured dishes while deep
fried fish ignored.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
I fire every candle
wrap the life in wool
fold itself in circles
awaiting night’s first dawn,
white-wash nearly 90C
flee flee flee
from your doubt-demons
flee,
our far-off latent turmoil 
and esoteric toil
the silenced essence
at night’s first dawn.
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