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 
Fear shouts, summons me,
draws me towards its light
luring me in. The temptation
of the known, 

versus 

the muted Dream;
but I cannot call my Dream mute
for risk of my own offending,
but how to compare a howl 
with the silence of embers;
the chains of time 
with the lofty ideas of a child
petulant and needy;
a muted Dream once imagined
falling short to a lifetime
shackled. 

Muffle my fears,
clean my ears 
to the sweet songs of dreaming;
let the tune of the untraveled
replace seductions from the known; give me freedom 
to roam.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
To essay or not essay this Christmas Day,
that is not a question for another time
as the clock ticks down towards submission deadline. 

To write or not write this Christmas Night,
paragraph upon paragraph of plight 
long into the dying of the light;
oh, the fear of candlelit stage freight.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Tired hair,
warm snow falling
on green lawns still growing;
tired hair,
tired awnings
keeps patio portions dry;
tired hair,
tired bushes
fruitless endeavours on repeat;
tired hair,
warm snow falling

— outside the tired sleep

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Seeking nurture and navigation 
in a fast fading food chain,
I pin myself at the top of the feed
crave a cry for comestibles
but silence the only sustenance
as the larder was left empty,
the farmer’s pig still in its blanket,
and the fast food facility
provides no needed nourishment
for this lost and hungry soul.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
There’s irony hidden inside boxes
wrapped in red and silver and blue
shining paper of single use
under green plastic trees
sprayed with scents 
reminiscent of the world 
outside their walls.

There are boxes 
whispering of situational irony,
labels shouting tragedy, tragedy
of irony through soliloquies. 

There’s irony without metallurgy;
love without shiny paper;
tragedies arising from empty bottles;
but only the world outside these walls
can ever bring me comfort,
or hope.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
There’s no Santa Close 
nearby the stocking 
in the plastic bag
in the box 
in a box 
in a box
somewhere in an attic 
not far away from an airfield 
reserved for reindeers 
this time of year.  

There’s no Santa Clause
stipulating sizes on boxes
in boxes
in boxes
with plastic bags and stockings;
why not?

There’s no Santa Claus nearby. 
There’s no Santa in my life anymore 
than there was a hundred years ago
when boxes were wrapped,
under living trees with baubles
reflecting the happy dreams
of youth.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Sudden Death Syndrome
a Kamikaze Cataclysm,
the Divine Wind
sings the Songs of Victory,
Lights out and —
all cheerful banter fades
beHind
buShes,
beFore
tiMe comes to a hal—

Poetry Drafts / / By

Love me, like you loved before
time became a chain, rust and
raspberries in a field of dreams
in a neighbourhood of old woes,
strained eyeshadow and lipgloss
and the bottles
stashed under broken benches
and the sweet smoke lingered
between their grey towers.

Love me like you loved them;
I am different
-ly shaped, but love is love
and love is
(they say)
a meaning, purpose, and answer
to questions I’ve yet to ask.

Love me,
and all will be alright
(they say)
in days and nights of passions
bought with credit
card, cards, stacks of borrowed
love
dropped in a desolate field
— of dreams.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Creative spirits never die,
their embers merely slumber
with every waning moon above,
only to reawaken
at the slightest sign of sparks:
a word hidden amongst other words;
a tired thought of spite;
or the musings over memories
returning out of place;
all tickling the spirit’s soul
like venom to a snake;
passions, the essence of fire
for any creative soul,
burns to fuel the flames
of all innate artistry;
spirits walk and roam,
runs towards the silent rooms
to find another’s burning desire
— waiting to reignite.

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