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.

Once, dropped to solid earth

in a late autumnal snowstorm;

desire carried no weight

as the wanting voice pitched

to deaf or muffled ears;

white wheels creaked

along unpaved local paths,

the curious child of time

beheld a sky in grey hues

and a single swaying rattle.


Later. Snow. Piles of snow.

Blue skies and a golden eye,

and the muffled sound of comfort.


Later later. Snowless worlds.

Blackened skies.

Rattled, without rattles.


Later later still. World-less worlds.

Invisible skies.

… without…


Now. A transient charm tickles

those lost and latent memories,

warnings of snow and ice

warms a frozen heart,

awakes a longing

– to return.

white, like snowdrops in March
the spider’s web glistens, frozen
threads woven for warm summer’s day
abandoned to the song of winter,
crystals swivel and swerve
in a sparkly river dance
finding by mere chance
a place for a final rest
before the new ray of day
turns the virgin land of man
into mush.

The Swell of Possibilities

I follow the train of thought
back to the front
to find no locomotive, no
locomotion, levers left
beside a broken track;
a cowering figure covering eyes
ears, mouth; … a piercing peep
high above the low clouds,
I ascend through white waters
rafting higher and higher
on the continuing canal of promise;
no backwards only frontwards
the new train of thought in flight
towards the newborn bird of prey
calling my name, calling for me
to let my wings unfold as I surf
the swell of possibilities,
loop-de-loop the spiralling sky
towards infinity.

Gilded Guilt

I showered my walls in golden rays,
in streaks of golden dew;
descended towards a scent
roasted, toasted – a life of joy
abundant.

Oh, runny honey silken money
where would we be without these
our gilded bees
buzzing from plant to trees
from houses without fees
to our own jared realities.

Runny honey settled down,
firm in mind and firm in flesh
as pipes crack
and concrete crumble;
heat-less hell frozen over.

I shower my walls in golden rays,
in streaks of golden dew;
descend towards a scent
of sewage, raw – a life
sequestered and scanty;
dreams of buzzing bees dwindling.

Ripples

Ripples fade in still night,
Pebbles thrown sink slowly.
The milky eye sailing the heavens
Through the Dark Angels gale
Twins the one mirrored,
Binds the celestial
To the soil of Man.

Ripples fade in still nights, flung
Into the four rivers of Time
Pebbles search for home. In
The Garden,
The Mountain,
The Tree
Pebbles search for rebirth,
Ablutions &
Obtuse obfuscations
To liberate the languid words

– a divine rebirthing

The House of Cards

A house of cards in autumn storm
I wait for all to fall
into a hand that once was dealt
in hope to preserve their fate.

A beacon shines upon a shore
to welcome and to warn
the weary weary wanderers
finding their way ashore.

Of all the cards I cannot be
the wind has left for me
a single kiss upon a treehouse
nailed beyond my reach.

A house of cards in autumn storm
I climb on creaking ladders,
I see them fall and find their place,
the lighthouse gently guiding
but the kiss – is out of reach.

Synaptic Storms

Synaptic storms whisper in riddles,
corrupt messages enter by force
to wrap all light in layers of dust;
the songs they sing are dissonant.

The Last Worm

Love is sparse, the last lingering leaf falls
on frozen ground, the last worm wrestles
an apple clinging on.

Love is sparse, the firstborn contemplates
the subsequent’s success at soaring
falls like wet snow on wet snow.

Love is sparse, decades of lost embrace
a starved silent daze throws the mind
into deadly deliberation and doubt.

Love is sparse, the fall of fall
leaves piles of leafs fit for worms
fit for worms wrestling.

Love is sparse, the last worm wrestles
an apple clinging the dying branch
of summer.

Love is sparse in this world
where snow no longer falls
– to embrace us.

Too long

Too long I’ve walked this earth, searching
for another escape, another door
opening.

Too long I’ve searched this earth, seen
doors invitingly ajar yet passing
for pastures of allure.

Too long I’ve seen this earth, alienating
me and my mind from all other kind
of beings.

Too long I’ve memorised my earthly ventures,
and seeing now the setting sun
recalling only the broken ones:
the flashbacks of an attempted life,
the horrors in others’ eyes; my hollow darkens
as the stars rise to their final salute
a mock tribute
to a life too long lived
– in avoidance

Displacement

How long
How far
How deep
How high

is the ledge I keep jumping off
will I sink this time
from the shore can I swim unaided
can I hold this breath of mine

Too high for birds to soar
Too deep for fish to swim
Too far to find another shore
Too long to ever consider another

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