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.

The introduction reflects what I intended to write, the main body what I actually wrote, the conclusion what I now wished I had written. Ho-hum.

To Feel!

Oh, to feel again! To feel!
Punctuate the windless void
with beat from hearts, tap
from trembling hands of light,
of desire, of rage!

Oh, to feel again! To feel
something touching me
there: to punctuate the void,
a numbness animated,
a needle needs but one end!

Oh, to feel again! To feel
another’s heavy heart,
another’s lavish light,
coming and becoming
desire, wind, and power!

Oh, to feel again! To feel!
To punctuate the windless void!
See Desire slowly rising!
Feel a welcoming wind’s embrace!
To feel! To feel! Oh, the Joy
it would bring!

Time / The Weary Wanderer

Stars born and stars dying,
Time had seen them come and go,
no children burn as bright as those
forged in the name of fire.

How long the path of the weary wanderer,
how much further still to go,
only Time will tail they said:
malapropism in a foreign accent.

But Time wouldn’t tell, couldn’t
tell, without hands, or legs,
to stand on. Time felt abused,
left to expire,

chastised for just staying true
to the one pukka power. How long
or how much longer will Time keep
going, as silver stars align

and the world of Men obsesses –
over nothing.

The old man shook his head, questioning the genetic makeup of his only son. There must be something wrong with him, force feeding a VHS tape into a Betamax recorder; any day now he’ll probably start questioning why the phone cord is curled, and then demand an extension, or, Lord forbid, a colour television.

She always tried to wind him up, but no matter the buttons she pushed he remained calm; keeping his accordion close to his chest.

Rosanna was the daughter
he would never have, a fleeting
thought in a young man’s mind,
a reason that became no more
than hope, and his one source
of longing.

Bats in Batter

Like a beer-battered bat at dusk
I pursue my blind bisecting,
cutting the deep crisp skin
never finding the change –
the flaw origin.

Another day, another year,
another life will pass away
before daybreak arrives
and I find my headstone
covered in red roses -

thistles line the paths in shadow
and the lawn no longer mowed
and the sad shrubs that once
bore fruit: sweet, sweet
truth.

Like a broken bat at first light
I return to the cave called home
and the headstone of old
in waiting,

all roses long since gone,
withered lives paired up
in a marriage of doom,

like a pawn in a game of chess
already won: purposeless, yet

awaiting the next game.

i

i am not grown up yet, barely reach
the threshold for glyphs, an uptight
upright with a speck of dust hovering.
i am to you and You a mere minor:
an ell callously knifed but safe
in survival; a divided soul searching
for home to become as intended
a freestanding character
a moral champion for the self
without neither head nor tail: an
I – proud to be upright.

I remember; recall and relive
Every silent scream sent Your way
Every cold cut of steel received
Every thought of escape perish.

I remember. Yes, I remember

Those dreary days of growing
The small-biped instruction manual
Unfitting a roadrunner – read
and reread.

I remember. Yes, I remember

The phoney foundations built
Like a yesterday’s shivering shower
Washing away like a torrent of tears
The last of the lingering hopes.

I remember. Yes, I remember

I remember, I recall and I relive
Every silent scream I sent Your way
Every cold cut of steel I received
Every thought of my escape perish.

I remember. Yes, I remember

Everything.

For the One Still Searching

Through a moaning mist of future days
Thorough silent creaking shadows
Mindlessly dancing, Purpose twirls
In search of something
A solid something: a break
Caught and claimed
As finders keepers; Purpose twirls
The cotton skirt flutters and flies
Around the red raving sandals
Keeping Purpose afloat, hovering
Above the safety of solid ground;
Eternity half gone, Purpose goes on
Searching for someone to seduce –
For the one still searching.

Scroll to Top