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.

A Jar of Love

The jar of love once brimming,
A piece of dry bread dunked,
A youth without a vision,
Drops of seed
In an April breeze –
Dancing.

The wind of fall, of autumn pale,
The youthful face once worn
Behind a veil of taste and truth
Now blinded by greed and fate;
Ambition nailed on a creaking cross
Worn as shadow suit.

The blind boy walks
Between pines and firs;
Lumbering beneath
Ageing birch, bark-less
Silvery shadows rolled;
A banking lord’s dream.

The western wind brings forth
The spring of revelations:
The fevered few
In search of dyed yarn,
Unworn socks on chilly floor
Brings a boy once more a-searching.

Wrapped in unknown shadows
A boys walks, stumbles, trembles
Before an untainted face,
Blue eyes or mirrors of a happy sky
With cherry lips smiling, speaking
Of pottery, of poetry, and love.

Jump!

I would jump
If only I could find a bridge,
Plummet into the frozen dream
Of ice and perpetual silence;
I would jump
From any plane ascending,
Plummet towards the soil
Of sustenance and dread;
I would jump
At any opportunity to find meaning
In an otherwise obfuscated life,
Beneath a dead sky dreaming,
Above the pale moss
Of old.

R=1.5

Reality is a thin veil,
A melting sheet of ice;
I wear my skates untied,
Puckered face uncovered,
A stick to short to matter,
I am forever penalised
For crossing the thin blue line
Too early, to rushed
Is my approach to life;
Reality is a clock expiring,
A ghastly echo of a tick
Without a tock,
A tree without bark
Uprooted, the storm in a cup –
Overflowing; my reality
A thinly veiled matter
Without presence
Or purpose.

Strings

A single string
Vibrating, a cordless agony
In D-minor:
I stand, I flail; I flop, I wail;
No, not again and never more:
I will make a stand, take my hand
And pull me there, pull me hard
Towards your light, away from
Perpetual night – across northern
Moors at midnight: we run we roam
Free as birds in early spring,
Like children without constraints,
Unshackled and full of dreams;
Our moon rests on the summit.

A single string
Slowly pulling
Our dreams
Into a reality,
Worldly vibrations
Of carrier pigeons,
The song of one
Becomes a lasting memory,
Our terminal thoughts
Accompanied by strings
Playing in consonance
Our final tune: our goodbyes
In D-minor.

cruxymox:

dying while trying to find an upward turn, cannot focus on the scene before them, their lungs are full of cobalt blue.

      they are silently jagged.

      they are silently folding in upon themselves.

the scene before them takes place under a night unseen but for the surrounding dull & dark. rotting city walls heave & yaw above, they gulp down the forgotten stars. from broken windows they pull the moon in & to pieces with tarnished silverware. the night sounds of eating in solitude, it sounds of congestion.

      the pavement is cold & wet on their cheek.

      their eyes are bright.

the scene before them is a violence of wings with a quick blade. the scene is a chaos of blood. cannot tell who should be them. neither one i suppose, neither one.

      we do not deserve the knife.

      we do not deserve the wound.

close their eyes & focus on the wind that snakes between. it is cold, smells of september, of a quiet & calm death, of leaves that will not burn easy, of moss that spreads in stealth. the wind smells of forgotten dreams, of extinct labyrinthian forests, of careless moments, of worn gravestones. the wind smells of sadness, & they take it all in as though they could take any more.

      the wind is of asphodel.

      let us sink through the asphalt.

the scene is muffled. a wet black cloth wrapped around angel mouths. the knife is an angel mouth. blood seeps down in, searching for them. why does the blood always search for them? wants to seep up their nose, into eyes, through lips. they are an angel mouth.

      a black blood like a quiet cloth.

      their lips crack & we mingle.

so deep now beneath that they have forgotten what comes next.

bcourchaine:

Faint heart never

Won fair lady

No, as fair ladies wear high heels / too easily piercing our faint hearts / leaving naught but slivers / of manhood behind

Kelp / A Dance for Two

You splatter the last of your blood
Like oil on cheap canvas,
The tubes of dried-out paint
Lie scattered along your path,
An attempt to paint a self
Too out of control to care:
A mere sidekick in the story
Of your life.

I walk around humming
A tune I never chose,
A hired extra in my own shoes,
Without lines or purpose
bar filling that vacant space
in the story of my life.

We walk in circles, you and I,
Dancing to different tunes
In different spaces,
I know of you but you live unaware
Of mine, yet we dance on and on
And that is all that matters
For now; if we ever meet,
Face to face, sparks could fly
And nights become our days,
The world our private place of play
As we find ourselves attuned
To search our destined spot
In this – our universe.

Becoming Poetry

How did you decide when your writing became poetry; when did you dare call yourself a poet, in light of those that came before. Was there a time, a moment, when the lightning hit the core; the eyes once dark and void saw the world without the veil: false and fake, like trees blooming in cold winter’s night. Was there another, like you a dreamer, wanting so see a world alight with the powers of the sublime, the fantastical, and the intense interior of the soul, exposed and fragile. How did you decide to continue, when the bleak dawn of day approached, and your words failed to manifest; when the storm brought only withered leaves; and all the little things once loved slowly faded beyond the realms of perception. How did you become poetry, when all else failed.

The Message

Not sure how to interpret the “message” I received last night / early this morning, as I awoke to a woman’s voice clearly speaking to me; speaking straight into my half-sleeping ear: Pop Art, although it might have been: pop art, as the light was out and sleep … deep. As always, when I get these messages I found myself resting on my left side, facing the empty half of the double bed; I felt dehydrated and my lips longed for moisture. I remained still, pretending to be asleep, gradually adding a fake snoring as I voiced a dreamlike mumbling of incoherent thought towards the apparition I dared not face, standing behind me: I was sure of that. After a while and after regaining awareness I tumbled and turned, with a speech loudly expressing I was rejoining the world of the awakened. The bedside lamp slowly lit and revealed no one in sight. No woman. No apparition. Nothing. I was alone, as expected.

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