Stray Poetry

Sunlit sea, becalmed of storm,

And darkened sky, lit with sun,

The small ship not lies battered and torn.

And all aboard have drowned every one.

But the ripples and waves…

Know no such sorrow..

they shift and sway, the timbers and staves.

Forlorn and lost they shift ’till morrow.

The starry sky shines down with light..

Littered with hope for those that have none.

and those few one the shore, who sleep through this night,

Knowing not, that far to the east, ‘neath sky devoid of sun.

The cold lifeless sea hold in its clutch..

A small tattered flag, with the name-

‘darcy swell’ gilt in gold, lit with the touch,

With the finger of god, the same.

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This was a poem I started in 2001, that never quite got off the ground.

-Ezra

Posted to http://www.straypoetry.com

A wandering rain has come to our valley,

Dripping globes on darkened pavement; godless tears.

I look up and wonder where the winds will push

The towers of billowing sadness next…

We caught a glimpse of a rainbow beside the mountain of night,

Just a ray or purple off to the left.

Still the patter of sorrow falls on uncaring houses,

And slides down upturned faces.

I thought I heard the laughter of children,

Half muffled by the far off thunder.

We whispered above the battling gods,

And the sound of pounding hooves.

When we looked into the past,

All misty with forgetfullness.

It seems we cried out our fears,

To the winds.

All wet with wandaring rains.

-Ezra Hilyer - http://www.straypoetry.com

Posted to www.straypoetry.com 

I am the Writer who does not write, and the poet with few poems.

I see myself as a writer, that is my self identity. When i see myself in my minds-eye, I am a writer pure and simple. I relate to the world as a writer, I refer to myself as a writer… Yet I do not write.

Oh sure, I pen a few sentences once in a while, and often I will dive whole-heartedly back into a novel or article i have been writing for a while, but in the long run, I haven’t really written all that much. A few short stories,  thirty or so poems, and five or six novels in various stages of completion…

Pitiful I think. Though I know this, it seems that the pressing moments of my life  take precedence over that which I really desire to do. Yes, that desire is to write.

So I come to the crux of the issue: I must simply steal the time to write from other interests. I must be a miser when it comes to my free time, and devote myself to the task as though I were a Buddhist Monk in meditation.

I know that to resolve to do this is no small thing, and would be easy to just forget and eventually just lost interest completly. Yet, if I do, I shall live my life in regret. I am now 25, and have known I am to be a writer for a full ten years. What others have accomplished in ten years leaves me to shame.

From this day forth I shall devote some time each day to my pen. EVERY DAY.

-Ezra Hilyer - www.straypoetry.com

A matchstick on a precipice, I set my ladder against the strand,

Cutting knives of sleet tear, and knot in ice on my lashes.

Quaking, fighting against the wind, I climb the rungs,

Listening to the wind make pipes of the hollows.

-Ezra Hilyer - http://www.straypoetry.com

Now in the midst of dreary winter, while the hills wear their white mantles,

I sense a whithering of will, and a drying up of muscle.

When buds burst into leaves, I also break out in motion,

Powering against the rusted pedals, to rush down that path of leaves; rustling.

.

Wintry winds tear at my coat, seek to reach my guarded soul,

And follow me into my bungalow to snuff out my little flame.

When Summer, oh summer, comes, I shall ride the streets of sun,

Catch the warm rays upon my back, spreading a glow throughout my winter shrunken frame.

-Ezra Hilyer

Adoration of the moment,

When I fall under the stone fist of time.

When to dust is now,

And fading this tired frame; I yearn.

Longingly trusting for that flash of night,

The loosening grip of earth.

When fists come up empty of strife,

And I rest of my life.

-Ezra Hilyer - straypoetry.com

Crusty shattered snow, like leavings from a celestial table,

Burns through my ungloved hand, a wintry bite.

Dark water climbs over the cracks in the ice I just trampled,

While the frozen sun slowly gives its last light.

Another tatter of poetry from my whithering hand,

One last drop of black from my broken pen.

I turn the scrap of paper on its side, and fill in the holes,

While I mentally bleed my thoughts away.

-Ezra Hilyer

Some Bits & Tatters of unfinished Poetry.

—————————————————-

Smile my child, laugh away the pain.

Hope for the morn, and give my love

to the darkness and midnight rain.

Be it not forever thus,

The sun now soon peeks.

As the threads of Time unravel a new day

Only this thought remains,

Of the hope I held that day, long, long ago.

In the eternity to come, I would that I could,

Bear the burden I have given to you.

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