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.

———————————–

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

-Ezra

Once upon a time, I had a full day to work with. When I was running my garage, I could wake up,  and be in my shop around 7:30am or I would open it as late as 8:00am, then I would work the full day, and shut down around 5pm or sometimes a little later.

This would allow me to get all of my work done, and have filler time to work on personal projects, and to also sit a moment and take a breather if I liked. I was able to be hands-on, and it was possible to plan for events that would take me away from the shop from time to time.

Now that I work (a regular job) I only have about 2 hours to do the things that I need. I try to make the best use of them, but since I have to devote such a large block of time to my daily job, I am falling behind in projects, and am getting backed up with ideas.

It has always been a struggle, that when I have the time to work on my projects; I lack the funds, and when i have the funds, I don’t  have the time.

Would that it were as it was in days of old, I could find some wealthy sponsor to be my patron, and they could share in the glory of my inventions, and successes.

-ezra hilyer - http://www.straypoetry.com

posted to http://www.straypoetry.com 

On a whim, I went searching for traces of my old website ‘The Amateur Writers Guild’.

Keep in mind, that is has been about 8 years since I last visited the site, and I assumed that it was long gone. But thanks to the Internet archive site archive.org I was able to go back in time and see some of it as it was in 1999, and 2000 (the height of its popularity) and was even able to find an old logo from that era (not my final revision to be sure) I put it at the top of this post.

This was at a special time in the history of the Internet, (when I started the site in 1996) where it seemed that users were starved for content, and there really were not that many sites online. I had tons of interest, and had submissions all the time. I should have been better at keeping up the site over the years, but after about 3 or 4 years, I let it die, and everyone just faded away.

I went to the URL (it was hosted on a free host, as I was a poor kid) and it is still there. There is really nothing other than the entrance page left, but oddly it is at the top of the Google search for the title of the site (even though there are others with the same name)

This makes me desire to re-start the venture, and get it back on its feet again. I have the experience, and the knowhow, I just don’t know if I have the time..

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

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

I am thinking of starting a daily Podcast about what else: Poetry. I would read a bit of poetry, and comment on it, perhaps a 10 minute episode each time. Perhaps I would also solicit listeners poetry? Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

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

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