Coming soon – The upcoming release of Ronaye’s  book by British publisher in London, England; to be available on Amazon.


                 …with a broken wing
Expressions of
the Human Spirit

poems by Ronaye Hudyma


Whether contemporary, classic, or peppered with Elizabethan eloquence, this profound ensemble of 130 poems is not stationary. They move as if conducted with a maestro’s baton –fluid between the euphoria of life and love, the drama, the anguish of death and loss, with every nuance of human emotion spilling upon the pages.

They are poignant words written with the transparency of youth, gathering maturity and experience, evolving to wisdom, into the spiritual realm.

This is not just poetry. There are a million stories in each poem. Once for each of us. From the teenager discovering their individuality, the young adult challenged by relationships and the world around them, to the Elder denizens of Earth, who cherish their memories as veterans of life, this is a book to be read and reread, a keepsake to console, embrace and affirm your recognition of the truth within yourself that is already there.




Nature is my physic, my schoolroom.

Wandering ‘midst her marvels,

I am favored with the comfort of her counsel.

Her grandeur inundates my heart

and restores my prostrated faith

back to savorous agency.

Thus shall yonder trees bend their boughs

helping me to climb the steep slopes of the hillside,

and the seemingly insurmountable precipice of Life.



The touch of Autumn, in a burlesque of Mardi Gras colors

betrays the leaves that show graying little heads.

The buds and blooms are gone.

No smiling faces to greet my mornings,

and the once lively dance performed for me

has slowed to the lethargic nod of age.

Time has tattled on my dear friends

and on me.


Come hold my hand and share my heart.

Let us remember this spirited, bounding stream–playful,

and childlike,

mothered by the woodlands of flaming scarlet

and sun warm golds.

Let us savor this coronation of rustic flourish,

china-blue skies and boreal breezes

 to witness the miracle of transformation.



My eyes feast.

I weep with absolution.

This holy moment, this sacred pageantry of Life,

 a Pan’s playground of splendor

 laughs in the face of utopia in mockery of millennium.

There is a promise of peace and contemplation

as if Autumn were a wise old Master,

a disciple of truth, coloring the world.

My speech seems paralyzed by my sight,

and my heart throbs in revelation,

dying with the prospect of rebirth.

Here I see the Self–not lost but forgotten, obscured–

smiling at me like a bud behind a leaf

or a shy child when it first looks into a mirror.

You are here with me.

Your soul replenished by the rain’s silent baptism,

the sanction of the sea,

the omniscience of the mountain’s infallible strength.

We walk together through the fiesta colored forests,

stand at the shore’s edge and love clutched to the bosom of night,

cradled in the arms of the Totality.

Like Rip Van Winkle who has awakened from a fitful sleep,

I know that I dare not allow myself to drowse

lest again I slumber.


When the Seasons are measured on my face
and settle across my brow
and the rattling bones of Winter moan
with bent and broken boughs
When its final breath and hoary death
is a shroud hanging o’er my eyes,
You shall not fade.
The masquerade is…only the form will die.

When Autumn looms,
confetti colored leaves start turning brown
in a grand ballet—their fated way of returning to the ground.
In the journey back from whence they came
–a secret lies therein–
You shall not fade.
You always were and will be once again.

On zephyr breeze, the yawning buds
will herald the coming Spring
with butterflies and buttercups
and mountain streams that sing.
For eyes to see and ears to hear,
lies the secret of all forms–
You shall not fade.
Within the seed you are the yet unborn.

Summer smiles on fields of daisies laughing in its face
trying to outrun the sun, but Destiny awaits.
What comes along, will also go within a world of change.
You shall not fade.
You always are, and you alone remain.

Author’s note: There was a beautiful tree outside my window with leaves of gay colored red–so distinctive from its orange, yellow and lemon colored brothers that surrounded it. It was like a friend, so comforting to mine eyes; and I would look at it every day with reverence. One day after a heavy wind storm, the tree was completely bare; therefore this little poem in remembrance.

Elegy to a Tree

I looked for you, and
O scarlet suchness, O sanguine Sir
that blazed and amazed a sky so wan beside thy crimson flush,
Your flaring cloak has slipped from your shoulders and lies at your feet, exposing your ebony nakedness of Bach severity.