THE WELL OF BEING

Suffering spills into the murmuring spring–

the waters that flow forth from the well of Being.

Let Karma carve the crevice deeper,

fill the pool fuller.

For it is from these depths of blackness

that truth will rise and resound.

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I AM THAT

If my music didn’t exist,
the words I wrote,
the poetry,
each memory that popped up so quickly

into my field of awareness one by one,

then vanished…
If all those things that gave me a sense of “me”

that I grasped and held so dearly

–if they didn’t exist any more….
who or what would I be?

If these things came then left my field of consciousness,

and the only thing that remained was ….
that I was conscious of the awareness that was aware…

I would be that.

 My ego woke me up at five o’clock in the morning, fearful that everything I have done–my music, my writing–will perish.

When the person that was me dies,

everything will die with it.

That is probable.

But the questions that I sought the answers to have been answered.

I am not within time.

I am not captive within the confines of space.

I am space.

The limitations of the mind’s clock

will no longer be.

Yes, how like sleep my life was lived.

But I awakened before death.

No longer trapped.

I lived out my individual script

and played my part until I broke free from the conditioning.

I do know what and who I am.

That was the purpose for me being here.

That is the purpose for all of us being here.

All forms dissolve.

They are expressions of Consciousness.

I am Consciousness.

That is the “I”

The pattern again.

As never before

I feel the threat of loneliness loom

and the lure of the sensual ephemeral pleasures

that may appease the shallow fragmented self

that seeks escape to numb the self 

that clamors for truth.

Such a vacuum lingers.

Passionless. Without a country,

belonging nowhere and to nobody; 

for attachment forms strings

that pull we puppets.

Have I been asleep for 20 years or merely in a stupor?

When I probe into my inner storehouse,

there is nothing but the echo of a confused cry 

tethered within the cell of a false identity

 reverberating against the musty darkness

…then disappears.

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BOOK ANNOUNCEMENT…

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

Description:

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.

 

 

THE EMPTY 

A child again,

I am bewitched, bemused

by the discoveries of life,

amazed at the phenomena
of consciousness and existence.

Like a bud that suddenly bursts into bloom,
what smoldered in the shadows
looms into spontaneous illumination
as the mystery unfolds:

Forms drift in then evaporate
Yet I remain.
It comes; Arises.
All personhood dissolves.

I am here;
a space of clear seeing
intense, keen, alert,
concentrating upon itself
projecting outward
yet turning in to focus on that which focuses;
Filled with Being–
Pure Consciousness.
The Empty has come to claim me.
There is nothing else.

MEDITATION

In the darkness

a sun sinks down

through jungles of imagination

mired in mind

through wastelands of “why?”

In the daylight

a moon rides high

along a palpitating phrase

through saturated emptiness

where winds blow pollen

on a suspended seed.

 

The fear has passed

and my passion has burnt away

but what remains is like

the contentment of a confession.