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.



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.




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.


We all seek to escape,

to enter another realm that carries us beyond the mundane, menial realities of every day living,

and we each try countless ways of achieving this periodic annihilation—diverse forms of entertainment which require participation—or….observation of what is happening.

But the most successful,

is intense awareness of that which is aware—total employment of being there.

Then, all distractions fall away and only the eternal moment exists.



You’ve been here before, and before and before.

You know how it begins, you know how it ends –you’ve done it over and over again.

 You wake to the same day with your eyes still  closed

following the script as the drama unfolds

with a plot so familiar, in the role that you chose

and the part that you play but pretend not to know.

Lost in the riddle around which your thoughts revolve,

you employ the same solutions that never solve,

captive and caged behind the bars of illusion

until the story-of-you comes to it’s final conclusion.

A shallow existence of a shadow self

never looks beyond itself.

It’s never enough, it always wants more

though it cannot grasp what it’s looking for;

always elusive, always beyond reach

until you finally sense what lies beneath.

Not the phantom you call a “Me”

but the eye of I that you cannot see.

What appears will disappear

when all that’s left is just the Seer–

That from whence it did  arise,

that which is looking through your eyes

reflecting back upon itself;

the deathless realm of selfless Self.

It’s always there behind the form–

the deja vu you’ve been here before.



And so the dream unfolds…

As if the hand of God flicked a Bic

lighting sparks of shooting stars

filling the sky ’til they burn out and die;

each one temporary, unique as you and I.

Thus, the Being

true and untouched

gathers form and experience,

exists, traveling through Time

through darkness and light

with the hope of freedom;

forgotten, yet known;

creating, not knowing

yet knowing it must.


A cloud of dust moves in,

hovers and obstructs the luster of light from which I view;

 a shadow with wings that brushes against my awareness.

It’s you—a thought knocking on the window of my mind.

You do not disappear; you slowly erode–corrode,

tortuously scrape, whittle and wear away.

But yet you stay 

and I have become accustomed to you there,

 a dull ache,

keeping me courted as a constant companion. 

With dry eyes, I remember you in minutes, miles and years.


Still  tactile on my face—your smile the eyes that I looked through;

your name still tangible on my tongue that I could articulate fluently

 in every language, dialect, with eloquence.

Surely, since you have moved from my heart into the voice in my head

you know my thoughts, too

as you speak your mind that I hear, adhere and listen to:

“Why must it hurt to love? Or want? Or wish?

Why must joy be threatened with sorrow,

or tomorrow with death?

But how else to measure height? Or depth

if not by each other?

Or humanity if not in terms of self?”

And then….quiet. Gone.