The sun sulks, eclipsed,

 denying us another day.

In a series of silent nights,

a fluorescent moon hovers overhead, 

our eye in the sky…


then blown aside by winds of ire

from stirring Giant on high.    


Timid raindrops crawl across a telephone wire

like cautious children anticipating a slide…


as the heavens unfold pounding its wrath upon us– 

angry thunder in rolling arpeggios

storms down with vengeance.


It took thousands of years

for the universe to arrange for us to meet by chance

–a chance of a lifetime;

Then a lifetime of chances

squandered by our witless folly and misdeeds.

Unrealized. Unfulfilled–

Callow youth and shallow beauty

fading into senescence and sleep. 


The city mourns.  Autumn tolls for her dead.

Summer has been slain–

her fruits lay lifeless, deserted in decay.

Soon Winter shall come to cover and conceal

silently effacing all traces that we ever were.



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.




 I am but a cog in the wheel of your life that spins around you,

 a specter of what was,

circling an apparition that can never be.

We are fireflies dancing on the edge of darkness,

making mischief then misery in the spirit of play;

 appearing in the periphery of a memory

 as we move closer, almost touching 

 then fly away

 disappearing into never-never land where time has no meaning.


To the all-seeing half hidden moon

lurking in the dark behind the clouds:

Why be wary?

It was a moment with no past, no future,

a moment, not of passion, but compassion,

resurrected in a poem.

I held him with my heart and arms

touching him with understanding,

letting his tears wash down my face

already wet with his pain.

You witnessed in silence, with wisdom, without judgment

the swell of sweet agony surging upward–

pounding, pushing, rushing from door to door–

my throat, my eyes, my lips.

The pull was by the finger tips

and toward the window

To view the sky’s teardrops….

to accompany ours.

A starved heart did swell

when the song was ended—full,

so full of sweeping space

when the unresolved chord found its progression;

a perfect cadence of completion. 

Then back to quiescence and the solitude of despair.


You lead me into the shadows and every part of me says yes.

Though you speak with just your eyes, I understand and follow,

 falling into the willing arms of darkness and forbidden love–

a combustible combination that burns a hole into the night and leaves no trace on the dawn.

The shutter of life clicks.

My mind’s camera snaps into permanence

an indelible picture of us caught and captured

in moments stolen like thieves.

Oh the anguish to always see this vision;

the way you look at me, command me,

and I obey

then yield to this relentless madness

 driving us, pushing us forward toward its inevitable demise;

and yet I race toward the edge like the lemmings

that leap to their own self destruction.

Would that we were free!

Desperate, the soul searches and finds itself.

The abject idealist forgets the feast

and now begs for but a crumb.

Riches are relative when I cannot be without you;

Yet somewhere written in the annals of Time

an unmerciful debt of cause and effect, says I must.