all copyrights by Ronaye Hudyma. all rights reserved

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Acerbic  words sting,

 assail the air;

hurled  like a dagger with a jab to the heart. 

Fatal blows swift and sure catch me by surprise…     

I cannot breathe.                           

Your barbed tongue maims,

slices  through the tender threads of trust and        

when the curtain falls, you feel nothing. 

Of course.

I was fodder for your senses, consumed then forgotten

No investment. No expense.

Being without me is a reprieve, a temporary Fast — no snacks, no sugar.

Yet you to me were love without restraint

 sustenance for the soul

and the bonds that did bind me were not of chains–

 but a river of ribbons flowing throughout my existence.

After a taste of the Infinite, being without you  is death by starvation.

Now Both of us are confined to our corners

of opposite sides

where never the two shall meet.



 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.



I heard  you speak the word…married.

My mind froze. My heart stopped.

I couldn’t  breathe as it entered my body 

cutting out the space where you used to be.

Gutted. Eviscerated.

Excised with no anesthetic.

Will it still be there tomorrow?

There is no tomorrow.

I didn’t die, but we did;

taking time away with no reprieve of the past,

leaving me disfigured, severed.

Like the last time.

Love no longer has your face or body 

to invade my dreams.

Now your memory has a fence around it. An inner: No!

Irreparably, it cannot be otherwise; because it is.

It already is.



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.




More than anything,

I want to remember the tender things

in a renaissance of every memory I have of you…

barefoot on Santa Monica beach under a canopy of stars

against a backdrop of an ocean song playing…

the waves crashing upon the shore

the echos of our sighs rising to a crescendo

as we made love draped in darkness

and forbade the sun to rise.

After  coming home…how I defied submitting to sleep

fearing I’d lose you–

how sacrilegious to dream of someone else– 

then the joy of opening my eyes and seeing you beside me,

feeling the comfort of your warmth next to mine;

when, still drowsy in the dark, 

the night assured me you were mine for a few hours more.

You need no sight, sound or touch to define you.

I sensed you, not perceived you,

knew you by your presence–

A creation complete when God found expression through you.

And then the lingering hangover of every heartbreak

from too many bad choices, too many regrets–

that holds us, binds us together in bondage

with invisible strings;

and forever will, until time overtakes us,

’til we take our last breath,

and slip back to the source from whence we came.

Rain clouds brood, sulk,  huddle together,

swelling around me in conference, deliberating….undecided.

Like you were.

It drizzles, like they couldn’t make up their mind.

There’s been too many tears already.

 As the days dwindle by…

If it was beauty you wanted, I was beautiful.

It it was wisdom you sought, I was wise.

If you were indecisive, I was malleable to your mood

–a paroxysm of contradiction.

Yet you came and opened your arms

rushing in to flood every fiber of my body and mind;

filling the vacuum and desperation

of my abysmal emptiness of utter futility.

Yet as you pushed me aside and away

suddenly, from the very source of sorrow came the answer,

the strength I remember

and the courage to continue without you.

For did I really lose anything?

My love for you I have not lost.

Your love for me, I never had.

I feel a progression toward some point

both within and out of time.

This is new. Not of yesterday nor stolen from tomorrow.

The union of breath and being

distant with the echo of your voice,

my prostrate self that only pretended at life

choking on the sobs of a forgotten future.



 The day came in austere, with despair;  

the sun with a sneer on its face,

a surly smile, and lips curled in contempt

as a sudden squall flared in a fit of bad temper. And you left.

Don’t speak to me of love, it’s strengths or its weakness.

Let us never again utter the word or pretend its understanding.

I’ve escaped you but briefly

knowing only the fettered freedom of a derelict turned proud.

Do I wear my wisdom badly like worn dresses and yesterday’s shoes?

What if I were to tell you it is no longer so?

Can my garish exterior– like bad make up– mask my

insatiable hunger, unquenchable thirst 

to reflect love when it’s want that I wear? No.


The wheel spins round and round, back to the beginning

behind the screen where you barricade yourself,

barring me from entry

where I strangle on your silence 

forgetting you all over again

just when I hoped it had ended.