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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.

IT’S TIME TO GO HOME

When March was but a capricious child

We could reach up and touch the moon

standing on the brink of a ravine

overlooking meadows of evergreens 

where the trees stand tall and purposeful like yourself

and fields of flowers never die

 even though you pick them.

‘Twas what I saw when my eyes lingered within your look.

Youth’s years how few, 

Age, how sure.

 

I can feel the coolness of those Winter days

when we walked together—you walked so fast–

through countless seasons that whip our bodies

until they bend;

But through it all, we yet hold a proud head.

I miss those days when the snow freshened our thoughts

that spoke to me through all that I love and cherish

and all that I love and cherish speaks to me as the eternal in you.

These cycles of impermanence are the pivot from which I draw my circle,

the circle of completion.

Yours, darling, as ever life holds its value.

It’s time to go home.

 

 

IT’S TIME

Because  somewhere in the ledgers of Time

It is destined we appear;  

In a single moment… here!

Assuming form, the born,  a bird with a broken wing braces against the storm

stalked by the ticking clock–weaving through the maelstrom of existence.

Thus begins the sojourn of birth toward demise;

what lies within  unrecognized.

 

It’s Time that sows and unlocks the seed.   

It’s Time that deceives, and does the dastardly deed.

What then, if with beauty you are blessed,   

 and the loveliness that you so love has all but gone and left?

What then?

A vision  so becoming , gradually became you, defined you, then named you.

But the image in the mirror never reflects the depths and only loves itself. 

What then?

When with wizened cheeks and withering touch

the hands of Time takes everything and each of us. 

 

The gifts that were given, It’s time to return them.

 The sins of the father, It’s time to unlearn them.

Because somewhere written in the ledgers

it is destined we disappear

when It’s Time.

In a single moment…not here!

Nothing lasts, lingers or remains stationary

for today’s rainbow fades with tomorrow’s morning star.

What was is unmoving and cannot be changed;

what is–the rhythm of life pulsating, moving forward in progression,

evolving or diminishing toward death.

We, fulfilling part of the cycle in all our complexities of intellect

and emotion, body and being are not exempt

from this immutable law of the physical realm.

I am the product of yesterday, the poem of today, 

without the promise of a tomorrow.

My hands are cold as I sit here in the park

watching the wayfaring clouds roam the sky.

Wither dost thou fly, O wing’ed vagabonds,

that ye neither hesitate nor linger?

What beckons to thee with so persuasive a finger?

My toes grow numb as I sit here on the bench

watching the Autumn industry ‘midst the birds’ migration.

Wither be thy destination, O precarious Pilgrims,

that ye neither condole nor bemoan this mortal’s exile? 

I must face Winter alone.

 

TIME

The night wears thin

And what has been

transparent lies.

Uncertainty dies

with watchful understanding.

Am I here? Was I there?

A moment passed yet never really was.

The hands of the clock

is just a thought

that comes and goes.

The Seer knows

There is no Time.