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.



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.



Nature is my physic, my schoolroom.

Wandering ‘midst her marvels,

I am favored with the comfort of her counsel.

Her grandeur inundates my heart

and restores my prostrated faith

back to savorous agency.

Thus shall yonder trees bend their boughs

helping me to climb the steep slopes of the hillside,

and the seemingly insurmountable precipice of Life.



The touch of Autumn, in a burlesque of Mardi Gras colors

betrays the leaves that show graying little heads.

The buds and blooms are gone.

No smiling faces to greet my mornings,

and the once lively dance performed for me

has slowed to the lethargic nod of age.

Time has tattled on my dear friends

and on me.


Come hold my hand and share my heart.

Let us remember this spirited, bounding stream–playful,

and childlike,

mothered by the woodlands of flaming scarlet

and sun warm golds.

Let us savor this coronation of rustic flourish,

china-blue skies and boreal breezes

 to witness the miracle of transformation.


Your eyes posses me corporeally, completely in palpable gaze.

Your lucid look still lingers upon my eye lids;

My lips still fresh with the fullness of thy nectar sweet press.

Spring has taken leave

Summer the same;

But we walk through Autumn

and watch Winter draw her thick veil across a blue sky