Coming soon – The upcoming release of Ronaye’s book by British publisher in London, England; to be available on Amazon.
…with a broken wing
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.
AT ROSEDALE BRIDGE
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,
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
Ascetic, thy breath too soon has numbed
the flushed face of autumn–
her aureate eyes dulled by thy moribund air.
Thy fingers touch the paling brow of Harvest,
and at Time’s behest
tolls, not for death,