Ye who come here;
As you peruse these pages,
view them as riding an Express Train through Time–
the same train we are all on.
When the train stops
and the Conductor turns around to tell you:
“This is where you get off”,
it doesn’t matter if you are riding first class or coach.
When your journey ends….
will you know who you truly are?
I am starved for silence
besieged by the din of insatiable industry;
its percolating miasma of exhaust
belching in the air.
Bound to form, barred from spirit
I move through a zone of distorted shapes and structures,
consumed by rabid activity
numbed in a heady drowse.
Walk on! Walk past the gray shadowy figures
silhouetted against the concrete and granite walls,
stolidly shuffling by,
lost–trespassers dragged through time,
Alight and linger not
lest delusion overtake you,
and blind you to the truth.
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.
In the darkness
a sun sinks down
through jungles of imagination
mired in mind
through wastelands of “why?”
In the daylight
a moon rides high
along a palpitating phrase
through saturated emptiness
where winds blow pollen
on a suspended seed.
The fear has passed
and my passion has burnt away
but what remains is like
the contentment of a confession.