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.
WHO ARE YOU?
You have your place in the hive,
safe within the swarm,
adored with approval
within the comfort and constrains of the collective
that gives you your identity.
Its barricaded walls are secure to keep you in
and keep out the despised–
the”Nay!” of dissent of the Others.
Step out from its confines that defines you,
beyond your fealty to an ensemble of thoughts.
Where is your attention?
Who are you now?
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
yet turning in to focus on that which focuses;
Filled with Being–
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.
Fie! Ego I,
O cloak of concealment.
Trust the Unknown’s power of veto
be it the open hand of harmony
or the fist of human pain.
THE ETERNAL MOMENT
We all seek to escape,
to enter another realm that carries us beyond the mundane, menial realities of every day living,
and we each try countless ways of achieving this periodic annihilation—diverse forms of entertainment which require participation—or….observation of what is happening.
But the most successful,
is intense awareness of that which is aware—total employment of being there.
Then, all distractions fall away and only the eternal moment exists.