The pattern again.

As never before

I feel the threat of loneliness loom

and the lure of the sensual ephemeral pleasures

that may appease the shallow fragmented self

that seeks escape to numb the self 

that clamors for truth.

Such a vacuum lingers.

Passionless. Without a country,

belonging nowhere and to nobody; 

for attachment forms strings

that pull we puppets.

Have I been asleep for 20 years or merely in a stupor?

When I probe into my inner storehouse,

there is nothing but the echo of a confused cry 

tethered within the cell of a false identity

 reverberating against the musty darkness

…then disappears.

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WHERE WOULD I GO?

I absconded into night, taking the darkness with me
so there would be no shadows on your eyes when morning awoke;
that beams of light sifting through the windows,
could bathe your face, coaxing your lids to open.

No need to search for where I am.
Where would I go?
I dwell in the interim between and beyond earth and sky,  –everywhere and nowhere, where Time is not–beyond reach of each;
Yet I harbor the vicissitudes of both states in every thought you have of me,
every word you speak of me, in every memory you know as me.
My voice resounds in your laughter,
reverberates like cathedral bells calling the faithful.
Look above. The saturated clouds are swollen
with your tears I weep.
Look below, look within. There is no place I am not.
I am the sun on your shoulders
when you walk to the ocean’s edge
and cast your eyes on the shimmering necklace
that clings to the shoreline,
blinking like diamonds as it washes across the sand;
the surge of joy, gratitude, and humility you feel swelling within you like the tide itself. 

Do not mourn.
Listen to the earth’s soul breathing in and breathing out.
Let it wash over you, pulling away the barnacles.
Every time you count the colors of blue in the ocean,
watch the birds soar into infinity,
or see the miracle of a bud bursting into flower,
I will  exist in all these things.
When I walked through the door, taking the darkness with me,
I found…. not death, but life.

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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.

 

 

 

MUD ON YOUR SHOES

Wipe your feet before you enter.

There is mud on your shoes

accrued from the collective 

as you wander through the minefields

of the human mind.

Negative thoughts are contagious, 

drag you along, stick, cling to you,

raining on your surface self,  

soaking you, convincing you they are yours.

Shake them off. 

Strip bare and listen to the silence.

It is your umbrella.

A BOOK OF REVELATION

There is no sunset,                   

Only darkness closing in–

the black ink of night spilling upon the pages

of what was once great literature, 

now ending as cheap fiction.

You were written as indelible and

I, only penciled in, then erased.

There are no stars over the marquee, no blinking lights.

It was me who crowned you King of Hearts–

a bit player with a walk-on-part

eclipsed by your shadow, waiting in the wings

for a chance to be your leading lady.

After all these years, all these tears, 

you are gone, like you never were.

Every thought is dissonant with how little I meant to you,

every breath a negation of life

and  how little time I actually spent with you.

There was no you, there was no me.

 My mind conceived you, my heart deceived me 

Until a cold-water awakening

yanked me out of my stupor

from a worldliness sleep

into realms of wakeful truth,

ripping the residue of what remained as love from my eyes.

These words are all I leave you– 

not as a kiss or a touch,

perceptible only by pen and paper.

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?

Rain clouds brood, sulk,  huddle together,

swelling around me in conference, deliberating….undecided.

Like you were.

It drizzles, like they couldn’t make up their mind.

There’s been too many tears already.

 As the days dwindle by…

If it was beauty you wanted, I was beautiful.

It it was wisdom you sought, I was wise.

If you were indecisive, I was malleable to your mood

–a paroxysm of contradiction.

Yet you came and opened your arms

rushing in to flood every fiber of my body and mind;

filling the vacuum and desperation

of my abysmal emptiness of utter futility.

Yet as you pushed me aside and away

suddenly, from the very source of sorrow came the answer,

the strength I remember

and the courage to continue without you.

For did I really lose anything?

My love for you I have not lost.

Your love for me, I never had.

I feel a progression toward some point

both within and out of time.

This is new. Not of yesterday nor stolen from tomorrow.

The union of breath and being

distant with the echo of your voice,

my prostrate self that only pretended at life

choking on the sobs of a forgotten future.