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
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.
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.
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.
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.
TO THE SUN
Do not leave me in the sagging arms of sleep.
The tender charms of night no joy for me contain.
Shun the law
and shine through forbidden hours
to cast off the dark mantle of doubt.
Illuminate the bottomless Deep.
This drowsing sadness is soft and pulsed
not at all fiery and insistent.
My inner light is submerged
and the breath of Life is but an occasional bubble
that breaks upon the surface.