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


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.




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.




I miss you more;

for I am but a vagrant in the space that separates us,

feckless yet not free. 

In these, my most lived and most loved years,

you are the pith and purpose of Being itself–

Life’s justification to man.

The milieu is you

calling, drawing forth my spirit.

I hear you wandering through these hills and valleys,

see you leap frog and tumble over broken boughs,

teasing me as the wind toying with my hair.

 This branch once felt Winter and was naked,

Not sullied by the wings of Time;

for soon, with the verdant green of Spring

 it will bloom full in fruition

 as shall we when I return.

A long last stare strengthens my vision with crystalline clarity

as I trace myriad designs with my eyes.

Would these were giant’s hands that

I could gather this all in a bouquet for you.

Alas, this curs’ed flesh binds me

and I cannot fly to you.


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.


The day has descended.  

Unforgiving winds sting and bite,

blowing not so gently now

in an ominous announcement that Winter is here.

The air, austere is drained of blue.

It will be dark soon.

How hard our bed when slept in singularly–your side cold;

and Night conspires to awaken me

reminding me I am alone.

My love is deathless, but the world is not.

The city once flush with love and life,

is now black and white,

with buildings silent as stone, like tombstones in a graveyard.

The trees, noble soldiers of privation,

stand stiff as fossils, stripped bare

their bones nailed to a sepulcher of sky.

Winter is like pain. It seems to last forever.

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