Sunday, March 6, 2016

Dreams

Hello dear reader...it has been a while since I have posted a poem. The words simply have not been there. I hope that today's offering is worthy. I am proud of it as it really reflects what my dreams have been over the last little while. Enjoy the poem. 

Rod Kok
March 6, 2016

Dreams.
My dreams are technicolor,
brilliant hues
that do not
exist.

Undertones of red
swirl alongside
shades of grey,
creating a dance
forbidden by
rules of love.

Luminous oranges
unerringly mix
with pastels of truth,
thereby cementing
a brilliant tint
of passion.

What no one expected
was the earth tones blending,
coming out from their shadows
to paint their surroundings
with robust patterns
of peace.

Black stole the show,
giving a lusty feel
to a dream without
a coherent theme.

Then it faded.

My dream was
in technicolor,
but when interpretation
melded with reality,
I awoke.

And pretended those colors
never existed.

Friday, January 1, 2016

Alive

Happy New Year, dear reader. I hope and pray that your 2016 will be filled with joy and happiness. My new poem was written roughly 10 hours after the year started. I believe it is a good start to this year.

Rod E. Kok
January 1, 2016

Another year has rolled away;
turmoil defines the time
that has passed.

As I embark
on yet another journey
around the sun,
what will determine
each day’s success?

I am resolved to make
a difference,
steadfast in my desire
to be better.

I will fight,
I will never give up;
I will live,
I will love.

I will.
I can.
I must.

Addictions and obsessions
of yesteryear
will be purged,
I will try my best
to improve.

Today is day one
of a new journey,
a new beginning.

Today is day one,
my mind is clear.
I am convicted to remain
alive.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Don't Give Up

Hello again, dear reader. 

For those of you who haven't heard about Project Semicolon, here is their mission statement:

"Project Semicolon is a global non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and love for those who are struggling with mental illness, suicide, addiction and self-injury. Project Semicolon exists to encourage, love and inspire. Stay strong; love endlessly; change lives."

I first heard of this project through my Twitter feed, and I have been thinking about the semicolon a lot in recent times. And the more I think about it, the more I like it. The semicolon is not the end; the semicolon is merely a pause in a story, in a sentence. The words continue after the pause; the story continues. 

And that, dear reader, is the basis behind this poem. I hope you enjoy it.

Rod E. Kok
December 1, 2015


I won't give up,
nor will I
give in.

My story will not end
by my own hand.

Although I am led
by un-holy thoughts,
I will fight
to the bitter end.

When my eyes look away,
I will pray
for strength to close them.

If my body's desire
is to serve itself,
I will try to treat it
as the temple it is.

I won't give up,
this story
will not end.

Yet it seems so simple
to take that easy way out.

Don't give up;
I won't
give in.

http://www.projectsemicolon.org/




Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Choices

How do I explain
the workings
of a fragile mind?
How can I make you
understand?

I do not choose
to be weak.

Of all my words,
which ones will you
believe?
Of all my words,
which ones
are believable?

I do not choose
to be dark.

I did not want
to hurt you;
I did not want
to burden you
with my frailty.

Thankfully you heard me,
you held me,
you did not judge me.

You understood
my nonsensical ramblings,
the admittance of guilt,
my fear of
giving in.

I did not choose
this bipolar life,
yet it is what I live.

I do not want
to fall.

But when I do,
I choose to go
to you.

Monday, November 9, 2015

The Man

I heard the man,
whispering in my ear.
His soothing voice
drew me in,
his choice of words
convinced me.

I saw the man
in a mirror;
he was perched
on my shoulder,
his talons held me
in their fierce grip.

I felt the man
touch my soul;
a dirty black spot followed
his every caress.
Pain coursed through
my very core.

I fought the man;
every blow
caused him to laugh.
He fended off
my weakening attack.

I followed the man,
submissively I obeyed.
He led me astray,
every fork in that road
was the wrong one.

I cursed the man,
but he shoved me along;
he forced me to go
where I was too weak
to resist.
My words
had no effect.

I heard the man
whisper.
He spoke of things
too dark to mention.
Yet he made it all seem…
right.

I allowed the man
to keep me alive,
to get me lost,
to give me pain.

It seemed I had
no choice,
no choice but to give him
my soul.

I want it back,
for I hate
the man.