In a small lonely cottage, on an even lonelier shore,
A humble man filled both screen and page,
With tales of courage, humor, sorrow and fear,
Tales filled with love, honor, cowardice and rage.
Aye, both screen and page the man would fill,
Then the stories he would send on their way,
To editors and agents, with their critical eyes,
But ‘REJECTED’ is all they ever had to say.
Most of the stories were, in truth, really quite good,
“So why all of the rejections?” one might inquire,
The man would shake his head sadly, then sigh and say,
“Emotional, descriptive tales, it seems, they don’t desire.”
You see, the man wrote with passion, and fire of soul,
Painting pictures of past, present, and time yet unseen,
But it seemed the modern world had no time for tales,
Not shown on technological devices or movie screen.
Then a letter came one cold and blustery winter day,
That the writer read with tear dimmed, disbelieving eyes,
“Your story was accepted, and we’d like to publish you.”
The writer’s shout of joy shook the very skies!
Those who’d called him a fool for spending his time,
Writing stories they claimed none would ever read,
When the writer’s success came, were the first in line,
With tales of hardship, their hearts filled with greed.
As for the stories that had been rejected and packed away,
They were brought back out into the world of light,
For it seemed the world wanted more of the writer’s tales,
Once they finally recognized how well he did write.
But the thing that truly gave him the greatest pleasure,
Was the wide eyed wonder of children as they heard,
Him speak of the worlds of wonder hidden in books,
As he told them of the power of the written word.
But the writer never let the fame and success go to his head,
And he continued, between tours and promotions, to write,
Till the day arthritis began to cripple his weary hands,
And cataracts began to dim his sight.
The writer had married, a son and grandson he now had,
He had lost his much loved wife when his son had been born,
His son became his soul reason for continuing to live
But for several years he could not write, as her loss he did mourn.
The writer’s son grew up reading, and listening to his father’s tales,
And the desire to follow in his father’s footsteps gradually grew,
His dad’s greatest joy was the day he looked in his eyes,
And said “Dad, I want to be a writer just like you!”
The writer slipped away one soft summer night,
And if one visits his grave, on his tombstone one finds,
Engraved are the words the son had heard his dad say all his life,
“Writer’s use words to paint pictures on the canvases of their reader’s minds.”
maradjen (copyright 02-09-2012: Marantha Dreamweaver Jenelle)
ALIAS 1WORDWOMAN, GHOSTWRITER