Oliver Treze was born to write bright. And that was his answer when anyone asked what he did for a living. He’d smile a quarter smile and reply, “I write bright.”

So, every morning, he sat in the shade of olive trees to write bright words.

Words to wake the whimsy. Words to wake the joy.
All for flights of fancy. Words he could employ
To work his own magic, filled with opal light.
Nothing dark and tragic. No, he must write bright!

Maybe you noticed a kohwinkydink already. Did you catch it? Here’s a hint.

When Oliver Treze did his bright writing, he sat in the shade of olive trees.

Get it? Oliver Treze under the olive trees.

Yeah, ain’t it grand how kohwinkydinks pop up a lot of times when you least expect them? And ain’t it grand when they can give you a sort of magical aura brain massage? Yeah, those things are grand. Too bad most adults don’t even pick up on ’em.

Because if they could tune in to kohwinkydinks and dilly dally for even a few minutes, they might get to enjoy a whole ‘nother world. And I’m talkin’ about a world where trees talk to the stars. And where daydreams play Red Rover with Night Dreams.

But Oliver Treze never worried about what adults might or might not see.

Because he had millions of ideas swirling around in his head. And he knew if he worried about what anybody could or couldn’t see, that took away from bright writing time.

And that was time he was NOT willing to waste.

So, Oliver wrote. And wrote. And sometimes he’d stop to eat or sleep. But after that he wrote some more. And anyone who walked by would never imagine all the wondrous words that flowed out of his head into his pen. Or sometimes he’d take his trusty techie tablet and type a tapestry or two or three. Or thirty-three.

That’s how it was when, in one day, he wrote about two hundred pages. It was a ginormous, humongous, tremendous amount of poems. I happened to be sitting nearby just as he finished for the day. And the oddest thing happened. Oliver started to fade away.

I started to ask if there was something I could do to help. But he held up his hand to motion for me to come closer. So, I did.

And in a faint voice he said,

“I had to write bright.
But I wrote out my own light.
So, I know it’s right
That you take these words tonight.
Add them to the book
That I have here. Take a look.
Turn it into fun.
Do this for me. I…am…done.”

And, with those last three words, he faded away completely. With a quarter smile on his face.

So, I looked down at the last bright writing he did. And here’s what I saw…

Woods Of Wonder

Walking in the woods of wonder…
Leaping off a limb of lights…
Slipping down a secret Scots pine…
Kiwi trees are flying kites.
All around are dancing Aspens…
With their white and wondrous wings…
Bristling branches and sweet breezes…
Where a speckled sparrow sings.

There’s more to the poem. But to see Oliver’s very last lines, you’ll need to beam over to the Rhyme and Reason Bookshop and get your own downloadable copy of:

Ginormous Humongous Tremendous Book of Poems and Bedtime Stories for Kids

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