Prose 

This is my dad's poetry section.

He was always too insecure and afraid of rejection to submit much of it when he was alive. He was a teacher to pay the mortgage. But if you asked any one of the legions of ex-students, teachers, educators and family who loved him, they would have added words like scholar, poet, philosopher, idealist, romantic, innovator, champion to the underdog, hero, and most of all friend to the list. He had a big fan club.

They all put him on a pedestal, and he never felt comfortable there. He had his problems. Mostly the problem was being too sensitive and compassionate to the pain in the world.

He always felt he was a failure at everything.

I only hope wherever he is, he sees that I'm finally doing some things right.

Recently I found a picture I drew in first grade. It was a turkey for Thanksgiving. They made us all draw turkeys. I was left handed, and they made me draw with my right hand. Needless to say it was a lousy turkey. The teacher berated me for this stupid picture, and said it wasn't good enough to put in the exhibit they were having at the mall for the holidays. She made me draw it several times, and I cried. My dad made a tempestuous trip to the school and next thing I knew we were going to the mall to see my turkey along with all the others, and that teacher never bitched at me again.

When I opened the folder of his stuff the turkey fell out amongst the poems. He kept it all those years.

All accomplishments, however small, are worth something. Too bad he didn't take his own advice.

I think
karma shares
because the physical dares -
Souls have each other
only lately.

Click here to enter the poetry archives for Wayne Dickey.