Around about ten years ago
I took a chance upon the electronic sea
I casted a poem then watched it go
just to see what I would see.

It floated half way round the world
then washed up on a shark filled shore
where it was read as it unfurled
by folks I'd never seen before.

In that land of old red dust
as well as here and other places
it drifted around as all such must.
I thought it would vanish without traces.

To my surprise ya'll asked for more
and others gathered 'round to see
scribbles writ far from their shore.
Many then tried to help me.

Perhaps they thought I had the "touch"
(more likely they pitied me)
for although I'd not written much
they decided to see what I could be.

Then one day in the dusty land
a small whirlwind came along.
She stopped and took me by the hand
and said "good poetry flows like a song."

Thus I met the meter maid
and though I never heard her voice
nor saw her walk some flowered glade
we became friends as she helped me find my voice.

I would write and she would read
and patiently point out rhythm breaks
( did she grit teeth until her gums would bleed?")
Perhaps she taught for both our sakes.

And the years flowed on and on
me thinking they would never end
for didn't each night end in dawn?
I took for granted my good friend.

Until she showed up less and less.
Then she stopped visiting at all.
She'd tired of coming was my guess
weary of answering muse's call.

And now I hear Judy is gone
to wherever red dust whirlwinds go.
Her sun rising to a different dawn.
I understand but wish it wasn't so.

For my friend Judy