Write.as Cues


By Barry Graham

She came into the kitchen with the sky crumpled in her hand.

That’s the sky, I said. Don’t throw it away.

It’s empty, she said and tossed it in the trash.

A response to our National Poetry Month 2021 prompt

#Poetry #NationalPoetryMonth #NationalPoetryMonth2021

By Sam Whited

The fiddle player sat upon the stage Surveying all she saw; The dancers pranced upon the floor As many more came through the door And walked on down the hall.

Beside the band the caller stood, He looked at his cards and frowned: Circles and squares raced through his head As the new dancers stood around in dread Or fell down on the ground.

The banjo was played by a drunken fool Who’s wits were drowned in booze; But even Ale couldn’t make him so daft That he would forget his banjo craft Or cause him his skill to lose.

Beside him sat a mandolin, His hands o’er the strings took flight He’d stamp and stomp in time to the beat While his fingers tried to keep up with his feat And his eyes watered with delight.

There also played a sweet guitar, Without a penny to his name, But he was rich in other things, Music and dance were his diamond rings And he loved them all the same.

Far upstage the drum stood tall But its player was fast asleep; He always woke before his cue And with the rest he’d pay his due And work to earn his keep.

The bandmaster glanced into the crowd, Then signaled the fiddler to start With a neck-breaking tune By the light of the moon To quicken the pace of every heart.

The banjo and guitar strummed madly away, With a squawk and a screech they played, In the key of G, To a veritable sea Of dancers well arrayed.

The fiddler started to quicken her pace And the dancers became a blur Of tapping feet and moves so neat That the caller ran off down the street, Forgetting just where they were.

No matter that the caller dropped out; His dancers now knew the drill. Each petronella and dosido They executed with much gusto, Never allowing their feet to still.

The mandolin made a mournful twang, As all its strings did snap; With a whoop and a holler he jumped from the stage And started to dance with a passion and rage Til his feet could no longer tap.

Faster and faster the band played on, The fiddle player kept the time, With a start and a yalp the drum player woke He thought the whole thing a mighty fine joke So he played without reason or rhyme.

As the next phrase started up again With a faster pace than before, The drum head broke with all the strain Of beating hands like falling rain, So he threw it right out the door!

The bandmaster knew their time had come They couldn’t keep up with the pace, So he threw up one hand To stop the band But only the guitar fell out of the race.

The fiddle and banjo still played on Paying no heed to the crowd With a yip and a yaw, and a mighty yee-haw They played both soft and loud.

Finally the banjo could endure no more His fingers had all gone wrong With one last strum And a bit of drop thumb He finished up his song.

Now only the fiddle player could still be heard She bowed with all her might Playing away, Till the slow break of day Gave her quite a sight!

Daylight crept into the hall, (The clock read half-past four) And though the dance was finished at last The dancers into sleep had passed And were lying on the floor!

A response to the National Poetry Month prompt

#Poetry #NationalPoetryMonth #NationalPoetryMonth2021


Closed doors in broad public Meanwhile coated in dust Risked a unified republic? Did you ever lose your trust?

All of us have once been tested Some even more than others But not all of us protested. Only those with no grandmothers

If modern exertion of this kind, Stresses & strains for body and mind, Strained your trust so swift and explicit To scream `freedom, my freedom?! I miss it!

If so, I have to make a qualified assumption About your motives and reliance. The union did not fail the science And your trust never really functioned!

Closed doors in broad public sometimes coated in dust. In a unified republic I will never lose my trust!

#poetry #trust #NationalPoetryMonth #NationalPoetryMonth2021

By Barry Graham

It is almost exactly ten years since we shared drunken kisses in an unheated bar in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Later that night, drunker still, a kiss broke into laughter when we rolled off my bed and fell to the floor.

Ten years later: you still in Tennessee, in Nashville, me in Phoenix, Arizona. A catch-up conversation: You told me about your kidney transplants, addiction to pain medication, recovery, getting engaged, breaking it off, buying a house, rescuing dogs, traveling, getting happy. “I learned a lot and am so not afraid of things. It’s pretty great!” you wrote. You said your health was the best it had ever been, and we laughed about the new series of Beavis and Butt-Head. You had just found a new boyfriend: “I am absolutely nuts about him.” Seventeen days later, you died in your sleep, forty-six days past your thirty-seventh birthday.

Writing to someone who will never read it—a worn-out poetic convention, still in use only because of its necessity. Elegies, like funerals, are survival tools for the living. I write these words of love, beautiful Danielle, because silence fails me.

A response to the National Poetry Month prompt

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Reflection By Courtland Roberts

They tell me, “read between the lines” I see lines between the eyes Lies that cloud the skies Truth hidden deep behind the eyes But i can't read it Encrypted in hidden mental mines Its me I see in you “What's your next move?”, I say As i walk away from the glass I realize it is me, and there is no you

A response to our National Poetry Month 2021 prompt

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By Acererak

I wrote in colored chalk today about just how I felt in long looping lines in flourishes and pouts

I wrote my grief in a thousand words that spilled down..... ....... asphalt

the things I loved about you moments that drove me away about those things id given those feelings id kept at bay

grainy words becoming stories that bloomed in every hue in every situation that id lived and grown into


when all was done

my heart sated for today

I found a hose and held it

then washed the chalk away

A response to our National Poetry Month 2021 prompt

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By Adam Piggott

I Look Up, outstretched arms yearn aloft towards that mellifluous lunar Muse forever far from touch save for the sweet caress of words.

Her distant, haunting inspiration brings forth rivers of verse ‘to which plunges my Soul Reserved drenched in the words will reach

the ocean vast past the beach and the Girl With the Skinned Knees stalking the beach for shells whispering wise words from her future self.

Into the inky waters I float amongst the stars arranged just so with Little Bear craning her ear towards the silent Moon’s song

accompanied by gentle melodic waves and serenaded by this September Stardust each poem a lunar dapple of crepuscular Moonlit words.

A response to the National Poetry Month prompt

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By Emery Rose

there is no love felt in the light of a million diodes and the laughter carried over a thousand miles of fiber still cannot fill the room or be felt in my chest a constant stream of unicode tells me we are here together but my heart tells me

connection lost service unavailable

A response to the National Poetry Month prompt


By Billy Jackson

Lugnut and Old Boy bark at a four point buck eating fermented apples under a gnarled old tree

They bark at joggers fit and annoyed at the intrusion into their ritual

Their shift starts before mine Before I leave And ends after mine Before I sleep

They howl at the sirens of police and firemen heralds of needed help

And they greet the delivery people so that they know they may not stay long

They ward off the wild things the raccoons and opossum and yell at the uncaring ravens to begone

And the Coyote's call the yammering yelps sing a song of battle in Lugnut's heart so he paces back and forth and whines – “Let me at em!”

Then in the evening they come inside, fences secure treats and headrubs and wrasslin

Until we all sleep Old Boy on the couch, sprawled out and Lugnut next to our bed, childishly close and wary as Cerberus

A response to the National Poetry Month prompt


By James Goner

if addiction a pain, then depression another, said either decease or live and suffer. yet frightened of death like none other. now fix it the person who created the mess. was it ego or was it ignorance?

saw a way out, still hardships surround, yet it's the only path that the mind has found. tried and failed not once not twice, it was indeed, hundreds of times.

whenever gave up and asked, 'what is the point?', the mind said 'future is dark, but it could be bright.'

A response to the National Poetry Month prompt