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I go through the prerequisite clichés
and prune them out as needed for the tale
no more comparing her to summer days
and synonyms for roses, bound to fail
my problem is, he simply wrote too much
whichever turn of phrase I seek to use
it's hard without resorting to the crutch
of using his -- as if we share a muse
the task is hopeless, no eternal spring
can fill the void that's left by taking out
the words as writ by him, what can I bring
awash in corny phrases and self doubt

and yet the venerable form does tempt
so try I must, and here is one attempt


Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2797370-Write-a-new-sonnet--that-is-neither-on-love

Lady Luck once went on strike
let me tell you what that's like
Satan cancelled many missions
by their very own admissions
lucky devils were no more
there was no one to keep score
all the breaks became unlucky
the big horse race in Kentucky
had no winner on that day
chicken dinners thrown away
why did she come back, you ask?
only one man for the task
Ol' Blue Eyes and his old gang
they all asked him, so he sang
and the gal came back from heaven
there she is -- I roll a seven


Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2797287-Letter-L-in-Rhyme-

the sun emerges from the deep
and gives the sycamore a hug
the ocean feels a heart shaped tug
the sun's rays wake it from its sleep

the morning's glorious, the path
that led me to this seaside cliff
well worn by hikers, winds are stiff
the sycamore has felt their wrath

I stand there basking in the glow
it permeates each blade of grass
the ocean turns into green glass
obscuring all that lies below

the moment's gone, the sycamore
will have to wait another day
I ponder, as I make my way
if I could love it any more


Author notes: wc 101 Image from Pinterest https://allpoetry.com/contest/2797179-Fantasy-1111

a starving artist, raw and rude
(and chronically misunderstood)
refusing money, Hollywood
and might does not make right

is there sillier cliché
can't find it in my attaché
and I've so many, trebuchet
could send them, day and night

have any doubts? go grab some tea
and try to price an NFT
ask Banksy, while he sips Chablis
the price he paid for fame

in truth, Faust always sells his soul
for sex, for drugs, for rock and roll
no, the true artist is no prole
and knows to play the game


Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2797037-poetry-and-money