Fiftynonnets (50/90 sonnet thread)

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The tabula is rasa, my dear friend
Slate blank as the expression that I wear
For every new beginning, I'm aware
Stems from another new beginning's end
A forum with no dedicated thread
To random thoughts in some prescriptive verse
Is like a bird without a song; nay, worse
More like a sunless Earth : better off dead
Though haiku'd be the path of least resist'
And Limerick a matter mere of metre,
I've always found the sonnet so much sweeter,
Its final couplet spicing with a twist
And like the twist, these aimless phrases dance -
Perhaps I should have planned this in advance

I have to admit I stink at sonnets
but the rhythm and cadence are so fun
Sunrise drifts to mid-day phasers on stun
I lose track of the rhymes and passing on
With the ultimate answer forty-two
No one here is driving electric cars
Burning fossils instead of electrons
Dropped sustainability rebels few
Enough bad iambic pentameter
I never claimed to be a beat poet
Slant or bad rhymes oh what does it matter
Maybe science fiction songwriting grows
Leaving this for forum idle chatter
Waiting for a proper @metalfoot sonnet

Too little life is left for such as me
To add to all those bees within our bonnets
By spending too much time on writing sonnets
When what we need is inspiration free.
I've had my fill of writing op'ra grand,
To slave for years to get the music right
And fit librettos complex bite by bite.
So now I'd rather impro with my band.
And ideas rise and sparkle from haiku
That blink and come and go without delay,
Whereas sonnet writing eats my day.
Work such a field? That I will not do

"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day...
The plowman homeward plods his weary way."

It isn’t easy writing like the Bard
To make the words a clockwork that will tick
And for the critics one must be on guard
They’ll always find a little nit to pick
If inspiration is in short supply
To what well can we go to find our water?
At times it’s true my pen ends up so dry
It makes me wonder why I even bother
And yet this helps to polish up the skills
That make one skillful as a lyric writer
To formulate a line that simply kills
Still, when it comes to sonnets I’m a blighter
And so I must confess with boundless shame:
I much prefer to coin a fake band name

There was a time I danced across the night
Giddily I passed through star-strewn hours
‘Til sunrise crept across the fresh-bloomed flowers
And Sleep would finally catch me in the light
I don’t remember being tired at all
Nor do I recall I got much rest
In memory it was a time well-blessed
As magical as Cinderella’s ball
But alas! Those distant days are done
Although I might pretend I’m still the same
The years laugh loud and always win the game:
My energy sinks with the setting sun
And all that I have fire enough to do
Is craft a silly rhyme - or maybe two