The happiest of birthdays to thee, Will!
(As happy as they are that come around
When once the honoree is underground!)
The wormy company has had its fill,
The water in the crypt has washed your bones
And bleached your gravecloth napkin snowy white.
The silver of your buttons, polished bright
Lie scattered in the casket ‘neath the stones.
But like a crowd of guests that will not leave
The half-cleared dining table, talking on
Until the night wears thin before the dawn,
Your readership remains, for we believe
Our dreadful sonnets might just raise your ghost
To raise a glass and join us in a toast.
Originally posted on Making Light, where it spawned a substantial number of sonnets. So I wrote another one praising the people who joined in:
The ghostly Bard reloads the thread again
He knows he should be working on a script
But no one sees he’s surfing in his crypt
And he deserves distraction now and then.
The iPad gets a signal even there
(Will Shakespeare ever was Teh Shiny’s slave
From words to gadgets, even in the grave.)
Then from the crypt, a cry of deep despair.
“I thought she said the sonnets would be bad,
So I could take a break, and have fun haunting
All who defiled my art! I’d hover, daunting
The versifiers! Drive them mute and mad!
But I can’t punish these instead of work.
I wish they’d write some trash so I can shirk!”
In the spirit of this, a few lines that may be familiar.
Capt: A dozen years have pass’d since this took place,
And all that time hath Parliament kept hid
The secret of this world, till River here
Unearth’d it from their minds. They feared she knew.
And right they were to dread, since many more
Among the spinning worlds would know it too.
And someone has to speak for those now dead.
For divers reasons did you join my crew
But all have come together to this place.
I’ve in the past demanded much of you.
Today I ask yet more; perhaps for all.
For this I know, as I know anything:
That they will try again. Another world
Will be the lab for this experiment.
Or maybe they will sweep this landscape clean
And in a year or ten attempt again.
They’ll swing back like the needle to the north
To the belief that they can better men.
And I hold not to that. Here from this grave
I will not run. I aim to misbehave.
– o0o –
Capt: There’s more to flight than buttons, albatross,
More to the pilot’s role than charts and maps.
You know the foremost rule of flying? Aye,
I know you do, since you know what I’ll say
Before I part my lips.
Riv: I do, but yet
I like to hear you say it nonetheless.
Capt: ‘Tis love. Though you know all the math the ‘verse
Contains, if in the sky you take a ship unloved
She’ll shake you off as sure as worlds turn.
Love keeps her in the air when she should fall
And tells you that she hurts before she keens.
It makes her home.
Riv: The storm is getting worse.
Capt: We will endure a while, till it disperse.