We Are The Martians: A grossly inadequate attempt to honor a genius.

He is gone
but golden skinned Martians and space men live on.
In some old dusty cellar, there is at least one
bottle of dandelion wine, still warm from the sun.
Though his pen has stopped moving, on clear nights I hear
an invisible carnival, whose bells sting my ear.Where has he gone?
To Venus? Where the roar of the rain deafens the dawn?
Or is he flying a rocket to meet Mister Poe
Collecting stardust in his spacesuit wherever he goes?

I think he is on Mars.

Where else would he go?
He sits beneath a crystal tower
telling a new story every hour.
The Martians record his tales on fine silver sheets
To throb out of the sky
like the stars own heartbeats.Wherever he is, and whatever he’s doing
you can be sure it’s magnificent
because everywhere he is going
he will surely go dressed
in the Wonderful Ice Cream Suit
which glows softly
like a pale Venusian fruit.

The Brilliant Mister Bradbury has left us, but he is not gone.
The universe will forever echo his song.

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One thought on “We Are The Martians: A grossly inadequate attempt to honor a genius.

  1. Pingback: The Best Book On Writing That You Will Ever Read | redinkling

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