On Mars Day
Martians celebrate
global warming because,
according to the brochures,
it’s so freaking cold.

Mars Day celebrations
do not take place
in picturesque parks under
shade trees because
the only green on Mars
are Martians.

On Mars Day
Martians dream of
an industrial revolution because
polluted air and dirty ice
are a small price to pay
for a little heat
and a car.

Her brief life,
Green
Depending upon
The trees.

Changing through the weeks

From a caterpillar
Consuming leaves
To preserve
The rest of her life
To a moon moth,
Never developing
Her proboscis

From a caterpillar’s many weeks
To the one she mates.

From a male moth, flying excitedly,
Following her scent
From the female moon moth,
The eggs are ready to relieve her life.

In a Luna Moth’s life span,
There is no need
To metamorphose into
A butterfly.

The wonderful sight
Of learners budding
Smell the excitement
Of colorful life
Soft hands rising
In the air
Tasting the happiness
Of knowledge
blossoming everywhere
Hearing the delightful
Laughter with sounds
that yearn
And children chanting
“LET’S LEARN”
The weather was sunny
And birds were singing
without cittern
Sniffing the florets mingling
With shining butterflies
Blooming everywhere
People walking all over
The echo of voices
Full of eagerness and noises
sipping the amazing
Side of wisdom
glowing everywhere
It is springtime again
The birdies chattering
Kids playing
Freshly mowed
Grass, lilacs flourishing
Preparing for graduation

The wind gently blows across the field whistling him his
favorite songs
And the sun covers him, providing a feeling he hadn’t
felt since his childhood
It is the feeling he used to imagine, a mother tucking him
in goodnight
But he is strong and never needed anyone, let alone a mother

As he stayed motionless, transfixed, the birds began to tell
him stories
The kind that another imaginary woman would read to her
children
And he begins to drift

Time moves by slowly, and the night begins to fall on the
sky like a curtain
And the show is about to begin
He looks up to the stars and tonight there are no clouds
It is beautiful and breathtaking, the way a woman is to a
man in love
It is the feeling that would make fairy tale characters be
jealous of
Right above the little dipper he sees an angel and he is
taken away
He wants to die so badly, to leave this world and forget the
pain
But his time has not yet come
He closes his eyes and thinks, even if this feeling would
only last a minute, it would be the one thing to chase after
for eternity, and this must be heaven

seeing another spring is
a grand invitation to
a party, an annual gala,

you didn’t imagine this
year, you’d make the cut!

the guests are more charming
than you dare remember, the
conversation more intoxicating
than the last dark passage
allowed you to recall

dogwood bobs at forsythia,
jonquils nod to daffodils,
tulips captivate forget-me-nots,
patches of grass and mud court
sun’s audacious massage

spiders sprint across burgeoning
crocus, baby bees dance
with honeysuckle blossoms
buds of linden trees greet robins
who are winging home

you call to a neighbor, acknowledging
with a casual wave, that you are
looking for last year’s rake, inspecting
the sticks, cigarette butts, papers, string stuck in your bushes,
in fact, you are lightheaded, dazzled, dizzy
to be holding your invitation
in your joyful hand

Irene Simon Sipos

Sprouting dandelions fill the landscape
Weeds of greed they encroach
Sowing their seed they encompass
every inch of open land
Taller and taller they get
with every passing moment
Transforming every surface
into a mirage
Holding captive in their wake
the planet by and large
the evidence is apparent
of a lack of control
Do we need a revolution
to save our souls?

They burnish her forested landscape
with legions of lesions, deepening
blottings on the wound-clotting skin
of her gardens, hollowing out for another
sub-suburban “Deer Haven”
after erasing
the deers’ haven,
as houses in villages, cities
lie fallow.

After the last of many
trees has been sliced,
after the last of the
trunks has been
rooted out,

After the lesions have grown
to amputations of Earth Mother’s
flesh, hauled away
with the last
of the prairie grass,
and what is left
purified into
the deep gangrene of
lawn civility.

After this prelude to
biped paradise,
How long, O Mother Earth,
will you wait
to perform
on these fine surgeons
the same identical
operation?

Charles Bachman
bachmacr@buffaloste.edu

Beneath flat rocks the crayfish hid; Dad showed
us how to grab their waists, evade their pinch
at Chestnut Ridge. We’d gather apples there
in fall, and strawberries in spring, sweet small

red things. Mom watched us as we looked for shells
along the shore where small boats harbored cheap.
Our hands in theirs, we saw the Falls’ great spray
Writhe heavenward, like purgatory’s souls.

In Cazenovia Park, we buried birds
whose feathered death we cupped with anxious hands.
Mom’s old red rose climbed up the wooden path
that Dad kept painted white, forever new.

Grass blankets them where Stanislaus stands guard;
I meet them in the stream, the shore, the wings.

“I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way
they have to live than other things.” –Willa Cather

I watched as long as I could
then asked, “Trimming or coming down?”
And the brisk efficient lady replied
“Down, they’re not historical, you know.”

“Just trees,” I shouted, “I’d rather
see someone cut down our county executive
and our foolish county legislators
than lose this much more valuable

member of my neighborhood.”
The brisk lady hurried into the
Darwin Martin office casting a
nervous glance over her twitching shoulder.

When spring comes around
Colorful flowers fill the ground
When summer follows by
Seagulls sing all over the sky
When autumn comes near
Leaves scatter here and there
Not a long time from snow
Here comes cold winter
With the birds resting
In their warm nests.