In Which I Relish The Stories From Far Barsoom

I can't get over how much pulpy fun
Is to be had in these groovy old tales
Of far Barsoom. I'm glad I'm not yet done
With all eleven books. Amazing fails
As a descriptive term. While all cliches
Of pulp at its most base appear herein:
The manly men 'pon whom the damsels gaze
In helpless admiration as they win
Each battle, by their arms or wits and beat
All odds; the ugly, evil foes who lose
Each time... Simplicity deceives. Too neat
A story seems, but look again and choose
To see beyond the pulp into the wise
And wry comments on people and their lies.

In Which A Tardigrade Is Not So Tardy

We learn today of a panarthopod
Who will stray far indeed from its home moss
When Russia sends it spacewards with a squad
Of other creatures, all the way across
To one of the twin moons of far Barsoom.
I will confess that ere this Sunday came
I'd never heard of tardigrades. I fume
A bit to learn that one could claim
To be the first on Phobos. I confess:
I'm on the fence about this. On one hand
A test to see how life forms stand this stress
Is vital to our long-term future, planned
To outlive our wee sun. Still, though, I doubt
A water bear ambassador has clout.