Summers at the Lake: A teenage requirement. I seldom partook.

Ghost in the machine, Patterns from the soulless beast, Speaking unto us.

Is the really art? My muse cannot tell for sure; All the same to her.

Piltdown Man, a hoax? Don't buy it. He is alive In our midst today. Piltdown Man arrives In a black stretch limousine And grey flannel suit Piltdown Man survives (Anthropologists agree), Thwarts those who say "nay." Piltdown buys and sells…

Yesterday, today, Tomorrow, all illusions: Fractured bits of NOW.

Nothing matters more Than nothing, all adrift in A vast, endless void. A little ditty for the dark matter enthusiasts among you . . .

Time is relative. So, also, is space, says Al. Spacetime, your cousin. (Yep, you caught me--I said "time/space." It will be fixed.)

Instrumental

In fire or ice? How will the universe end? It ain't over yet!

This is not a haiku, Though at first you may think it is. The poet enjoys your confusion.

RPM Challenge: Twenty eight (nine) days to record Your next masterpiece!

Instrumental

A handmade go cart, Childhood prideful possession. No one to push me.

My groping hand shoved Away once more from delight-- Supple joys denied.

Sunlight streaming down, Gentle breeze disturbs new leaves, Spring's awakenings.

Roasting on one side, Freezing on the other side: The joy of campfires.

Derps march past my room; Ev'ry night they haunt my dreams, Dim fears seeming true.

Not much to say about this one, just a song.