Wake with me as the sun sets across the tree lined peaks.
Close your eyes when your lids grow weary.
Fall asleep in our tent, as the sun rises through the night.
Our fire burned bright, as we talked about finding love, losing life, and weeks gone by.
Savor every moment in these mountains, because soon enough this world will pass is by.

nauseous...
I hear a voice screaming,
open the tent...
and there is my best friend screaming...
"help help," she says,
but I could not care less,
for she was being held by a,
big harmless,
shadow...
maybe it was furry,
had claws sharp open,
but for that night,
my tent stayed open...

I wake up the next morning,
for there she is,
not dead,
cooking us,
marshmallows instead...

a wand of disappearances
operate in our very
midst
who is the conductor
of its vanishing
gist?

where once our fellow
poets did pleasantly
reside
now the wicked wand
has eradicated their
bide

numerous blank spaces
symbolize the conductor's
vice
employing a wand which
has emptied the
rice

black the hour
black the day
a black instrument
whisking them all too
suddenly away
a wand so dark
of intent
wanting to wane
our writers tent

the subtracting conductor
will be planning future
disappearances
so be mindful of its
wand's unsolicited
clearances

Here's a silly little tale,
I hope  a giggle does not fail,
I was cooking Bok Choy in a tent,
On a primus stove, up she went,
You can guess what that meant,
Dinner was a non-event,
Now known as "The Bok Choy Incident!"