A frog is granted an audience with Zeus.

Zeus: Oh, it’s you again

Frog: Not me, your magnificence, that was my great grandfather.

Zeus: (thinks) They all look alike
And yet, here you are.

Frog: Here I am

Zeus: And the reason for this. . . interruption?

Frog: It’s about our King

Zeus: Your king, what about him, has he been behaving badly?

Frog: No, your wondrousness.

Zeus: So, you’re here to say he’s doing well?

Frog: Not exactly, your malign bigness.

Zeus: Not exactly, I hear the echo of a complaint on your lips.

Frog: He’s neither good, nor bad. In fact, he does very little. Sits at the edge of the pool contemplating nothing in particular, sinking slowly into the mud while we manage his realm.

Zeus: And yet you still complain. I can recall what your great grandfather asked of me. Send us a king worthy of the frog pool. A king who is firm, stout, never raises his voice and is slow to anger. A king of robust personality, fair of mind and sound judgement.

Frog: Yes, yes, your God Head, he is all those things, but…

Zeus: But?

Frog: He may as well not be there for all the good he does. We need a king that commands respect, never falters, inspires courage and strikes fear into our enemies. He needs to be exacting, clever and ruthless.

Zeus: Ruthless you say, are you sure about that?
Very well, I have heard your plea, though it doth anger me that you have spurned my benevolent gift of stewardship. Release the king to the centre of the pool and there, let him sink without trace. Before the next moon you shall have a new king.

Just before the dawn, at the turn of the new moon a beautiful Heron picked its way through the reed beds looking for the frog pool. It stood at the water’s edge looking at the multitude of frogs clamouring to get a better view of their new king.
He was very hungry.

He just wasn’t ready to step out of the door
He wasn’t ready to work in the light
He wasn’t ready to acknowledge his team
Though they had been knocking a lifetime
He wasn’t ready to bury his ego and embrace the chaos.

The blank page screams at him
The art that won’t come
The art that is fickle, teasing
And just out of reach

And what emerges from this struggle?
It is his ego splattered across the canvas
No spirit
No depth
No love for his art
Just compromise.

The old man stirred on his death bed
Looked back through time
Onto another road that he never travelled
And, summoning all the art that he would take to the grave
Breathed out.

We know the type
those soft worlds at the edge of sleep
those fully rendered scenes
that you're allowed to keep

Upon waking
I log each one
carefully recorded
so they transcend the idea
and become real

What a dream I had
hunkered down in Paris
dodging Russian bullets
stomach empty
eyes watered from the smoke
fingers too numb to grip.

The snow outside is corrupted
of mud, blood and bone
the proud tanks roll through
without pausing
without sympathy
without drivers.

It is for our salvation
the army came that day
we could no longer be trusted
to govern ourselves.

In 2009 I caught my breath
And held it in my hand
Carried over to the New Year
And released it on the other side
But the breath had gone
Dissolved like a waking memory

In 2013 I held my breath and
Gathered it up
I carried it over to the New Year
To release it on the other side
But the breath of life had gone
Dissolved by the heat of my hand

In 2017 I held my breath
And stifled the ache
The ache of time wasted
Cradled from year to year
Released without care on the other side
But the breath of life had gone
This I had to accept.

In 2020 I held my breath
behind my mask
I dare not carry it over
we have seen too much death.

In 2025 I held my breath
who knows when it is safe
to breathe out

Collecting is an illness
We can all recover from
Things thought unique
Are devalued en masse

The Endless quests for
Meaningless variations
The infinite minutiae
That no-one finds interesting
But it’s never enough. . . is it?

It starts off innocent enough
Two items nearly similar
Then two to complete a set
Ten more to complete the series

And there’s always the ****** awkward piece
The ‘sort-after’
The 'must-have'
That’s so ******* expensive
But you've got to have it
That’s collecting for you.
‘It’ll be worth something someday’
Yeah, not in my lifetime
Somebody else’s maybe

Collecting is an illness
It makes us secretive
It makes us sneaky
It makes us blind
It makes us greedy
It makes us needy
It makes us poor

I am a collector
And I’m on the road
To recovery

Us we Trolls
Who never met
Who never met?
Thus we Troll

Us we Trolls
Who never loved
Who never loved?
Thus we Troll

Us we Trolls
Did all but hide
and all but shied
From us we Trolls

Us we Trolls
Did nought but lie
Nought but lie
Thus we Troll