Author Archives: W is for Duck

The Poet's Torment

Hello and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

Can you believe that this is the 80th poem to appear on my blog? That seems crazy to me, and both scary and exciting – exciting because thus means that I’m not too far away from starting to prepare volume two of “The Friday Poems”, which will be my second self-published book.

As always, I am forever grateful for the support and encouragement of those of read my blog, or visit me on Facebook, Twitter, and now Instagram. If you have not yet visited my Instagram page, please take a look – amongst other things, you will be able to watch a video of me reading this week’s friday poem, and if you missed it last weeks too. In fact from now I will be recording my Friday poems on video as well as posting them on here.

And so to this week’s Friday Poem; This poem came to life in one of the regular fits of panic I have about trying to think of a poem to write. So far I have had about 80……..This  poem looks at the torture I put myself through, even though I have (so far) always come up with “the goods”.

Here is the poem; I hope you like it.


The Poet’s Torment

Blank pages;

Empty Mind.

Searching for words:

None to find.


Time marches onwards,

The pressure’s increased.

I’ve got to write something –

Is creativity deceased?


A few hurried lines,

But nothing I like.

Doubt fills my heart;

I’m wasting my time.


I can write about anything:

That’s what I say.

I can write about night;

I can write about day.


I can write about love,

Life, choas and death.

Words are my oxygen

Yet I’m struggling for breath.


I’ve got to write something:

That’s the mantra I chant.

But when push comes to shove,

I actually can’t.


I’ve built a reputation

That I’ll always deliver,

But if I fail my fans now,

I’ll not be forgiven.


Because it’s you that I write for,

To try to appease.

So that you’ll say that you love me,

Oh won’t you please say it, please?


Can’t you see that I’m desperate?

Oh god, this is it:

All I’ve done is now crumbling;

It’s all gone to shit.


I can’t breathe – I can’t breathe!

Oh my god, am I dying?

Wait a minute……..ten stanzas;

I wrote this one without trying!


If you like this poem, You might also be interested to know that my book, ‘The Friday Poems – Volume One’ is now available to buy. This book contains all the Friday poems posted on my blog in 2017. You can get it from, wherever you are – in the UK from in paperback by clicking here: , or for Kindle by clicking here:

I welcome your thoughts and feedback on my poems and indeed my blog, so do please get in touch!






Hello, and welcome to my blog.

My apologies for not having posted a regular blog post in a while, but I’ve been a bit busy with other  things – some Poetry commissions, and some things that will hopefully increase awareness of the awesomeness of my blog and poetry. Specifically, I have been working on upping my Instagram game – or “Instagame” as I like to call it.

For those of you who are not aware, W is for Duck now has an Instagram page. On this, each Friday not only will you be able to read my Friday poem, but now you will also be able to see a video of me reading it. Instagram have brought out a feature called “IGTV” which allows videos of up to 60 minutes in length to be watched, as opposed to the standard 1 minute videos. If you have Instagram on your phone or tablet then you will automatically get IGTV in the latest update. Each week, along with the Friday Poem, there will be “Merry Monday” where I post a brief (a few lines) funny verse just to put a smile on your face, and then also “Throwback Thursday”, where I post a poem from my book ‘The Friday Poems Volume One’. Last Thursday we started off with my poem “Brian the Vomiting Shepherd” – if you don’t know what that is, go check it out!

But enough of that, let’s get on with this blog post.

I went back to Swimming lessons this week, after a two-week break. In the two weeks since my last lesson, I have not been anywhere near the water, so was expecting this to be a tough return to learning.

And I was right.

My teacher this week was Maria, who I am honoured to say I a reader of my blog (hello Maria), as she very kindly slipped a couple of references to my blog into our conversation half way through my lesson when I was getting my breath back and trying not to die.

Maria worked me quite hard this week – well I think she did; she may well have been taking it easy with me. If that is the case, I don’t want to see it when she does work me hard – dear lord, she might kill me! I swam more lengths this week, than ever before – and although this was only 4 or 5, it was hard work. Of course, I wasn’t helping myself by trying to rush my stroke, so that I could finish the length and stop swimming. This is still linked to my anxiety in the water. Maria noticed this and said to me “Relax Larry, you are supposed to be enjoying this!”

Which isn’t the first time a lady has said that to me.

But Maria was right – I should be much calmer in the water. If I relax then I can control my breathing better, which means I will be able to get enough air in because I won’t be snatching breaths, and therefore will not be struggling for air as much, which in turn will make swimming more enjoyable.

To help with this, I did some lengths where I swam normally for a bit, and then when I needed to breathe I flipped over onto my back and took a breath in, before flipping back over and continuing.

By the end of my lesson I was knackered, and as I type this now I still feel the aches in my arms and core. But it was a great lesson and I continue to make improvements. I am getting more confident in the water – when I reached the 3 metre deep end and looked down to see the floor of the pool drop away, I wasn’t as terrified as in previous week.

This was my last lesson for the time being – but I know that I need to find the funds to continue my lessons in the Autumn. Having worked so hard, and having come so far it would be a shame to stop now.

I will strive to find my water to water over the summer, and work on the breathing exercises that Maria gave me, so that when I come back in the Autumn I can continue my improvement!



Hello, and welcome to this week’s very special Friday Poem!

This poem is based on real events that happened to me last weekend. Despite the events about to be depicted, I had a good weekend – got quite a lot done, caught up with some family members, and watched England progress to the Semi-Final of the World Cup – for the first time since 1990.

But in amongst all that – the following happened.

Here is the poem, I hope you like it.

The Halted Hedge Trimming Headache

Gardening: it’s not  my favourite.

It doesn’t fill me with pride.

If truth be told I would rather get needles,

And vigorously poke out both eyes.

So naturally, our back garden’s a monster;

Full of plants – which means the weeding I dread.

The front garden is smaller, I’m happy to say

But it does have a whacking great hedge.

It’s as if the gods looked down upon me,

And collectively thought, for a laugh

It would be funny to give a bloke who hates gardening,

A hedge that’s as big as Hyde park.

So my attempts to avoid the garden have been thwarted,

At each turn it’s just thwart! thwart! thwart! thwart!

So eventually I decided that I should give it a go,

Being nothing if not a good sport.

And you know what, it actually wasn’t that bad –

Manual labour, and just a few cuts and nicks.

Though the brambles that invaded our greenhouse

Are a nasty bunch of blood sucking pricks.

Then one day, I could no longer postpone it;

The hedge – something needed to be done.

It was so wide it almost filled half the garden,

And so tall it often blocked out the sun.

We had purchased a brand new hedge trimmer,

Which in adverts trimmed hedges so neat.

It reminded me of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre

So I practiced wielding it wildly down the street.

Now, before you go searching the internet for

“Hedge Trimmer Psycho Leaves Dozens With Scars”

No-one got hurt when I tested it out –

Because the power cable doesn’t reach that far.

And then, I was ready for action:

With grim determination, I rolled up my sleeves.

Switched on, and the blade started whirring;

I was time to start trimming some leaves.

And as it turns out, I’m a bit of a natural:

Like a Samurai, the blade flashed through the air.

Thoughts of money-making schemes enterd my mind –

I’d be a hedge trimming billionaire!

I could cut people’s toe-nails from afar;

Give long distance hair-cuts to a few.

From four feet away I could trim underarms,

And tidy up pubic hair too.

While I thought, I trimmed like a hot knife through butter,

As the huge hedge started to be tamed.

I was a legend within my own postcode –

Surely this would lead to riches and fame?

I went on – wielding the trimmer like a Jedi;

I was knee-deep in hedge leaves and twigs.

I thought about offer my services to Donald Trump,

To sort out that god awful wig.

Half the hedge done, it was a beauty:

Looking wonderfully neatened and shorn.

I stepped back to admire my handiwork,

And just a little, gave myself the horn.

But this was no time for topiary arousal;

A trimmed hedge was the ultimate prize.

Besides if I didn’t watch what I was doing,

I could well end up self circumcised!

I dusted the foliage off my clothing,

And tried to picture in my head Theresa May.

Once my ardour had withered I continued –

There was more hedge to keep at bay.

Three quarters done – and I was motoring.

This hedge was ripe for the chop.

Supremely confident, I saw that the end was in sight –

And then suddenly everything stopped.

The hedge trimmer was dead; it was lifeless,

It just lay there limp in my hand.

And like any bloke in this situation,

This certainly wasn’t what I had planned.

I checked the plug, and the plug sockets

On the extension lead, and the one in our home.

Then my eyes followed the cable down to the ground

And I let out a low, anguished groan.

The hedge trimmer’s cable lay there severed;

In my exuberance, I had trimmed it in half.

The great hedge loomed over me unfinished,

And high above I’m sure I heard someone laugh.

And that is how things stand at the moment;

I’m not sure if the trimmer can be repaired.

The great hedge still waits for me in the garden,

Looking now like it’s got Kim Jong Un’s hair!


If you like my poems, then you will be pleased to know that you can enjoy them in a new way. Starting this week, and every week now on you will not only be able to read the Friday poem here on my blog, but you will also be able to watch a video of me reading this poem on Instagram!

To do so, simply search for “W is for Duck” on Instagram. Once found you will see a post with a teaser stanza of this poem and a link to watch it on IGTV – Instagram’s version of YouTube. There is no cost to you – if you have Instagram you can access IGTV free of charge. So why not read this week’s poem, then head over to Instagram to see me reading it, it will be a enjoyable, but different experience. And of course, feel free to comment!

You might also be interested to know that my book, ‘The Friday Poems – Volume One’ is now available to buy. This book contains all the Friday poems posted on my blog in 2017. You can get it from, wherever you are – in the UK from in paperback by clicking here: , or for Kindle by clicking here:

I welcome your thoughts and feedback on my poems and indeed my blog, so do please get in touch!


Hello, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

This week sees the National Health Service (NHS) reach its 70th Year. On 5th July 1948, the NHS was formed, and for the past 70 years has transformed healthcare in the United Kingdom. Here in the UK there has been, and will continue to be a huge amount of media coverage about the NHS. In fact, the NHS rarely seems to be out of the news these days. And I’m sure that those of my followers who live outside of the United Kingdom, would have some knowledge of the NHS – even if. it is just recognising those three letters.

If anyone is unaware of what the NHS is about, you can find out a bit by clicking HERE.

I actually work for the NHS – albeit in a non-medical role (they wouldn’t let me do brain surgery). I actually distribute those lovely hospital gowns that you get to wear when you go into the hospital, the ones that always show your backside off. The reason for this design fault is all down to a misunderstanding at the sole company that makes these gowns. Apparently, at a board meeting during the  finance director’s sales forecast report, he commented that “the bottom’s gone out of surgical gowns”, and the director of design and manufacturing took him at his word.

That’s a joke of course. I do work for the NHS but in an administrative / support role. My Poetry writing is well-known throughout the organisation I work for, and I often compose a little verse or two and put it up in the kitchen at work for colleagues to read. So I was pleasantly surprised when I was asked to write a poem for my organisation: a poem about the NHS being 70 years old, and this is the Poem that I have made my Friday Poem this week.

The Poem you are about to read is the FULL version. I was asked to remove or amend some parts of this poem for my organisation, as it was felt that some bits were too “dark” or may be “too close to home” for some people. I don’t have a problem with that, but on my own blog page I want to share the full poem as it was originally written by me. It is not my intention to offend or to upset anyone.

There were many ways in which I could have written a poem about the NHS and what it has achieved  in the past 70 years. But there was only one “theme” that felt right to me. It has become very apparent to me, that (in my individual opinion) there is far too much politics going on in the NHS at both National and local level which gets in the way of things, and that while the NHS is not perfect, what cannot be forgotten, and must not be forgotten is that for 70 years the NHS has opened its doors to everyone – without judgement, or prejudice, and has simply tried to help a never-ending stream of humanity, irrespective of who they are or how they came to be there.

And that is what my poem is about.

I hope you like it.

The NHS at 70


Seventy years ago, a simple ideal

Was brought to life, and was made real.

One place for care: care that was free

For every member of society.

And in the years since has not our nation

Enjoyed a healthcare transformation?

It’s not been easy – of that you are assured;

The doors were opened, and in we poured.


We come, relentless – like a flood

With broken limbs, or poisoned blood.

With injuries to body and mind –

Some cannot speak, some have gone blind.

The obvious injuries with blood and pain,

And the mental wounds that affect the brain.

We are people impaled upon a garden fence,

Or another failed suicide attempt.



We are self-harmers, or drug addicted;

We bear the wounds drink-drivers inflicted.

We bring you death, and bring new life.

We bring a husband, or a wife.

A son, a niece – a nephew too.

A brother, mother, me – or you.

Sisters, aunties, grandparents – all.

Those who jumped, and those who fall.



Those – who by chance – have injuries,

And those with wounds caused by stupidity.

We come to you with broken hips,

With septic piercings in our lips.

From birth, childcare and maternity

To when death takes an eternity.

You take it all without a word:

From the obscure to the absurd.



When we choke upon a piece of bread,

Or wedge a saucepan on our head.

When our botched attempts at DIY

Result in lost fingers, hands, or eyes.

With no responsibility for what we do,

We assume that we’ll be fixed by you.

The results of societies failures are we –

Plus, the best of our humanity.


When this life takes a downward trend,

We look to you, to help us mend.

Diseases we caught unawares,

Despite the fact we did not care

To listen to your good advice,

And had this same infection – twice.

When fire rages through our flats,

Or we get burnt by boiling fat.



Blood transfusions, or crush wounds:

Injuries caused by wooden spoons.

Panes of glass that we fall through,

Kidney transplants – Liver too.

Cancer treatment and chemotherapy;

Dementia that ruins lives so cruelly,

Organ failure, broken bones 

Injuries caused by the telephone.



Allergies to wheat or nuts ,

Self-inflicted multiple cuts. 

No matter what life puts us through,

We always have one constant – you. 

You are – and always have been – there 

Not one to judge; just help and care 

With patience, kindness and sincerity 

For all our glorious disparity. 



For reward or plaudits you do not ask, 

Just quietly get on with your task 

And though ingratitude and threats 

You continue to always do your best. 

As a nation we do take you for granted 

Yet hope you will not be supplanted. 

Through the joy, and pain, and hurt and tears 

You’ve been with us for Seventy Years.



And in those years have there not been 

Such advancements in care and medicine? 

But what is the same as way back then, 

Is the fact that it is ordinary women and men 

Who are the NHS at its heart 

(although the buildings play a part).

It’s everyday folk, just like you and me 

Who have borne this burden wonderfully.

No capes are worn: no pants outside,

But these superheroes give our nation pride.

Through lack of funding and winter pressures 

The effort and love come in equal measure. 

And no amount of words can really express 

Just how grateful we are for our NHS.


Thank you to all the wonderful NHS staff who have done such an amazing job for the past 70 years, and continue to do so.


If you like this poem, you might be interested to know that my book, ‘The Friday Poems – Volume One’ is now available to buy. This book contains all the Friday poems posted on my blog in 2017. You can get it from, wherever you are – or if in the UK from in paperback by clicking here: , or for Kindle by clicking here:










Hello, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem!

This week’s poem is inspired by my favourite hot drink: coffee. It’s my first drink of the day, and quite often the only thing I drink all throughout the day. As my poem will tell you, I’m not precious about my coffee – maybe that’s a bad thing (I know that coffee ‘elitists’ are out there – and if you are one of these, please don’t judge me), but I do like my coffee, and that is that.

The idea to write this poem came about after a conversation with the proprietor of a very lovely cafe close to where I work. The delightful Viola (Hi Viola) is always friendly and welcoming, and although her premises are small, she does well with the space she has – offering not only good coffee but also delicious food too. You can find out more about this little gem by visiting their Facebook page:

I would certainly recommend a visit.

But now, I’m not Trip Advisor – I’m a blogger and a poet, and you came here to read this week’s Friday poem. So without further ado, why not pour yourself a cup of coffee and take a look.

I hope you like it.


Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee:
Black or white, strong or frothy
In the morning when I get up,
Give me coffee in my cup.

I don’t have any “get up and go”
Until I’ve had my cup of ‘Joe’
A caffeine fix is what I need,
To get me fully up to speed.

Keep coffee simple, just like me
Not ruined with complexity.
I’m never sold on coffee Frappe
A concept that to me sounds crappe.

I’ve had latte, with an extra shot;
Espresso – strong, just not a lot
Sampled a cortado long ago,
And had a lungo – don’t you know.

Cappuccino – nine-tenths froth
Coffee with whisky (made me cough).
Americano – not my type:
I’m happier with the old flat white.

I really like my coffee – but
In truth I’m just a caffeine slut
Who gets it any way I’m able,
Like stealing it from the disabled.

Friends say that I drink way too much,
Each day on average fourteen cups.
I can’t believe the fuss they’re making,
(Why is it that I can’t stop shaking?)

I’ve taken coffee in some fancy places,
Where it is drunk with airs and graces.
Your coffee comes in a china cup
And at £11.70 they stitch you up.

I’ve also frequented those known franchises
That serve you coffee in three different sizes.
The ones where staff are called “Baristas”
And some have scalded hands with blisters.

Recently coffee’s become refined,
For those more selective – if so inclined.
You can even get to choose the blend
If that is what matters to you my friend.

From Guatemala? Or Ecuador?
Or a bean you’ve never tried before?
The latest coffee trend I hear
Is a bean that crushed by pygmy’s rears

In little huts so small and sparse
Pygmies crush coffee beans with their arse,
Before shaking them off into a sack
(Remembering any stragglers in their crack)

Before this however, the beans are roasted
(The pygmies buttocks must get toasted!)
But it’s this that helps make the flavour pure;
Hot beans squashed by arseholes on the floor.

Back home in London, the cafes are packed
With rich folk drinking ‘pygmy’s crack’
For that is the name of this fine blend
Inspired by a pygmy’s tempered end.

Each to their own, that’s what they say,
I think I’ll stick to Nescafé.
Other coffee brands are available
I’ll drink whatever I am able.

Granular, powdered, refined or not;
I’ll drink it just as long as it’s hot.
The smoky depths of good coffee
Is simply just my cup of tea!

If you like this poem, you might be interested to know that my book, ‘The Friday Poems – Volume One’ is now available to buy. This book contains all the Friday poems posted on my blog in 2017. You can get it from, wherever you are – or if in the UK from in paperback by clicking here: , or for Kindle by clicking here:


Hello, and welcome to my blog.

The irony continues.

And by that, I mean that I continue to make progress (tiny, incremental progress), even though in a few weeks my swimming lessons will stop because I have cancelled them.

This week, we revisited breathing. Aah, breathing – such a tiny thing, yet so vital to the whole “living” malarkey. My fellow pupil and I are in the same boat (not literally – that would be a bit cheeky in a swimming lesson) when it comes to breathing whilst swimming in that we struggle with getting enough breath in, often take in water, and end up panicking / floundering / forgetting any technique we might have learned.

I suppose I had somewhat of an advantage over my fellow learner in that I had already been “taught” about breathing. The simple fact that I had failed to take in anything taught to me is beside the point, but as Kate our teacher explained to us about breathing techniques, I did feel kind of smug that I already knew this.

Luckily, there was no one around to point out that in spite of already knowing this stuff, I still couldn’t do it.

But then I had an epiphany. No, not an epiphany because that is a divine manifestation, and Jesus did not appear to me in speedos and a rubber ring (if he did appear in a swimming pool, I’m fairly sure that he wouldn’t be concerned about his buoyancy). What I did have, is a moment when something ‘clicked’. And for once it wasn’t my lower back. Kate was talking about how we should not raise our head out of the water when we breathe in, but should just turn our head to the side and breathe in. I had tried this previously, but always got a mouthful of water rather than air. Well, this week Kate told us that as we move through the water, the motion of our arms entering the water on each stroke makes the water part and go either side of us. Not Moses style, but enough to create a small pocket of air on our shoulders – a pocket that we can breathe in, in when we turn our heads. Now, there’s a bit more to it than that, but when I tried it out – it worked! Like I said, it wasn’t perfect, but I was able to take a breath and continue swimming, and Kate said my stroke looked much smoother. So it’s that little pocket of air on my shoulder that just might

I also swam a total of four lengths this lesson – again, not all at once, and my technique went very ragged for some of it, but I’m starting to see the rewards of my efforts.

To end with, I’d just like to prompt those of you who aren’t regular visitors to my blog to visit the “Poems” page of this blog via the menu, and take a look at last week’s Friday Poem, “Otis Rem”. This was a poem inspired by the inside of a lift (elevator). I know that doesn’t sound too exciting, but just go with it..

If you are a first time visitor to my blog, I hope you will have a look around, and perhaps pop back to see me again.

Until next time…..

Hello, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

This week’s offering is one that I have been sitting on for a little while. As with all my poems, I took inspiration for it from everyday life. On this occasion, I found inspiration at work – from inside a lift (elevator to our friends across the pond).

Our lifts at work are manufactured by the Elevator company OTIS and are monitored remotely. So on the control panel inside the lift there are the words “OTIS REM” with REM being an acronym for ‘Remote Elevator Monitoring’. Im not sure why, but Otis Rem sounds like a name, and that idea nestled into the fertile soil of my imagination and steadily started to germinate.

After many weeks, I managed to cultivate this idea and the following poem is what I have come up with. I have taken the liberty of contacting the OTIS Elevator Company (Hi Jodi – thanks for reply to my email), to tell them about my poem, and to thank them for providing me with my inspiration for it.

DISCLAIMER – This poem is not Elevator / lift related, and bears no resemblance to the fine people at the OTIS Elevator Company. I would not dream of insulting them, as to do so would be wrong on many different levels.

So, without further ado here is this week’s poem.

I hope you like it.


Here is the story of Otis Rem;

Orphaned and homeless by the age of 10.

Under life’s hard boot he spent his time

Unavoidably drawn to a life of crime.

The sprig of youth came hard and bare

Like a bramble that will cut and tear.

In the shadows of life young Otis lived

Stealing what he could – because none would give.

His nimble fingers, pockets found

And lifted contents without sound.

A master pickpocket by age fourteen,

Always silent, never seen.

But growth will often stealth prevent,

So Otis turned to violence.

Brutality soon became his m.o.:

A broken jaw; a severed toe.

He cared not who he terrorised,

He focussed purely on the prize.

His reputation soon did spread,

And the streets were filled with fear and dread.

Folk quickly learned not to venture out,

When word said Otis was about.

To do so was to forfeit life

At the hands of Otis and his knife.

From legend into myth did Otis turn

Soon half the city had all learned

To fear a shadow that would loom

Out of thin air – and herald doom.

Some said Otis grew horns and hooves

And rampaged nightly ‘cross the roofs

Wreaking terror ‘ere he went

On death and destruction now hellbent.

Otis was starting to enjoy this game;

His gruesome antics had brought him fame.

So he decided to leave a calling card:

And on each victim his initials he carved.
The police were helpless – what could they do?

Being regular folk like me and you.

At last a garrison was sought;

Their task – kill Otis, or get him caught.

To soothe the citizens so troubled,

Patrols began – and soon were doubled.

But a message in blood told he’d struck again:

“You’ll not stop me”- signed, Otis Rem.
A reward was offered, and hundreds swarmed

A dozen vigilante groups were formed

All with the same purpose: search the town

Find Otis Rem – and take him down.

But evidence of his work was still found;

Each monogrammed corpse upon the ground

Bore a final insult as they were laid to rest:

The initials “O.R” carved into their chest.

Suspicion like a cancer grew,

Who was this monster – Me? You?

No-one was beyond being interrogated

The mob wanted justice – and would not be abated.

And then one night Otis Rem was caught;

Interrupted in mid-sport.

He fled; and was pursued for hours

Before being cornered in the wooden bell tower.

There would be no trial that fateful night;

The townsfolk simply set the tower alight.

No call for a magistrate – there was no need;

The timbers spread the flames at speed.

Justice would be done that night

Violent yes – but just, and right.

The whole town had now turned out to see

Otis Rem meet his destiny.
The people retreated but fixed their eyes

On Otis Rem’s fiery demise.

And as he burned, the bell he rung,

Laughing as to the rope he clung.

The bell tower now was a fiery scene:

Otis’s laugh was almost a scream,

He swung from the bell, with wild open eyes

As the flames licked at him from all sides.

The burning flames roared as loud as thunder

As finally the bell tower collapsed asunder.

And with a great and deafening crash

Was reduced to rubble, smoke and ash.

After the smoke had finally cleared,

The people of the town all re-appeared.

To search the ruins for the remains

And an end Otis’s evil campaign.

They searched for hours, they searched for days,

Picked through each fragment of the blaze,

Scoured minutely the black and charred ground –

But Otis Rem could not be found.

It was quickly announced he had not survived:

No-one in that fire could still be alive.

But slowly, rumours whispered doubts

Of Otis Rem’s true whereabouts.

It’s true he was never seen again,

But myth and legend still remain.

In the absence of any evidence factual

Belief starts in the supernatural.

So lock your doors and windows tight,

Keep all your loved ones close tonight.

Take all precautions as you see best,

Or find ‘O.R’ carved into your chest…..

If you like this poem, you might be interested to know that my book, ‘The Friday Poems – Volume One’ is now available to buy. This book contains all the Frida poems posted on my blog in 2017. You can get it from, wherever you are – or if in the UK from in paperback by clicking here: , or for Kindle by clicking here: