Gentleman, gentle man,

Lived up the road,

It’s time now, it’s plain

For his tale to be told

Of sowing and growing,

Around rocks big and small,

His hands often bearing

Earthy pleasures of Fall

Tall man, striking man

Handsome Bob was his name

He lived on the land

Making no claim to fame

Chinchilla he raised

Fur soft and shining

No fortune was made

Tho’ for no lack of trying

Kind man, caring man,

Always approachable,

Such even disposition,

And so very affable

Tractors and plows,

And homemade skidoos,

What the heck’s he on now?

As four-wheelers flew

Helpful man, obliging man

Snow remover, worry soother

Comfort on an installment plan

Delivered to friend and neighbor

School Bus and Jeep,

Shelburne Road staples

On roads sheer and steep

Safe children disciple

History man, story man

Revelled in the bygone

When acting as historian

Sometimes it seemed an aeon

Raccoons and geese,

Dogs, ducks and cats,

Pork chops were free,

Bob’s plate’s where it’s at

Coffee man, cookie man

At Josie’s he would drop in

More often than the mailman

Where many a tale he’d spin

ATVs and lawn mowers,

Whipper Snippers’ and saws

Hanging out at Gates’ Power

Where one and all could jaw

Modest man, humble man

No braggart was he,

Nor considered vulgarian

What he offered was free

And once those days came

When health was a chore

His spirit the same

He helped all the more

Gentleman, gentle man

His days are now past

Yet memories live on:

The definition of class

copyright r.b.franklin October, 2012

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About Nothing



bamboo wraith and unicorn

are always there to see

how it all turns out


such a long time later,

others trailed along

singing all about


that which they knew

nothing (all the time)

except the rules to flout


lying there on the page

in breathless disrepute

o’er  the last good name to tout


what is this pearl

they’re sure to say

while the other team’s en rout


damn good question

his only reply

of that there is no doubt



copyright r.b.franklin 31/07/2010

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The Farewell (for Penny)

A longer excerpt…so beautiful. I gave a collection of Kahlil"s poetry to Aunt Peg (Margaret) years ago, after Roy had passed away. This was in it…
Farewell to you and the youth I have spent with you.

It was but yesterday we met in a dream.

You have sung to me in my aloneness, and I of your longings have built a tower in the sky.

But now our sleep has fled and our dream is over, and it is no longer dawn.

The noontide is upon us and our half waking has turned to fuller day, and we must part.

If in the twilight of memory we should meet once more, we shall speak again together and you shall sing to me a deeper song.

And if our hands should meet in another dream, we shall build another tower in the sky.


~ Kahlil Gibran~ The Farewell (an excerpt…)

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Darkness peers in

And around

And about

Whether you wish it or not

Eyes of its’ own



It will show up at the dance

And flatly refuse to leave.



Copyright r.b.franklin 17/06/10


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A Deafening Sense of Mortality


It comes along, a certain song

A deafening sense of mortality



For a moment

Cold outside and in

(No, not as in sin)


But so wryly aware

Of thinning of hair

Let alone what’s fair

Or fraying or threadbare


Flooding is a good word

As ocean waves pass clean

Through Hawaiian flecked trunks

Like a graying freight train

So runs this sensation


Not a stage but a passage

Below furrowing of brow

Then perhaps to know how

Only now comes clear the message


In measured voice of quiet certitude

Calmly spoken and assured

There’s nothing to be feared

Once shorn of all the platitudes


It leaves All alone, this knowing tone

This deafening sense of mortality



Copyright r.b.franklin 09/12/09



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Nestled midst two steeply convergent streets,
 at the foot of a deep ravine, 
it is perhaps a five minute walk from town square.
 Like the movie, a river runs through it —
a brook really, although it challenges the boundaries at times of heavy rain —
 in a grove of maple, oak, and silver birch at the back of the property.
Foundation pieces from a century old grist mill
sit in precariously slanted arrangements along the side.
It is quiet, fresh, and altogether lovely.
It is a place of connection and renewal.
There is nowhere I would rather be.
copyright r.b. franklin 24/11/09
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