Requiescat in pace is an apt poetic comment for Denis, Bob, I'm sure he he will continue on raging, "upstairs." I remember him in the late 80s, when he came in occasionally to the printing press where I was working as an illustrator. He was getting his poems printed, sometimes in union newspapers, or for other events. He used to stop by for a chat, and the originals of his poems were written on recyled paper - that is, down the sides of newspapers, on the backs of old magazines, every bit of paper that he could find and use.
Here is a poem that Denis wrote on the death of his friend, the violin maker, Johnno Johnson. It could apply to Denis now.
A MAN and HIS VIOLINS John Godschall Johnson
Every violin he has made was a little boat for children to float on the the sea of their dreams,
each string was a thread in life's labyrinth,
he made them with his hands, and his heart, seeing the joy in a child's face, as the gift was passed on, and the little violin was launched —
in the garage where he worked the spiders spun safe, while he concentrated on his priceless gifts, hearing him hum an aria or a melody, from some famous musician, bringing the whole world into his backyard workshop;
his heart was a children's playground,
he gave them violins, he gave them music, he gave them his heart, and they took his love everywhere around the world, from one room, where spiders spun and the sunlight lit the busy tradesmen spinning the silk from their own marrow, the silken ripples capturing the light.
Such a man, John Godschall Johnson, does not die, such a man lives by the joy in a child's face, in the brisk bow playing a heart warming melody, in the happiness that music brings;
"Johnno", you need no monument, no leather bound C.V., no medallion,
you are alive in each of these priceless gifts, in the children's eyes that are the mirrors of your soul, and in the music that never ends.