The 91-year-old Forster retiree loves words, and he loves nothing more than putting words together in the form of poetry.

During the past three years Frank has penned an ode to about 30 baristas working in the coffee shops at Forster’s Stocklands shopping centre.

Frank loves people, he enjoys their conversations, personalities, learning about their lives, but mostly the smiles on their faces when he presents them with a surprise poem.

There is nothing better than wrapping words around a situation or conversation, Frank said.

His ballads to baristas began when he met one-time Muffin Break coffee maker, Bronte who was joining the armed forces.

The following morning Frank presented the delighted Bronte with her own special poem.

Since Bronte’s ballad, Frank has share the love throughout the Stocklands retail community.

Frank began penning poetry on a casual basis 28 years ago following the death of his beloved wife Rita.

He returned the day after her funeral to watch the sun rise over her flower-covered grave and to thank her for the love and gratitude for so many years.

More recently, Frank put together a handful of works following a trip to Darwin via the Ghan and a helicopter ride over the Bungle Bungle Ranges, with his daughter Mandy.

While many who have read and admired Frank’s compositions he does not call himself a poet.

“I don’t describe myself as a poet; I have not earned that status.”

Take a read of Frank’s memories from his trip to the outback

Home once more and as I sup

Alfresco on the patio

I view the nearby tall eucalypts

As they sway to and fro

I watch the supple gums waving in the breeze

The majesty of the moment brings me to my knees

The glory of nature is beyond comprehension

Therien lies a story – which provokes me to mention

Recently I visited the Bungle Bungles

From a helicopter on high

A view once reserved only

For eagles in the sky

Looking down on the timeless land

L saw nature’s handiwork comprising

Domed, stratified, columnar structures

Wind and sand-blasted sculptures rising

From my vantage point in the ‘copter

With my daughter by my side

A lap belt the only security

No doors, what a windy ride

I looked down the Piccaninny Gorge

As the pilot banked for a better view

Mandy Seized the chance for a snapshot

as my arms from the grabrail withdrew

Held to my seat by a mere lap belt

Plus, the helicopter had not doors

To add to the general confusion,

From whirring blades, the wind just roars

I look down on this sculpture

And think of the aeons of time

That nature patiently crafted

And produced a creation sublime

As I bid farewell to Kununurra

And for the good times that I yearn

I look forward and dream

Dream of the day when I shall return.