To be honest, I’d forgotten about him until he died. I liked his SF, ignored his horror fiction and generally enjoyed The Brave Little Toaster.
You can mine his Livejournal for poetry, which is somewhat enjoyable, including this piece:
In Defense of Arthur Conan Doyle
If we’re to believe we’ve a Father in heaven,
then why not fairies in the garden?
Shakespeare shows us how they are
the masks of our better selves, bodies
unbothered by souls. Surely
if we’re to be silly enough to believe in
anything, fairies are the place
to start. Not believe in fairies? as well
refuse belief to butterflies and mice.
It’s not as though they ask that much
of their believers–a holiday or two,
some songs and dances, the sentiments
on valentine hearts. Why must old Skyfather
begrudge our fairies that? Doesn’t the All-Knowing
know that without them, his thunders
come across as ill-intending bluster?
Encourage Tinkerbell to hold on tight,
and you, dear God, may eke out one more night.