Published: 11 February 2026

Crumbs do not a sandwich make

Salute those who read the end of the book first
for they seek a reason to read.
This is the back of the book,
the foundation, the bed rock;
this is the mantle, the crust,
upon which the detritus of words and thought,
are sediment, and the scribble
between the lines, wash.

You who look for an index
are bound to be disappointed—
crumbs do not a sandwich make.
Do not be startled if a brave page resists;
what is blank may want not for ink.
Finding your way here was no coincidence.
What is the point of beginning
if the end is not what you desire?

More Poetry:

Mom on deck

Call for Mom.
She’s needed on deck;
no one else will do.
Who could possibly replace her?
Santa Claus or God?

Epochs of taste

Paleocene had a light tawny appearance and a semi sweet palate.
Eocene was the name of donkey in a play by Sophocles that became an eponym for stink.

silver

some people say
black is the colour of chic

ode to D. H. Lawrence

this evening, my neighbour’s red brick chimney,
lit by the dying sun, glows brilliant carmine
against a pure black blue sky that penetrates my blood
and fills me with insensate ecstasy

the perfection of spring

the moment before the rain
after the garden has been planted
while children play, the air riven
with silver laughter, let them be
soon it will rain

the frequency of spring

the frequency of spring
tunes in on any radio, any
electro-static device including
the nerve network of all operating
bio-chemical self aware systems

Related

Epochs of taste

Epochs of taste

Paleocene had a light tawny appearance and a semi sweet palate.
Eocene was the name of donkey in a play by Sophocles that became an eponym for stink.

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