Time-Shifts Iv: The Floor Is Cold Poem by Margaret Alice

Lying on the floor, rolling over and over, I remembered
my sins: This morning I ate the left-over macaroni, now
sleep is just a memory, in between reading my book
“Wrinkles in Time”, playing with a doll as a model à la
Rumer Godden, putting her to bed, remembering Tom
Thumb and his bed made from an acorn, rose petals
being his blankets, ferrying Rabbedoesie, as I call her,
between table and floor, having built my miniature garden
for the miniscule birds, reading all about the search for
background radiation and anti-matter particles…

I’m so glad I discovered spiritual literature, Ancient and
New Age, without the flames of their awareness theories
blazing in my heart, the cold emptiness of cosmology
would have killed me, the idea that the Big Bang Universe
could burn out and die, that awareness is just a fluke of
nature, that life is the effect of random processes; chills
my soul, makes life seem unutterably bleak, my choice of
beliefs is determined pragmatically by what works - such
cold, freezing theories don’t work at all - while Spiritual
conjectures with its concomitant extra-sensory perception

Work beautifully, providing inspiration to continue life…


Time-Shifts III: Magic Objects

Finally taking out the magic objects I have
found today: A butterfly, miniature birds and
a bottle of jasmine-perfumed oil, maybe not
exactly a magic pencil that can write by it-
self, or a flying ship from Norse mythology

But still enchanting enough to revive my
flagging spirits and reignite hope in my heart,
though I don’t know exactly what triggered
this allergy attack, only finding that rubbing
Vicks on my face brings relief

My diligent search for a way to escape from
the despair has paid off, I’m bewitched by
the beauty of my magical objects, I dream
about building a miniature garden in which
to fix the these miniature birds

That fill my heart with thoughts of sweet
music and freedom…