warm and cozy.  welcome!

Hello to All who are gathered here today in the dVerse Universe, a site of pubtalk and poetry. This Monday is where You and Your Muse are prompted to write a Quadrille. The name for the quadrille form is taken from an 18^th Century dance, but as you may know, is also dVerse’ poetic form of just 44 words (not counting the title) and includes one word the host provides to you. Today it’s me, Lisa, also ready to serve drinks and snacks from the magic cupboard.

As I look out back, grey of pear tree twigs, washed-out brown standing stalks, and bright white covering the ground greets my view. Not a sign of warmth in sight. The cats are curled in tight donuts and my jeans feel too thin in the chill of the house. Once in awhile a male cardinal will flit by, bringing a passing flame of heat (for my eyes at least!)

As we in the Northern hemisphere are crunching into winter, those in the Southern hemisphere are crunching out of it and into summer. In either case, the nights are cool at most. How many of us would love to be huddled by a blazing fire and sipping hot cocoa? This scene is a perfect lead in to today’s prompt word: warm.

Frank Ormsby writes of warmth as in being alive in Mrs. G. Watters:

The letters still come for Mrs Watters,
who must, at one time, have warmed this house
and lived as we do. Mostly small matters —
the rolled calendar that, had she stayed,
might hang now where I drew the rusted nail,
the catalogues, the last gas bill unpaid —
and always Mrs Watters. So for me
the spirit of the house is feminine,
its whisper of the one who, constantly,
draws letters that assume she has never gone.
On which I weekly write, without conviction:
‘No longer living here. Address unknown.’

Victorian London homeless children by Gustave Dore

Kathy Engel yearns for an ideal of warmth for others in Now I Pray:

Ashen face, wool hat bobbing,
the young boy’s eyes dart to me,
then up at the man pulling a rolling
suitcase, whose hand he holds,
then back at me. His legs move
as if without gravity. The man asks:
Do you know a church on this street
that serves free food? I want to say
I know. That the names of churches
on an Avenue called Americas roll
out of me. I want to tell you
it is temporary, their condition:
suitcase, darting eyes, seeking free
food at 9 pm in a big city on a school night.
I want to tell you I don’t for a moment
wonder if that is really the boy’s father
or uncle or legitimate caretaker — 
something in the handholding and
eyes, having watched too many
episodes of Law and Order. I want
to tell you I take them to a restaurant
and pay for a warm meal or empty
my wallet not worrying how
offensive that might be because
in the end hunger is hunger.
I want to tell you I call someone
who loves them — that there is someone — 
and say your guys are lost, can
you come? I want to tell you I sit
down on the sidewalk at the corner
of Waverly and pray — that all
passing by, anonymous shoes
marking the pavement, join
in a chorus of prayer humming
like cicadas in the Delta. I want to
tell you the boy and the man eat food
encircled by the warmth of bodies.
I want to turn the cold night into a feast.
I will tell you I am praying.

Warm can be temperature, mood, portal, or season as seen in Donal Heffernan‘s My Hometown:

Oh, Homer!
Your village sleeps near the Missouri River
With your cousin Winnebago, both children of Lakotaland.
You kept your town at two stories, as flat as the surrounding prairie.
You taught the Iliad and Odyssey in honor of your namesake poet.
Your spirit outlasted the bleached fields of the Depression, and
Bravely swam against the raging Omaha Creek floods.
On warm, wet spring Saturday nights,
You provided dark places for your young
To launch your next generation
In pickups, unlighted.

beads from Ghana

When we seek to take the edge off of the chill, one antidote that I stumbled across fits the bill. Here is a small excerpt from this magical poem on BEADS, by Ama Ata Aidoo, called Ghana (Where the Bead Speaks) :

[…]
Beads can lift the heaviest heart.
And like tea and precious brews,
beads can warm us when we are cold,
and cool us when we are hot.
[…]

Once again, we have come to the place where you put your proverbial pen to paper and warm it with your poetic spirit’s will in words.

• Pen us a poem of precisely 44 words (not counting the title), including some form of the word warm.
• Post your Quadrille piece on your blog and link back to this post.
• Place the link to your actual post (not your blog url) on the Mister Linky page.
• Don’t forget to check the little box to accept use/privacy policy.
• Please visit other blogs and comment on their posts!
• Have fun (only if you want to!)