Poetry - Issue 07 | November 2009

Two poems by MaryAnn Franta Moenck


Listening, a Guest in the Old Log House

Early Sunday. I sit with coffee.
The dog sighs, flops before the fire,
his bones knocking on the wood floor.
The chimney of fitted stones holds rock-
memory; lapping lake, glacial flow.

A fly buzzes at the window,
takes refuge from October rain.
Dark cedar logs, hand-slabbed
long ago, are recently re-chinked.
Long wood grain emanates

the echoes of a square dance;
the wail of twin fiddles, rhythmic shuffle,
and the joining of hands. Laughter
from the baby —
her Great Grandpa, too.

Above the hand-hewn beams I hear
light footsteps from the bedroom.
Around the corner in the kitchen,
bacon sizzling. Two voices,
strong as ironwood, deep as pine knot,

chant an ancient rune: The men,
old friends. Their words spoken low,
something about lumber,
and the years it takes to season
to build a proper home.

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About the author

MaryAnn Franta Moenck has raised dust all over the American west, on the Greek Isles, and around the Great Lakes. Most recently, MaryAnn took a swim at the beach just outside the monastic grounds at Sagatagan Lake. Clouds gathered above, along with some large, dark birds. Before long, she was swimming beneath a circling kettle of twenty seven turkey vultures. As of this writing, she is still alive. Her recent or forthcoming poems can be found in Cimarron Review, Natural Bridge, and forthcoming in Water~Stone Review.

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