The game of ski, snow skating,
wooden wings--Even those intrepid pioneers
remembered on caves in Norway and Russia
3000 years before Christ, must have shouted,

Look at me, after willow branches
tie split femur bones
on fur-covered feet and men step
into the white sky centuries before

ski poles and military strategists
further exploit their practical
efficiency. The heel strap
turns hunters into guerillas,

but nothing prepares these men
for the rich coming with their money.
I am a boy from the Dakotas
in overshoes. Skis show a way

out, sending me into a descent
no edge or howl or gravity can stop.
Not man either. Marvel-wings
pointing me at heaven.

Jim Bodeen
30 March 2010


  1. Wow. What a great poem. White. Cold. Flying. I'm there. I think it was better you went to WP yourself, today. Yes - I found you.

  2. I am going to practice, "taking what the day gives me." Thanks for giving me this, today.

    "The Last Station" and Leonard Cohen - no wonder I'm VP of your fan club, Karen being President, of course.

  3. well, reading your writing inspires me to write more. I do have a notebook, thanks to your encouragement. It travels with me. That is a good start, I think. Blessings to you and Karen.