Brad Evans
Brad Evans Poems
When the mid-winter moon is a full, ripe peach
When a gentle breeze blows through the trees
An old man wanders down a dead, country lane
Past a turnpike - left broke by the centuries
...
as the nights of passion are
cooled by memory
as the street bears the weight
...
In midwinter you will find me
Appearing better than my companion.
From a distance, at first glance,
One may mistake me for the head of Medusa!
...
I don't know about you
but one of the best recollections
I have about eating at McDonalds
As a child
...
Lit bright by fire both wanting & searching,
I'm proud of you and that old, Newy crowd;
A lone portrait from a youth of yearning.
...
they will flee to paris
they will flee to india
they will hide in a cardboard shack
they will go anywhere
...
they were picking mushrooms
when it went up.
Although the heat
...
Brad Evans Biography
Born in Sydney, ’71. Was once a casual, relieving teacher, now a community library assistant. My scribblings (poems, short stories, etc.) have been published in magazines and anthologies in various countries. A full-length book of my poems, " and them and the jackals and the night" , was privately published in 2001. One copy may still be available, but I am presently wrestling with an acrobat nicknamed “Adobe” to get it into a down-readable/ -loadable pdf. Was once the founder and editor of the print and online journal, Red Lamp, which published realist, socialist and humanitarian poetry. Some back issues and an audio CD of the journal’s launch in Newcastle, featuring working-class poetry from the inaugural issue, are still available. (In fact I have them in a box collecting wonderful amounts of dust.))
The Best Poem Of Brad Evans
Full Moon Céilidh
When the mid-winter moon is a full, ripe peach
When a gentle breeze blows through the trees
An old man wanders down a dead, country lane
Past a turnpike - left broke by the centuries
He looks for those he no longer knows -
His memories left in tatters by the years.
There's a barn down a dead, country lane
Where strings can be heard 'midst the cheers...
Take me! Take me! Take me!
To the full moon céilidh
Where the farmers light their fires
On the fields of seasons' gone.
Where the ladies can't stop laughing
And the men just can't stop grinning
Where dancing can be heard 'til the dawn...
There's a broke turnpike left alone by the centuries
Where a motorist drives past without knowing
There's a barn that once stood down a dead, country lane
With a lonely old man now dancing...
So, take me! Take me! Take me!
To the full moon céilidh
Where the farmers light their fires
On the fields of seasons' past.
Where the ladies can't stop laughing
And the men just can't stop grinning
While the drunken poets roar away the night!
An old man wanders up a dead, country lane
Past a turnpike - left broke by the centuries
He looks for those he no longer knows -
His memories left in tatters by the years...
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4/19/2024 10:35:13 AM # 1.0.0.1119
