David Nelson Bradsher
Biography of David Nelson Bradsher
David Nelson Bradsher is a native and resident of Raleigh, North Carolina. He is a 1989 graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Co-author of 'Kindred Trinity' with David Lee Caudill and Lorraine Sautner, he is currently working on his books of poetry, 'Pieces of the Fortress' and 'The Vampire Sonnets, ' a story composed entirely in continuing Shakespearean sonnets. He is strongly influenced by the work of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Lord Alfred Tennyson, Andrew Motion, and Lord Byron, as well as the music of Marillion.
David Nelson Bradsher's Works:
Kindred Trinity (46 poems)
A Chorus of Voices (3 poems)
David Nelson Bradsher Poems
Yesterday Is Forever
You might disown my bitter tone and lump me in with crazy men, but when I think and speak in ink you'll have to kill my tilted pen
She rises painfully—without complaint— haloed by silver-white in feathered hair, and she assists her husband from his chair, dragging her shadow like a burdened saint.
The Halves And Half-Nots
The suits are girded, rallying the troops with power-point displays at Monday’s meeting, explaining how a five-year fiscal “oops” resulted in last week’s employee bleeding.
Out Of Focus
A smudge of a man, he trudged the blur between a can-do attitude, a cruel demeanor,
A Year Of Sundays
A Year of Sundays As if a breathing god, the night exhales a glaze
The statues stand like rusty gods in silent judgment, sternly cold in squares, in parks and college quads, debased with bird shit, dirt and mold.
Vengeance Through A Parlor Window
The dust of day's detritus grays the room as if the ashes of Pompeii have blurred the atmosphere and smudged the gloom, grinding the light away.
With spite,5: 30 in the morning came, alarmed, and jarring to his drowsy senses, bringing to bear the morning-force of blame that punched and powered through internal fences
They walked the dark to dawn, beneath a moon the hue of butter-crème, traversing lawn to selfsame lawn, their breaths cocooned in steam
Spenser Will Convince Her
My love is like to ice, and I to fire: How come it then that this her cold is so great Is not dissolved through my so hot desire, But harder grows the more I her entreat?
The breeze is urgent, crisp, and like a stream of consciousness that musses thinning hair. Autumn arrives—she settles like a dream that brightens life before the trees go bare.
Agreed, tonight was not my best performance, but forgive the gaffe and stifle your insulting laugh. It surely does affect my rest,
He scuffed the earth in boots of muddied leather, trudging, head bowed, along a homeward path, trembling and sweating, though not knowing whether it was a fever or insistent wrath.
The blanket, wrinkled as a Shar-pei’s skin, was useful once—no more. I dumped it in a Goodwill bin, the ragged texture of a sagging whore:
The statues stand like rusty gods
in silent judgment, sternly cold
in squares, in parks and college quads,
debased with bird shit, dirt and mold.
The pigeons peck at Lincoln’s feet
or squat upon a soldier’s head.
Let’s nix the seed, and let them eat
a ration of unseasoned lead.