David Nelson Bradsher

Rookie (09/06/66 / Raleigh, North Carolina)

David Nelson Bradsher Poems

1. Between What's Black And White (2pm 12/26/07) 12/26/2007
2. Closing Time, Sunset Strip 12/26/2007
3. The Editorialist 12/28/2007
4. The Blanket 1/5/2008
5. Irretrievable 1/8/2008
6. Mutual Insomnia 6/26/2007
7. Bridging Seasons 10/17/2007
8. Spenser Will Convince Her 1/21/2008
9. A Study In Rodin 1/22/2008
10. Cycle Of A Loser 1/22/2008
11. Metal Of Honor 1/23/2008
12. The Wind Chime 1/28/2008
13. Enabled 1/30/2008
14. The Chauffeur 2/4/2008
15. Project: Spring 2/17/2008
16. Directions 2/19/2008
17. The Dark Of Part-Time Lovers 2/23/2008
18. The Cat-Bird Seat 2/24/2008
19. The Means To An End 3/5/2008
20. Tobacco Road 3/7/2008
21. March Morning 3/8/2008
22. Old Man Winter 3/18/2008
23. Etching 5/6/2008
24. Ashe To Snow 5/14/2008
25. Last Call 11/29/2007
26. First Date 1/18/2008
27. Mourning Dream 11/12/2007
28. Damn Birds 12/5/2007
29. Vengeance Through A Parlor Window 1/24/2008
30. A Year Of Sundays 1/20/2008
31. Out Of Focus 1/21/2008
32. The Halves And Half-Nots 4/26/2008
33. Primary Care 1/21/2008
34. Yesterday Is Forever 6/23/2007

Comments about David Nelson Bradsher

  • Gina Onyemaechi (8/27/2006 7:44:00 AM)

    I've just started reading Mr Bradsher on recommendation. I am bowled over by his skills in rhyme and meter, more so by the fact that he never allows these to compromise meaning. That takes true talent, IMO. In Mr Bradsher's work you'll find humour, sauciness, wistfulness, and grit. Whatever poems you may choose to visit, however, you are bound to have a good time.

    I've challenged Mr Bradsher to experiment with free verse as I feel that he could produce some real gems in this form to match his wondrous rhymed pieces. However, as I'm sure he knows, he should follow his own poetic heart whether this leads him to free verse or not.

    Thank you for sharing your talented writing, Mr Bradsher.

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  • Max Reif (10/23/2005 11:18:00 AM)

    Dear David,
    The main thing, for me, about your writing is that I feel in it the rhythm of not words but Nature itself! And that is quite a feat, because as poets I feel we, and our words, should be transparent. Your poetry brings something *objective*, and that objective contact with Nature and reality is something I, and maybe all of us, are hungry for. Your poetry also reminds me why rhythm and rhyme exist: Nature has not only rhythm, but rhyme too!

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  • Lee Ann Schaffer (4/3/2005 5:12:00 PM)

    Writing brings significance to experience. By a writer electing to write - simply by choosing the subject - the writer honors the experience. Poetry more than any other genre does that. Through the condensation of experience into that form of language, it raises it even higher. Those who can utilize the strictest forms within that genre glorify experience. If the poet can do this well, he is an artist. David Nelson Bradsher is a master artist.
    He’s also a master architect. He is able to craft cathedrals in his works; each metaphor a flying buttress that lifts the head and the heart.
    One of the many ways of being able to identify a master is that the uneducated, the unenlightened, (frankly speaking) the stupid, they all become detractors. It’s the confederacy of dunces to which Jonathan Swift referred that allow us to spot genius. So... Let the hounds gather at the gates. Each one only points more certainly and more delightfully toward the truth.

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  • Sterling Peony (2/5/2005 6:50:00 PM)

    There I was, foraging through a minefield of mediocre poetry, thirsting for beauty and truth and clarity, and what do stumble upon? Why, it's a sonnet, clear and masterfully written. At first, I think it's a mirage. An illusion hastened by starvation for classical verse.

    So I click on another.
    And another.

    And they're all that good. And I say to myself, 'Who IS this poet? Has the cosmic wheel turned and Tennyson been reincarnated? Possibly, but his name is now David Bradsher.

    Thanks, Mr. Bradsher.

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Best Poem of David Nelson Bradsher

Primary Care

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.

She wears the mantle, stooped in silhouette,
of one diminishing by sacrifice,
when giving care becomes her sole device
to pay the interest of a crippling debt.

Read the full of Primary Care

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
in order to prevent my view
from being easeled on display.
I document the time I've spent
reliving every yesterday.

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