David Nelson Bradsher

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

David Nelson Bradsher Poems

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

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!

  • 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.

  • 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.

Best Poem of David Nelson Bradsher

Mourning Dream

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
into the freedom of impassioned voices,
a tit-for-tat crescendo, borne of rage,
confusion, and regret (from faulty choices) ,
and panic from a man who knew his age—

and knew, too well, that he had lagged behind
the social norm of seeking out a wife
to mitigate the failure of a mind
too weary of the vagaries of life,
and too resentful to deny his own
prophetic dream that he ...

Read the full of Mourning Dream

Damn Birds

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.

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