David Nelson Bradsher
David Nelson Bradsher Poems
Comments about David Nelson Bradsher
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.
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.
I trudge the lanes of age—the oaks get older
as I proceed along my scenic stroll
until I reach the Winter, stark and colder—
a man who’s reached the coring of his soul.