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Best Poems Written by Evan Bradfield

Below are the all-time best Evan Bradfield poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Evan Bradfield Poem

A Simple Happy

Adrift, a-meadow in spring color,
Daisy, daffodil, dandelion, 
A signal flag wrinkles and flaps with motion;
Awash, a-drizzle dazzle of rain. 
A girl floats to the tides current
Happy to hale the freedom of her new skirt
Happy to wave in high air, so pretty. 
Cotton dyed, swishing to and fro to rise
With fall and jump jump each skip 

The streetlight beacon beckons:
Twilight light approaches, roars
To subdue the bright colors. 
She rounds the sound, the curbside corner
And runs down the street, 
Smiles line porches as “happy sailing”
affirms kind porch-side mothers

Twilight meadows become bedewed
Not by Marching drizzle but rather
Drain down streets to storm-drains in April fashion
Thunder cracks and the skirt 
Safely ties herself down to the home-harbor
Breeze billowing flapping skirt: 
A-ruffling akin to spinning in a springy summer field

Details | Evan Bradfield Poem

Villanelle For Valentine's Day

Villanelle for Valentine’s Day 

Remember we danced to Charlie Parker on the dorm-room floor? 
Our hearts were staccato and wouldn’t heed a rest, 
And I read you a poem: tides crashing my love into your shore. 

Gentle jazz carried us, on currents, across the floor, 
Your laugh against my cheek from my whispered jest
When we danced to Charlie Parker on the dorm-room floor. 

My heart was bass booms, it was something you could not ignore.
It beat with a mallet, a roller falling against your breast,  
And I read you a poem: tides crashing my love into your shore. 

You heard mine, your heart always singing to implore, 
My rhythm was awful, steps stuttered, it was not my best
When we danced to Charlie Parker on the dorm-room floor. 

Finally I began to dance, to float, knowing it was your
Heart that I heard, singing over tides’ waves’ crest, 
So I read you a poem: tides crashing my love into your shore. 

Our dance was a music, a tide we could not ignore, 
On my shoulder, my heart, you took your rest, 
As we danced to Charlie Parker on the dorm-room floor.
And I read you a poem: tides crashing my love into your shore.

Details | Evan Bradfield Poem

Old Rusty Metal Things

Dust devils harass the ground,
Sweeping up accessible layers of earth 
Stagnantly rooted in their stake 
Of vast uncaring land along train tracks in the desert.

The wind-born dirt
Whisks against calloused surfaces
Of metal things carelessly left
On the dry earth of the forgotten South Forty.    

A bucket, a barrel, 
A ‘40 Ford Coupe left to die of rust;
An armadillo on the edge of a highway. 

Flakes of faded iron skin litter the dust
Like dead leaves on the linoleum
Of a kitchen covered by sagging, burnt shingles.

Details | Evan Bradfield Poem

Motion of a Fall

Leaves no longer held-aloft by their deciduous vaults
Clutter gutters and breezily sweep streets and rest 
On right and left road sides, bright and red. 
Tunnels formed by old trees meeting arc
Across city-streets and campus-sidewalks.

The bright red light shreds right
Through the quasi-dismal damp 
Fog and is mirrored in the ditch’s bog.
The yellow is less aggressive, 
More slow to say “hello,
Nomad, pause your show of bursts
Of fabricated steel and what is unreal.”
Trees colored green recollect when
They were tenderfoot, preempting
The Fall of unawakened Autumn, 
But tend towards following their peers.

Leaves stand in the back of a room, 
Stand in the forefront of the meteorological gloom
And trickle their color onto the gray   
Sidewalk once bland and wet as the sky,
Now leaf-littered and shimmering with glances of upright reality;
Colors whet on the watery walkway
By flattened leaves and reflections of trees.

Details | Evan Bradfield Poem

Kickoff

Rattling and clanking
Starting after the November thermostat click.
I love the smell of the house 
When my dad would first turn on the furnace 
For the winter. 
It is a fungus-growing-on-rotting-tree smell,
Something slightly burning. 

Soon to follow: the counters covered
In Chex and pretzel sticks and mixed nuts
On greasy paper towels,
I love the smell of the kitchen
When my mom practices grandma’s old recipes
For the holidays.
It is a hot-water-hitting-cocoa-mix smell,
Something to come inside to from the Spearmint cold.

Then: relatives visit from down the street 
And down in Texas, all smelling
The same scents of my home
And happily intruding with their cigarette-and-leather
Or Coors Light-and-cologne smell in my life,
Rattling and clanking.