A Personal Touch
			My poetry I have also been writing poetry for many years now. Sometimes my pictures have inspired my writing. Occasionally, I have seen the poem and taken the picture. Here are just a few of my poems together with their pictures. They will change fairly regularly, so keep visiting! Please be aware, they are copyright protected and the sole property of the author Jonathan Drew.
My Poetry

dARK SUITED MAN PLAYS PATSY DAN’S

He gibbers the leg in the half-light and dim

and within the smoky, oxygen thin,

his dark frame is suited.

No glow from his friend aside his seat,

but to the mantelpiece in rhythmic repeats

goes a starched reach

for a craic at the black stuff.

Torment he taps to the back of his hand.

Patsy Dan’s one man band

plays suffering with a sliding sleeve,

periodically seized with a spasm.

He pauses, like dust sprinkles held in the spot-lit gloom

and staring spies around the room.

Then quickly, in a standing slur,

he stammers a mutter, but stutters no more –

not even a stagger going straight through the door.

A guddle for a guddle

The mist came down in a stroke,

and the river that had bubbled and sparkled

and flung fish, flowed slow.

Hanging now, not on banks green,

but on her bed-side and brittle breath,

he reached deep into deciphering gargles,

and felt a flounder.

Then he knew, like she knew, nearer now the sea,

and her widening muddle of vocabulary,

he calmly grappled.

But, she shook her head and shook her head,

to his feigned nodding occasionally,

until, at the last,

sleep slept away her imploring, into the estuary…

But, I see him there, in a guddle still;

water now, up to his waist,

and feet frustrated in mud.

His toes search every foot;

unsettling silt,

and sometimes feeling a flounder,

but never finding those final words.

The sea finds me

It’s not so much the sea itself,

as the silence, that sometimes finds me

rolling with the crash of waves and fervour,

forgetting, forgetting and forgetting,

as far as the eye can see.

It’s not so much the sea itself,

as the freedom, that sometimes finds me

attacking the black rocks and beating, breaking,

beating, breaking,

on hard banality.

It’s so much the sea itself

its fingers constant clutch at me

and grasp the sand,

and grasp the sand,

and keep this shore a certainty.

Strangely Alive

This moon anchors tonight

this island in seas of sea and sky,

and light chains strain through

great currents of clouds,

whose skidding shrouds

raze all horizontal.

And as I lay here, in this deranged disco night,

striving to be sane or vertical,

I'm almost complete and strangely alive again,

like the rain beating against the billowing panes

in this sun room,

And the waves roaring out there -

Torment and Turmoil,

their frenzied white horses charging;

heads thrown back as if necks broken,

and their rearing hooves,

that hold and last gasp,

before tumbling into a galloping crash,

to splinter into fine sea dust and ghostly veil,

And this interminable wind,

that scatters their ashes,

but inhales time enough,

for them to settle and seep into the ancient heart of peat,

or turn to rust any iron skin

that dares to stand on horizontal feet.