Money Changers and Stockbrokers

by Chris Hopkins / October 23rd, 2016

I was never the blushing baby.

The hands of a rosy cheeked future,
were never there on the school bell ring.

Or my veins warmed in cold rooms,
by lucky blue velvet blood.

I have no snare drum heart of country,
a marching beat within my chest.

I am more than land and boundaries laid.
More and talk and family tales.

Death, is not my inheritance,
nor birth my heir.

On this estate dream turn to blood,
to call their own,

bare chested to liberty,
where battle lines are drawn.

Chris Hopkins, was born and raised in Neath South Wales, surrounded by machines and mountains, until he moved to Oxford in his early twenties. He currently resides in Canterbury and works for the NHS. Chris, who claims poetry has been "my ladder out of some dark places" has had poems published in Tuck Magazine, the online literary journal 1947, Transcendent Zero Press and Duane's PoeTree. Two of his early e-book pamphlets "Imagination is my Gun" and "Exit From a Moving Car" are available on Amazon. Read other articles by Chris.

This article was posted on Sunday, October 23rd, 2016 at 8:02am and is filed under Poetry.