A Welcome in Nov & Dec 07+Happy New Year 2008

A Happy New Year to all our readers and contributors!

I’ve got a bit of catching up to do, so :

In November & December 2007, we welcomed the following new contributors to this site :

Dave Whippman
Raju Ahmed

Geoffrey Winch
John-Mark Reid
Damian Brown

From Upholland High School , we welcome :


From St John’s Catholic Primary School , we welcome :


A blast from the past – a welcome return to
Bob Harford , who last posted in September 2003
Matthew Paul , who last posted in November 2002

Click on the names above to see that person’s poem(s), or browse some selected first efforts below :

Hip, hip Premiership

The Football Poets
Formed in 1995
Cricket bowled over
Title to a Blackburn Rover
The town came alive
Lancashire was proud
Rovers shouted out loud

Hip, hip Premiership
In the limelight
Our toes did dip

7 lines in a verse
3 in the chorus
Don’t know what was worse
United to bore us
Singing to them perverse
Arsenal merely died
With SAS in the side

Hip, hip Premiership
In the limelight
Our toes did dip

In 1987 was at college
Gaining electronic knowledge
Used to watch the Hudders
But followed Rovers away
Give us promotion
We used to pray
Getting drunk on Saturday

Hip, hip Premiership
In the limelight
Our toes did dip

Damian Brown – Media i – 3rd November 2007

found your details in The Writer’s Handbook 2008 and I was inspired to write a poem when I saw that you formed in 1995 when my hometown team, Blackburn Rovers, won the Premiership.

Editors; it’s true FPs were born in 1995 as a group of writing and performing poets. Early performances included The Royal Festival Hall, Cheltenham Festival Of Literature and of course Stroud from pubs to the Stroud Fringe Festival. The site itself was launched in 2000 and set up by Dave Cockcroft ,and now boasts just under 10,000 published poems ,with over 22,000 submissions, received checked and edited on (or deleted off!) by 3 people for nearly eight years.. for nothing.
check the ID number of each poem . Keep on!


H & P’s – biscuit bakers of the premier league
by appointment to His Majesty – they satisfied
appetites of the post-war world.

King’s Road would fill at Friday’s final whistle
with biscuitmen biking, bussing, running home –
had to be ready for the weekend game.

Mister Ost, weekday-weary – defeated always by
Kendrick Hill – pushed his bike up then thanked
the Lord he could freewheel all down to Whitley,
except on Fridays when he’d break his journey
to deliver his weekly bonus of broken biscuits
to we three boys.

The best were saved by Mother for Sunday tea,
then it was time for the lucky draw – rough or
smooth, rich tea or nice, a coffee finger or pink
girly wafer! (boys liked the brown ones better),
ginger nut, neat iced gem (blues were the rare ones)
or a dream – a garibaldi. Halves, quarters, odd-shapes –
it didn’t really matter – a treat was in every piece, but
a real winner was a Reading shortcake, pimply, round
and, sometimes, whole! – (an own-goal by Mother?)

Mister Ost was a broken man – own son sacrificed
to the war, his wife to an early grave – but Saturdays
he’d be on Elm Park’s terraces, faithful fan roaring
the boys on in another division three (south) battle –
long before the Biscuitmen were dubbed the Royals.

Now Elm Park echoes inside Madejski’s stadium –
the Royals are the Biscuitmen of the premier league.

© Geoffrey Winch 2007
Reading were formerly known as The Biscuitmen before The Royals.
Poem written in the 2006-7 season.

“Uncle Jack”

He had a club, which he loved,

and at his club, we love him back,

he is the man we all admire,

Our favourite Uncle Jack

It was his home, it was his life,

his blood ran blue and white,

his passion shone around the ground,

like the floodlights in the night.

At Ewood there’s a statue,

which I visit every game

then on I go, to the Blackburn End,

Where as fans, we chant your name.

I have written this in your memory,

but don’t think of me as stalker,

because EVERY Rover misses you,

Rest In Peace Jack Walker.

© John-Mark Reid
i am new to your site and new to poetry. My name is john reid and i am studying creative writing at the university of cumbria. I am comfortable in all modes of writing other than poetry so tried to use football, a subject i am comfortable on, to numb the pain.

it worked and i have a poem here, after finding a suject matter close to heart that i would like your opinion on.

I am a blackburn rovers fan and as any rover will tell you Jack Walker still rests in my heart as a massive part of the club. this is the suject matter for my poem, any feedback will be gladly received
thank you

The Substitute

Sitting in the changing room with smells amongst the air,
Of cigarettes and deep heat that makes my nostrils flare,
Sitting taking orders from everyone around,
Come on I think, it’s cold, let’s get on the ground.

Waiting patiently I sit – will I make the team?
I trained so hard last night surely he’s not that mean?
Then the clip board comes out and silences the crowd,
Please say my name you know I’ll do you proud!

The list of names flow quickly – I feel a wobble in my chin,
One name left I panic – am I in, am I in!
Disappointment fills my mind my chances here look bleak,
“Everyone’s important” says he , train harder next week.

I stagger wearily to the side line of the pitch,
And pray to God that someone twists their ankle in a ditch,
As the final whistle blows I haven’t had my chance,
The team skips past truimphantly not giving me a glance.

© Chris

On the departure of Steven Bruce

A bad workman blames his tools
A hopeless captain his crew of fools
An equivocating board of little use
Hello chaos goodbye Bruce

© bobharford


Who needs all ninety minutes? You can watch
Edited highlights – they’re more than enough:
The only things that matter in a match,
All of it end to end, exciting stuff.
Do-or-die tackles, every pass spot on ,
Each shot a screamer fit to burst the net,
The Beautiful Game with all the dull bits gone
Is what we want. The rest you can forget.

Off-screen, it’s different. Real life’s not about
Winning the league, the lifting of a cup.
The moves break down, the build-ups fizzle out.
Hanging around when people don’t turn up,
Waiting to get the ball back from the crowd:
That’s the real game. The bulk of it is dud.
The goals are flukes or cruelly disallowed.
Most of my life, I’ve slogged through midfield mud.

© Dave Whippman 2007

Two words

Two words
One love
One word
Two Words
Favourite Team
Home Ground
Nick Name
One Word
Two Words

Two Words
Last Season
One Word
Two Words
We’re Staying
Three Words
One Word
Two Words

Two Words
Favourite Player
Bobby Moore
Best Player
Bobby Moore
Three Words
World Cup Winner
Four Words
For Ever In History
One Word
One song
We are for ever blowing bubbles

© Raju Ahmed

steven gerrard
Steven Gerrard is so great
Tackling everyone
Every time he plays
Very loving as well as hard
Excellent skills
No one can beat him

Good hatricks
Everyone loves him
Ridiculously scoring so many
Reading the football book
Asking for the ball
Risking his life thinking if he doesn’t score
Dying of sweat

© jessica


losing again…
the flick of a divot
in the linesman’s sprint

© Matthew Paul
Loftus Road, 4/12/07. It’s not looking good. Get rid of loan players – none of them play with any pride…

Source: http://footballpoets.org/news/2008/01/03/a-welcome-in-nov-dec-07happy-new-year-2008/