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Poems tagged ‘Chelsea’

Ray haiku

Crispin Thomas

Thursday, April 5th, 2018

they called him the crab

passing with that measured touch

farewell Ray Wilkins

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Anto Neo

Clik The Mouse

Monday, February 19th, 2018

CFC v WBA, 3-0
Goals: Hazard, Moses, Hazard

I attended this match
And brought my bairn
If the Prem be a pile of stones
We’re no longer top of the cairn

The atmosphere was mixed
The title beyond our reach
Performances lately have been ragged
And points we’ve allowed to leach

After a nervy jittery start
We soon rolled in a handsome three
Good to be back on track
And to see us on a spree

An-to-ni-o, An-to-ni-o!
An-to-ni-o, An-to-ni-o!

The manager certainly had our backing
His name chanted between every score
For support he wasn’t lacking
From this unified hard-core

An-to-ni-o, An-to-ni-o!
An-to-ni-o, An-to-ni-o!

With each and every gesture
As he frolicked on the line
The Shed burst into song
That sent a tingle down his spine

An-to-ni-o, An-to-ni-o!
An-to-ni-o, An-to-ni-o!

And such did he acknowledge
When pressed the next day
His partisanship with the crowd
Encouraging him to stay!

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It’s a generational thing

Clik The Mouse

Tuesday, January 9th, 2018

Yet have I to acquaint myself, with Spotify…
An absurdity to those
Who know only of Conte and Kante,
Morata and Hazard

Whereas I
I hark back
To the days of Kunta Kinte,
Osgood, Cooke,
Bonetti, Tambling
Just one of the reasons
Why I have no truck with shirts
Supporting gambling

Bugbears have I many…
“Curmudgeon” could grace my back
Yet I don’t take delight
Every time a sucker gets the sack

Spot if I
Anyone ever connected with my great team
I follow the link
To see howso-endeth, their cosmic dream

Apprentices of yesteryear
Loanees of today
Grounsdmen, medics, stewards
Or those yet to play….

Whereas my kith and kin
Careth not a jot
Unless someone is front and centre,
Of social media renown,
And then they only wish
For a startling comedown

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Our First Home Game in ’58 (Chelsea 6-2 Wolves )

Crispin Thomas

Thursday, August 17th, 2017

I recall that Saturday like yesterday
a steaming summer
our first home game in ‘58
excitement
and childlike expectation in the air
August in London and sweltering
“stand clear of the doors!” “wear your colour!”
“official programme sixpence a go!”
“roasted peanuts ‘tanner’ a bag!”
welcome to the season welcome to Wolves
stopping to gaze at star badges
of Blunstone and Greaves in plastic and blue
as bearing down on Stamford Bridge
those teeming weaving crowds
all short-sleeved in the Fulham Road
and in the distance floodlight pylons
tower and loom on blue blue sky
while sun sparkles on concrete old and open
ninepence for kids one and six for adults
but wait what’s this ? sold out and heaving!!
you said “let’s try bunking in” and we did
between the legs in turnstile mayhem
nervous and torn clutching melting lollies
and passed down the front
we sat in awe upon that track
62,000 behind us baying swaying

and do you remember the score?
six-two a blur of blue and gold
of goals and cheers
young Jimmy rampant as that crested lion
Billy Wright chasing shadows
you with two ribbons to a wooden rattle stapled
and me in my rough striped scarf
that mum had sat up half the night
embroidering strange names upon
but I wore it in the heat anyway
and later in the street
on neighours walls with chalk for goalposts
between the ice cream van and the pavement
we lived it through again and again and again
and never knew that to this day we always would

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More tomorrows please!

Clik The Mouse

Thursday, May 11th, 2017

I crest the wave –
for all of a few seconds
then crash under water
spinning like a chased seal
and finally surfacing
spitting salt ‘n seaweed –
surfing just isn’t my ding-a-ling

I crest the brow of the hill
puffing cheeks like a blowfish
then stare contentedly across the valley –
down on my village nestling
twixt babbling brook and verdant vale

look – there’s the new pitch, new dressing room –
so much to be proud of
and yet…
there’s something missing

for it’s a different code, a different land…

the crest that I crave
is hermetically sealed across my chest
and there’s no doubting
that it’ll be there forever…

but when the boys run out tomorrow
and do their stuff
and win the Prem – again…

I won’t be there
for I’m too far away
an emigré, turning grey
far across the sea –
but that sea of Blue
will ripple right from the start
and crash ashore
like a swell to my heart!

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The Man Who Loves To Dribble

Crispin Thomas

Tuesday, February 7th, 2017

the man who sets the game alight
like fire from tiny twigs
and with a sigh he dances by
the towering – the big

the man who loves to improvise
the concentrating eyes
the teasing shift the grace the twist
all cloaked in sweet disguise

the man who stands there like a child
with dribbling on his mind
the shoulder drops he turns he stops
then leaves them all behind

we watch in wonder and bemused
what happened to last season?
the magic flows the Garden grows
who doesn’t love our Eden?

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Chelsea 6 Newcastle Utd 5

John Oliver

Tuesday, September 22nd, 2015

Sept the 10th 1958
To have been at ‘The Bridge’
Must have been great
A Six Five Special they said at the time
Joy and heartache on The Thames and The Tyne
Young Greaves scored Two and twice smacked the bar
The Geordies hit Five with Len White their star
A wet Wednesday night I seem to recall
But a glorious memory of attacking football
And now up here on Tyneside what do we see
In Six premier league games we have scored only Three
Minimal goal attempts in a disastrous run
And gone are  the ‘Len Whites’ who scored goals for fun.

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Walking From Games

Crispin Thomas

Thursday, March 24th, 2011

I was thinking about all the moments
when you’re walking away from a game
’cause however you played as the memories fade
the feelings are never the same
as you re-trace the steps of your childhood
where you grew up and played in those streets
and you walked and you moaned or you smiled heading home
down the years in success or defeat

and it’s just like returing from somewhere
when you’re back in the real world once more
and there’s lovers and strangers and big city dangers
and it’s all as it was just before
and it’s fine in the first bit surrounded
by fellow long- suffering fans
but soon your alone and you’re heading on home
but your head is still there in the stands

it’s the moment when something is over
when you’re back from wherever you’ve been
with your worries and stress and whatever lies next
and you’re trying to adapt to the scene
like you’ve just won the league or you’ve blown it
ecstatic or drained but elated
or you’re out of the cup and your number is up
and you realise you’ve been relegated

we’re like helpless and hopeless romantics
and as fans we’re all joined by a clip
and we share all these seasons spent searching for reasons
and we shoot with our thoughts from the hip
well we’ve been there we’ve done that we’ve shared it
the t-shirts are worn out and gone
but whatever the score it’s a sense to adore
and you know that you have to go on

and we live it and share those surroundings
as we file from the ground in some dream
to this this crazy old world that appears so surreal
wherever who-over your team

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Osgood Was Good

Crispin Thomas

Friday, March 3rd, 2006

he was an icon in sun and in rain
back of The Shed we just sang out his name
great in the air strong on the ground
“Osgood Is Good” that was the sound

Raquel Welch on that old touch-line
Steve McQueen and a bottle of wine
Terence Stamp the Beatles and Stones
sure is amazing how football’s grown

took us to Europe right to the top
took us up to Wembley saved us from drops
never won much did they as they please
but they were the Boys of the Seventies

still felt the awe with Ossie around
taking new fans on the Tour Of The Ground
back in October he stood by my side
watching Bolton getg tanned like a hide

still had the power still had the smile
still had charisma still had the style
Kings Road Fulham Road restaurant or bar
raise your glasses- a true superstar

Ossie was legend Ossie was Blue
Ossie was Chesea through and through
Ossie was king he was our Best
Osgood Was Good long may he rest

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The One and Only Joe Fascione

kevin raymond

Wednesday, June 29th, 2005

I’ve heard all kinds of luvverly tales
Along the Fulham Road
Fulham have their Al-Fayed
Palace Ronnie Noades
But I don’t listen to a word they say
All of it is pony*
The only bloke I idolised
The one and only Joe Fascione!

Never knew a thing about him
Didn’t know from whenst he came
The first name that I looked for
In the programme at each game
Keep ye doozle dogs and Bovril
Pray give me macaroni
Cos it sounds just like me idol
The one and only Joe Fascione!

Barry Bridges and Bert Murray
Both of them were stars
The rest of our professionals
Spent too much time in bars
Flatter to deceive, then fall down
All of its a phoney
None of that for me idol
The one and only Joe Fascione!

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/chelsea/page/5/