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Poems tagged ‘Football’

Coventry and Coventry City

joe morris

Tuesday, January 3rd, 2023

So this New Year we were Coventry bound
Family ready to Auld Lang Syne in the land
Where once Jimmy Hill’s beard and chin
Bristled with comforting oratory
Chit chat about everything
From the maximum wage in
The 1960s kitchen sink dramas
To boundary breaking all-seater
Stadiums at the now historic
Highfield Road babbling brook
Of gossip where once season ticket
Holders held mournful post mortems
On where it had all gone so horribly
Wrong, terraces haunted by
Ill informed speculation,
Faultlines, foibles and setbacks,
Exposed by brittle inadequacies,
A downward spiral to the dingy
Dripping chambers of defeat after defeat
The lower rungs of the League ladder
Coventry quite literally sent to Coventry
Criminally neglected and marginalised
Forgotten by form, hitting rock bottom
But not quite
Relegation renders them helpless
Dumbfounded and speechless
And yet it had all looked right and proper
When the bearded Jimmy promised the Sky
Blue revolution, sit down here and there
Everywhere. Send those fleets of cars
Into European close season battle,
Flashing and flickering electronic
Scoreboards.
Time for fresh coats of paint
Experimentation and epoch making
Innovation on your doorstep
Now there was Willie Carr, Ernie
Hunt and Tommy Hutchinson,
Carr. Now there was a striking
Coincidence. Who saw that cheeky
Free kick flick coming which resulted in
Inventive routines that left
The ball nestling in the net
A goal of stupendous improvisation
Open mouthed in unison
Supporters reduced to admiring silence
Now though Highfield Road simply
Tradition hijacked by progress
New stadiums, new chants
Boldly treading into the unknown
Now Coventry flirting with the Ricoh
Arena sharing with sting left behind of rugby Wasps
But now, as we know
Shrouded in a veil of nowhere as such
Remembering the old First Division
Like grand-dads and great grand-dads
Once fondly told us about rickety turnstiles
Damp all standing terraces
Where early 1950s trams and rattles
Made their lively voices heard
And years later Third Division South
Sent cold breaths of winter
Into the Midlands air
While Woodbines and tobacco
Were nursed preciously
Over festive roast chestnuts
And Gordon Milne sparked
Coventry into a frenzy of activity
Seemingly secure sitting tenants
Of the old First Division
And then the FA Cup was held
High by John Sillett and George Curtis
Into 1987 fantasy land
Coventry briefly in fairy tale
Romantic environments
But then falling flat on their faces
When the 1990s came calling
And still Coventry tread water
In the Championship
No longer fuelled by hope
The famous car plant’s
Acceleration towards Liverpool,
Manchester City, United, Arsenal
And Spurs, stalled to a shuddering halt
Now Bristol City and Ipswich Town
Scrabbling around for scrag ends
Of meat and sustenance
No longer disgraced but it used
To be the exalted company of the
Big boys, the bigger fish
How the neutrals beg for another
Willy Carr moment of hilarious whimsy
Coventry racing towards Premier League
Stature and saturation TV exposure
Still a work in progress though
And waiting in the wings
Sky Blues no longer singing those notes
But their day will arrive
You can be sure once again

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Argentina – World Champions 2022

joe morris

Sunday, December 18th, 2022

Wow, now that was a World Cup Final to treasure
For eternity, a football masterpiece
Defying superlatives, pronouns
Metaphors, similes
The laws of gravity almost
Since the Empyrean heights
Have been reached
In deepest Rosario, Cordoba and Beunos Aires
Where ticker tape celebrations will
Commence again
Handsomely, beautifully
Beyond syntax and vocabulary
And of course description
Argentina World Champions 2022
Richly deserved from the first whistle
Although forced to sweat rivers
When the French legion had sent
the cavalry and the kitchen sink
Into imaginary Bastille contests
M’Bappe finally scores his hat-trick
A World Cup record now rubbed away
Sir Geoff of the class of 66 relieved
At last, a brandy and cigar
To acclaim your French heir to the
Throne
Then the master of tango
Made his final bow
And now for the ultimate eulogy
Lionel Messi, classical, masterful,
Destined to be knighted at the court
Of Lionel Scaloni, Messi scores
The fated, portentous goal of a lifetime
But just over the line
And yet this was much more than
A singular South American landscape
Burnished with Latin blue and white
Mosaics and textures that France
Had no easel for and answer too
Since this was a collective piece de
Resistance against a France
Seeking theirs
Messi, Fernandez,
The deliciously skilful Alvarez,
Molina all pulling, pushing, prodding
Prompting ad infinitum, clusters of
Passes that left France
Gasping for oxygen at times
Then there were the silent whispers
Of clandestine plots and scheming
Manoeuvers off the cuff.
Messi waving the baton
All the while
Montiel, Otomendi
Treating the ball with all the tenderness
Of a team deeply in love with
The Beautiful Game
Advocating the pure simplicities
Of pass and move, give and go
The ball almost as delicate as porcelain
In Argentinian hands
Emerged from the kiln
Like an earthenware vase
Gleaming with a sheen
Firstly the Messi penalty
Rifled from the hip
Argentina one up first blood
Then De Maria who was the provider
Just kept going
As if Manchester United were
But a fond memory
Naturally Messi strikes up
Another symphony
Of perfect pitch and tone
Two goals in one game
Flawless crotchets and quavers
The masterclass written
In the stars, his stage,
His platform, a script
To remember, savour, salivate
Roll around the tongue
Like the sweetest dinner wine
Then after an explosion of six
Goals, crashing cymbals and
Thunderous pianoforte
This breathtaking contest
Finally stopped and considered
Its place in history
Beethoven and Mozart
Would have been deeply proud
Of the pulsating movements
Intriguing fortissimos
The wild and contrasting moods
Backwards and forwards
Sultry sounds and vivid images
Too good to be true
But the final whistle went
And after yet more penalty
Trials and tribulations
Along the avenidas and
Out on the plangent pampas
The mind briefly remembered
1978 when Ossie and Ricky,
Luque and Kempes
Gave us art studios of talent
While Holland wondered whether
Their World Cup day would ever
Arrive like an Amsterdam tram
Put down your cloths and brushes
Argentina, your work is done
France you were feline and
Faithful to values and virtues
As well

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A word or several of thanks to you

joe morris

Saturday, October 29th, 2022

Now here’s a word or two
To you all on Football Poets
Waxing lyrical superbly so
Yours truly now in print
The book is called Football’s Poetic Licence
Let the mind set you free
On the highway to football’s soul
And imagination
Football’s Poetic Licence
On Amazon, now, wow
My fellow wordsmiths
Truly my inspiration
You’re my prompt,
My cue to the gateway
To football’s literary
Goldmines where words
And pearls
Touched upon the greatness
And genius of Bobby Moore
And Charlton
The princely perfection
Of Pele, Cruyff and De Stefano
Knights of the realm
In shirts of purple and then
Ermine, surrounded
By football royalty
Football Poets
On this glorious site
Best and you’re the best
Keep going my like minded
Word perfect friends
Football’s Poetic Licence
You might like to indulge
In a glance or two
Thankyou so much

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Rishi Sunak is a Saint

joe morris

Tuesday, October 25th, 2022

So it is that we learn
That Rishi Sunak is a Saint
Southampton through and through
Preaching the gospel of those
Who pay their hard- earned cash
At St Mary’s
Angelic, a paragon of virtue
Always early for Sunday
Morning gatherings
Amid the saintly pews
And stained glass windows
Good morning vicar
Sunak in his Sunday best
Dressed in his sartorially
Elegant apparel
Rishi politeness personified
At the altar of weekend
Football, one of Ralph’s
Faithful zealots
But mindful of the game’s
Mind blowing finances
The billions sweeping through
Sky’s kaleidoscope of colours
A man with wealth in his blood
But football in his heart
Too young to remember Ted Bates
Then briefly Ossie Osgood
Then Channon, Keegan, Bowyer,
Steve Williams the tuning fork
Lightning conductor in midfield
But the men from the neat
And compact Dell
Basked in the tropical
Sunbeams of FA Cup
Final victory in 1976
A day against the world famous
Manchester United, one to
Place alongside Rishi’s treasure
Trove of fond football’s
Reminiscences
But surely before his recall
When the much loved and late
Bobby Stokes drilled his shot
Wide and beyond the helpless
Alex Stepney
Southampton the toast of the
South Coast
In that boiling summer of 1976
Oh what a summer
Heartfelt and sentimental as the
Rest of those neutral fans
Who loved the underdogs
The giant killers
The saintly congregation
Of Rishi’s flock
When Lawrie Mcmenemy
Stood tall and upright
Convinced of Southampton’s
Divine right
To be a team of stature,
Recognised as Wembley
Winners
FA Cup Final laurels
And blooming bouquets
Of celebratory pomp
Of May days of victory
Winners, glory glory
But now no more than
History’s distant companion
Clothed in gold
Southampton win the Cup
That sentence is like a Dickensian
Page oozing with old school charm
Sweetly pungent as the first cake
Of the day
Oh Rishi Sunak
The Saints
Wherever you go

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Her Majesty the Queen

joe morris

Sunday, September 11th, 2022

Amid the sorrow and grief
Of the loss felt
By the multitudes
Around the world
Her Majesty the Queen
Passes into the chapters
Of history
Now resting in peace
But leaving love and
Adoration and reverence
Across the global frontiers
Oh splendidly and wholeheartedly
Seven decades of delicious
Regality and matchless serenity
We’ll never know though
Whether you were Arsenal
Or West Ham
A Gunner or Hammer
But certainly
Metropolitan leanings
Rosettes and banners
In sumptuous taste
Next to golden chests of drawers
Decorating the rich embroidery
Of your palatial surrounds
Perhaps a rattle or klaxon
From some 1950s Cup Final
Ebb and flow
For Her Majesty’s first was
In her spectacular Coronation
Year, 1953
Weeks before the formality
Of grandiose tiaras and crowns
Perhaps Her Majesty donned
The Tangerines shirt of Blackpool
As the two honourable Stans
Matthews and Mortensen
Men of determinedly working
Class roots, grounded pragmatism
Wove, stitched, teased, enticed,
Lured Bolton into a false sense
Of security, Matthews, cunning,
Mischievous, shuffling and shifty,
Playing childhood games with
Impressionable white Bolton shirts,
Jinking, darting and then the low
Cut back cross for Bill Perry
That rang the bell for immortality
Footballing deceit complete
Skulduggery from the wing
Her Majesty witnesses her first
Blackpool rock show
Her Majesty embraces the seaside
Breezes wafting around the old
Wembley,
The most discerning observer
We feel sure
Bolton though just forgotten
In the seven- goal blizzard
But your Majesty we will
Always remember your May
Appointments with the FA Cup
Final, perhaps your loyalties
Were always divided
Indifference to it all
Disinterested by the loud
Cheering from swaying
Crowds and vibrant chants
And , the free kicks
And corners, the vital
Last minute penalty
For Her Majesty you
Had nothing but
Celebrated impartiality
To any result or replay
Once declaring that Britain
Would see some fine football
At the gastronomic feasts
Of 1966 World Cup treats
Unaffected by the joys
And the triumphs of the
Beautiful Game
But now Her Majesty
We’ll never forget your
Charm and dignity
Your lifelong affinity
To horses and racing
Colours
The steeds and thoroughbreds
From the finest paddocks
Her Majesty of beauty and strength
Stamina and unquestioning
Longevity, your impeccable service
Highbury or Upton Park, though
We’ll never know
But the world and football
Salutes you
We’ll never forget you
Our glorious Queen

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Fellow Football Bards

joe morris

Monday, August 8th, 2022

Fellow Football Bards
Certainly no yellow or
Red cards
It’s a privilege to be in
Your company
To all of my fellow
Football Poets
You’re all brilliant
And exceptional

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First Premier League weekend

joe morris

Sunday, August 7th, 2022

And so we kick off yet again
After 120 plus years of hostility,
Adversity and truly
Remarkable achievements
Picture postcards of triumphant
League titles and horrific
Promotion and relegation
Pain and pleasure
The fascinating extremes
But it’s Sunday evening
And the Premier League
Has yielded its certainties
Predictabilities and
Yes, you’ve guessed it
Inevitabilities
Oh what sweet joy
Palace are broken
Into by the brutal
Ammunition of
Gunners firing
Flamboyant flares
Accurate missiles
Arsenal, opening
Up the first page
Of their picturesque
Prose and verse
A profusion of
Perfect diction,
Page after page
Of theatrical
Movement
Melodic reminders
Of Wenger’s Invincibles
Patient and sharply
Innovative, passing,
Refreshingly ambitious
Could be contenders
Meanwhile Bournemouth
Inspired by invigorating
Bracing seaside air
Beat Villa at the Vitality
Steven Gerrard with
Homework and revision
To concentrate the mind
Then Fulham once mocked
By the cynics
For their lack of buoyancy
Back in the top flight
After sliding from view
Into the darker waters of the
Championship
Just for a season
Everton, relieved to
Be among the earls
And dukes of the
Premier League elite
Fulham though
Silencing the Anfield rap
Jurgen’s Liverpool
Held to ransom
But still jaundiced
And poorly under the
Weather
Too much heat and
Sun and heightened hopes
Everton, though
Where once Goodison
Was once the Bank of
England
Now possibly a high
Street building society
Some would say
A farcical charade
A freak show
Of harlequins
And court jesters
Jugglers and acrobats
In the big top
But Frank Lampard
Will attempt to be
A capable pair of
Hands at the tiller
Beaten by a Chelsea
Without Russian
Trappings of luxury
And affluence
Moody, brooding
Sulky Lukaku
But still a goal
Too much for
Everton to handle
And now Leeds
Maybe a contradiction
In terms at times
Neither hot nor cold
Brilliant and breath-taking
From a historical perspective
Before plunging to the bottom
Of the well in League One
An embodiment of disasters
But yesterday brand new,
Respectable, spick and span
It’s amazing what an American can
Do in the heart of Yorkshire
Jesse Marsch as opposed to
James, flinging open the
Wild West saloon doors
Get me a bourbon, barman
Leeds devour the latest pack
Of hungry Wolves
Old gold but never ominous
Leeds leading the way
And models of resurgence
Back where they belong
Newcastle finally breathing
Fire and full of intoxicating
Ales from Geordie breweries
Overcome
Forest, back among the big boys
Where once Cloughie delivered
Sermons and lectures
Loved by the purists
Who believed too
That football should be
Played on the grass
Rather than next to
The old Concorde
Or Jumbo jets at the
Highest altitude
And then Spurs
Now there’s an
Interesting case
Microscopically
Analysed, attacked
Viciously in one
Breath before
Handsomely despatching
Less than saintly Saints
With a dismissive sweep
Of both feet and head
Utterly contemptuous
Bombast and bumptious
Revelling in August splendour
First day of the season grandeur
Farewell Southampton
Four goals of supreme quality
Tottenham out of the blocks
Like the nearby Harringay
Greyhounds in the old days
Leicester fair to middling
Honours even
At the King Power
With charming Brentford
Still living on old wartime
Anecdotes but now modern,
Forward thinking, go ahead
Playing football under the sweetest
Danish, icing on the cake
Inspired by the right directors
And producers
Lovely choreography
Perfectly conceived
And executed
By men of honour
Finally Manchester United
Oh woe again
Surely this is a Greek
Tragedy, beaten
At Old Trafford
Bountiful, breezy
Brighton, no
Saucy postcards
Or seaside humour
Just a Potter moulding
The finest material
Not quite a crisis
For United
But Accident and
Emergency are ready
And waiting
Manchester United
Lose to Brighton
On day one
Liverpool not quite
Up to their Saturday
Lunchtime best
Room for improvement
One and all.
Finally City, perhaps
Just stately and leisurely
At the London Stadium
Champions always know
How to pace themselves
Winning without moving
Out of first gear
West Ham still reflecting
On last season’s European
Jaunts, not quite at the
Proverbial races
Basking in Mediterranean,
Sweltering fahrenheits
Beaten but far from bowed
37 games to go.

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The new football season

joe morris

Thursday, August 4th, 2022

Like excited families
Counting down the last
Days of the old year
Smiling and laughing
At the prospect of the New Year
The new football season
Is back again
Out with the past
Welcoming the future
Good riddance to taking
The knee,
Just to learn to live with
Each other
Just tolerance
Please, no
Racism anymore
Or maybe yes
Yet more prejudice
If that’s how you feel
In which case
Then we apologise
For the FA’s rashness
It wasn’t their fault
As usual
But this weekend
The Premier League
Starts up her engines
Checks the carburettor,
The oil and fuel
Of autumn, winter,
Spring and early summer
Football now
A permanent mechanism
That just keeps going
Like the relentless ding
Dong bell of Big Ben
On the hour like clockwork
Football
Spanning the cracking tap
Of the conker season in
Early September
Before taking flight
Into even more vinegary
Premier League rivalry
Winding, wending
Its laborious way
Through dark tunnels
Of uncertainty
Before the conclusive
And comprehensive finales
Of Spring and May
Twisting and turning to
The chilling and wintry
Pinnacles of the end of the
Year, when Suddenly
November loses its cymbals
And dramatic drums,
Violins stop weeping
Pianos gently
Tinkling away
In the background
Football
Resigned to its fate
Before the Premier League
Stops and grinds to
A temporary halt
Those final crotchets and quavers
Now no more than
An autumnal crackle of
The pub log fire
This year is World Cup
Year. But now switched
To a date more suited
To Santa Claus liking
Wrap your presents
Now. For the World
Cup Final is a week
Before Christmas Eve
Who knows
They may even appoint
Father Christmas as the
Referee for the World Cup Final
But the Premier League is back
This weekend
As opposed to Saturday
At three in the afternoon
Traditionalists stare into
Their pints of bitter with
Perhaps bitterness
That’s logical, is it not?
But the goal posts and crossbars
Wait patiently for our ludicrously rewarded
Icons and idols to line up
In outlandish costumes of technicolour
Rather like the early morning commuters
On well trodden railway platforms
And yet this is the start of a new football
Season. It’s set in stone, tablets of August
Stone,
Like a familiar uncle or much loved cousin
Football played on its customary
Green snooker baize, every blade of grass
Smoothed, bevelled, sculpted and
Beautifully manicured,
Like soldiers on parade
Lined together
Horizontal and vertical
Perfection
It’s the big kick off
Everybody
Manchester City back
At the London Stadium
Where a couple of seasons
Ago, a 5-0 hammering
Of the Hammers
Your team
Was more or less a loud
Tannoy announcement
We will win the Premier
League by Christmas
But throw those omens
Out of the window
There have to be claret
And blue textures
To savour on the opening day
Of those wonderful fixtures
You have to believe
So Pep, Jurgen, Mikel,
Thomas Tuchel,
Or quite possibly Manchester United
But surely under re-construction
A painstaking work in progress
Football returns
From its holiday
Recreational days
Now counting down the hours
Before World Cup
Combats
And the Premier League
Pauses for breath
In November abeyance
Though it’ll be back again
Football all the way
To the bank
And beyond

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Terry Neill obituary

joe morris

Thursday, July 28th, 2022

And so we remember the passing
Of an Irish legend
On the cusp of his octogenarian
Pride of place
Within the marbled halls of
Arsenal’s Highbury
Terry Neill, a yeoman of the
Guard, a sterling defender
A bastion of red blooded
Robustness, strong, impassable
A green brick wall of impregnability
Northern Ireland will mourn
This tower of strength
Through the tempestuous
Bloody battles of the IRA
When none could silence
The heartache and suffering
Of the eternally witty and lyrical
People of Belfast and the Shankhill
Road, lovely people who just wanted
To live under the warm blanket
Of peace and love
Neill arrived at Arsenal
And fastened himself securely
To the folklore once spread
By the Boy Bastin, Hapgood, the
The elusive and delightful Alex
James
Then Neill encountered
Brady. Liam Brady and sighed
With religious reverence
Brady, so young but replete
With originality and heaven sent
Talent
Then out of the corner of
Neill’s eye spotted Peter
Storey, Jon Samuels, Eddie Kelly,
George Graham
Too good to be true
A festival and carnival
Had arrived in Neill’s vision
Then there were the managerial
Years at Arsenal,
Three consecutive FA Cup Finals
Defeat in 78 by the country folk
Of Suffolk’s Ipswich Town
Roger Osborne stunned and
Overcome in rhapsodies of blue
He did score the winning goal
But Arsenal quickly erased
These horrendous Wembley
Images from their mind
A year later Arsenal
Return to the scene of the crime
And narrowly edge an epic
Five goal thriller against the world
Famous and fabled Manchester United
A delicious concoction of Irish stews
Frank Stapleton, David O’Leary and
Liam Brady intoxicate the soul
And the palate
Then in 1980, a knight of the realm
Now, stooped to conquer
With claret and blue signatures
Sir Trevor Brooking, unlikely
And physically improbable
West Ham, through and through
A headed winner so low down
On the grass and soil of Wembley’s
Green acres
That couldn’t have happened
Terry Neill, gracious in defeat
But still smiling at the romantic
Pages of Wembley past
Finally, Neill commits the cardinal sin
Crossing the great North London divide
Surely a rush of blood to the head
Boss at Spurs, the ultimate footballing
Betrayal, breaking Arsenal hearts
How dare he
Unforgivable surely but
Let bygones be bygones
Terry Neill full of Irish
Mellowness and the blarney
A man of engaging honesty
A quick quip or joke for the Clock
End at Highbury
Still unmistakably Arsenal
Through and through

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Yet more football

joe morris

Sunday, June 12th, 2022

Football now almost at
The heights of summer
When cricket blades
And tennis rackets
Shimmered through
The haze in a stunned daze
Last night Italy and England
Meet up in a revolving door
Haven’t they met before
This was familiarity
Breeding indifference
Who cares about this
Inconsequential non
Event, too many questions
About necessity and importance
UEFA Nations League
It sounds like a convenient excuse
For kick abouts on the beach
Between the nations of the world
On sand kissed Mediterranean shores
Flip flops and crocs padding leisurely
Along whispering waters where
The sea meets the ocean
And the players of the Premier League
Massage battered cruciates and the aching
Limbs of winter where once tackles flew
Like gulls swooping down from afar
But Italy and England were still playing
That old song, that August to May
Sonata where passes were like
More illustrations in our mind
Precise as maths equations
Could somebody please give
A synopsis or detailed explanation
Of the UEFA Nations League
The brainchild of somebody
With too much time on their hands
Hard and cruel, but quite possibly
True,
And an international at Molineux
Now that had to be a first,
Or the first since 1950s rock and roll
A fleeting meeting with famished
Wolves.
Foraging for scraps
Still scratching our June heads
Bemused, confused
A goal-less draw, just a mystery
Some indecipherable code
Enigmatic as football in June
Sheer madness
Gareth Southgate,
Faintly apologetic
For lack of English
Firepower but Gareth
It is summer and
England are in
The Elysian fields
Of Trent Bridge
And cricket rules
The roost
Make plans for
Exotic bars, sangria
Heavenly haciendas
Chirruping Spanish
Cicadas, warm nights
Among the hypnotic
Fans and flamencos
Rest tired bodies
Tammy Abraham, Phil
Foden, Raheem Sterling,
Declan Rice, Trent Alexander
Arnold, Kieran Trippier
And the immensely gifted
Jack Grealish
The football season
Had completed its exams
During the middle of last
Month. There are no more
Prizes, incentives, medals
Put your feet up for just a while
Nurse your groin strains, beleaguered
Ankles, joints, gigantic bank balances
Adjust the designer sun glasses
Preservation orders on pina coladas
Protect the luxuries of life
Watch the apricot sun sink over
Varnished bodies, like mahogany
Cabinets ready for another coat
Stop the football carousel
UEFA Nations League
Surely meaningless and
Possibly too profound
For words
August is our Premier
League story
Chapters galore

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/football/page/4/