This archive contains every poem that has been published on Football Poets. They are listed ten-per-page in reverse chronological order so the most recent poems appear first. Click or tap the arrows in the corners of the page to navigate between pages. It's easier to use the search form below to find a specific poem.
Let’s get real
It’s not that Liverpool
Failed to deliver on passes
It’s all down to the fact
Klopp is wearing new glasses!
take place at Stade de France
Without doubt great news
and big hope
But there is potential
when I think about
the past football matches I saw there
One of those matches has been
The World Cup Semi-Final
But the victory at Stade de France
against the disease is our
ultimate goal now
Let me watch 1998 World Cup goals
on Youtube and let me
listen about thousands of
Covid vaccinations at Stade de France
God give us the chance now
Touching seventy, wizened, livid as sin
Nicotine dentures, knotted scarf, curlers in
By the time, a breath-gasping interval came
Down,“The Lane”, midst an exasperating game
She’d hordes a South West Londoners querying…
Our legitimacy, at birth, in the main?
Yes, him yet again
Steers Ingerland one nil in front
To a cacophony of moaning n groans,
We cringe as a napping John Stones
Leaves us pole-axed to be perfectly blunt
The Three Lions beginning to tire,
Another Harry…this time Maguire
Atones, on behalf of Stones, being a chump.
Just off Brisbane Road
Stands a desirable abode
Micky (The Brickie) built himself, from scratch
Though he had a slight conundrum
Him not hailing from East London
Where to go for a few light ales, and catch a match?
See, Micky hails from Pimlico
Where Old Father Thames doth ebb n flow
A goal-kick down the river-side from Stamford Bridge
So, jumping ship to support The O’s
Caused harsh words, and bitter…whoa’s
Till Micky’s ma steamed in, false-teeth in her fists.
Anyways, I’m down The Lea Bridge Road
Approaching Micky’s highly desirable abode
Thought I’d give our mate a bell, on the dog n bone?
His ma said he’s always in
Doing home improvements, that sort of thing
Though he goes to see The O’s if they’re at home?
A fuzzy, bonjour, bonjour, bonjour
Emanating out of a South West London jaw
Had me looking at my dog in dis-belief,
“Oi mate, who the fluffing heck are you?”,
I screamed aloud as I’m prone to do
Dealing with a low-life dog n bone tea-leaf?
“Bonjour mon ami, it’s Micky
Son, this line is pretty dicky
I’m living on the coast in North West France
Kev, be sure to come over sometime soon
I’ve built another gaff, we’ve loads a room
Blag a Ryan-air, when you’ve half a chance”.
“But, what about the des res off Brisbane Road?
Your new found allegiance to The O’s?
You just can’t walk away from stuff in life like that?”,
“Kev, met this blinding French bird Ann-Marie,
Used to follow PSG, fancied a change, just like me
The pair of us are regulars at our local match.
Son, I know it isn’t quite the same
But, in the bigger scheme of things, what’s a name?
Changing teams again, deems me a turn-coat I suppose?
Here in North West France they may well be
and Brisbane Road, ain’t exactly a short hop to Brittany
Yet F.C Lorient, to the gorgeous Ann-Marie, and me are still The O’s”.
A politician from Ireland
Was asked for his views
How did his country
to Luxembourg lose?
He thought for a while
Before he decided
That the country
Should be divided.
He announced with no humour
Minus a glimmer of wit
That like his own country
Luxembourg – should be split
Then with his rant finally over
He went off for a jar
And on his phone cancelled out
His hotel in Qatar.
“Oi Ginger! Go in goal?
Jimmy, you’re no good so ‘n so
You’re as useful as a fork for sipping soup”,
“Ginger, I know you wanna play full- back
But six-two down, us getting thrashed
You in goal, there’s a chance we might improve”.
Sporting a raging bleating hump
I gave leather spherical a thump
Spat on me gloves, crossed myself in prayer
Dancing back to guard the battered goal
Cursing Jimmy, the so ‘n so
Firing daggers at him via a flaming glare.
Punching a corner unopposed
I’m dancing on tip toes
Twelve years old the saviour of the side
Wallowing in wondrous self esteem
I’m every London-Irish captain’s dream…
That young fella, Enda called to stem the tide.
In the eighteen yard box on me Tod
Rising rueful from the dewy sod
Smell of dubbined leather neath me chin
A gorgeous face beside the goal
Smiles, applauds, and stops mid-stroll,
“Hello Ginger bhoy, I’m Enda’s cousin, Erin”.
Making saves, struggling to talk
Fazed by simmering brown eyes, here, from Cork
A welcome distraction to keep the deficit at six
Braggadocio insists I scream, n shout
Inspiration of a sculptured marble pout
Leaning on my post, a blade a grass between moist lips.
The final whistle blows…six-four
Enda roars, “Three Cheers”, (Can’t recall who for?)
I’ve other stuff in mind than to shake a muddy hand
Striding across a sodden field of green
All of a sudden, my recently discovered dream
Sped off in the front of a Transit van, with Enda’s mam.
Christening Hooley, a table full of mates
Enda mentioned, Erin emigrated to The States
Wed a good for nothing lazy get, gave up the ghost
I prefer to recall the day, fate deemed I go in goal
Simmering brown eyes caressed my soul
Blade a grass twixt moist lips, pouting ‘gainst a post.
Potentially the champions
they became the lost generation
forgotten by history
Everywhere the people were
singing Unite Unite Europe
Italy welcomed The Scottish knights
and what potential
Their decisive match with Brazil
such bitter disapointment
Brazil already qualified scored that goal …paradoxical
and Scotland’s great team had to leave the tournament
Everywhere the song which celebrated Europe was heard
Unite Unite Europe
At home in Scotland watching
the Italy 1990 World Cup
people wanted the Scotland Team
to stay as long as it was possible at the tournament
What the lost generation
Italy was sunny
and Ireland did well with
Jackie Charlton’s Army
England had the epic and heartbreaking
But I think of that 1990 Scotland team
forgotten by history
Three decades have gone by
What do we have now…
In which world are we living ?But the early 90’s
that promising time and the start
of the decade of crisis
The first shock of that World Cup
was Costa Rica’s victory
The most beautiful moment was created by Roger Milla
The star who attracted attention
was Carlos Valderrama
Maradona as well
But Scotland and Brazil
But suddenly the goal came
The goal Brazil didn’t need to score
And The Scotland team became
the lost generation
The tragic Italian story for the
Sotland team composed of heroes
A word for Frank Worthington, memorable goals
Elvis in footie boots pure Rock & Roll
A maverick magician with the swag of the street
Got the terrace all thumping and up off its feet
Match of the Day Bolton check out youtube
Never been bettered proper old school.
A most dynamic midfielder
Was Der Kaiser’s match leader
When the legs began to lack pace
Had the vision to switch to sweeper
Lothar Herbert Matthäus
From Erlangen he hailed
Mönchengladbach aged eighteen
National team his boat soon sailed
Euro champ in nineteen eighty
Eighty two a punch from Altobelli
Didn’t play in the final
Awed at Rossi and Tardelli
Bayern general and all time legend
In Mexico now a regular pick
Shackled Maradona in the final
But Diego had one last trick
Spun by his marker at the death
Matthäus lost sight of Maradona
Slinky run, split pass to Burruchaga
It was the World Cup winner
Inter lynchpin by Italia ninety
Missile against Yugoslavia
Mazy power sprint, breathless strike
Calcio winner, world’s best player
Four goals and in prime peak form
In the final Armando wasn’t far
Gifting the winning kick to Brehme
Lifting the World Cup as skipper
94, a twenty first world cup game
To join Diego, Seeler and Zmuda
Fuel in the tank for France ninety eight
Broke the record when replacing Sammer
Matthäus, the complete baller
Champions league proved too hot
Mesmerising runs, vision to boot
King of the heat seeking shot
© emdad rahman