Poetry Archives

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.

The Dressing Room

In the realm of men’s camaraderie, so strong,
We gather, we bond, and we get along.
We drink together, sharing laughs and cheers,
And face the world,
conquering our fears.
In dressing rooms, our sanctuaries of trust,
Where conversations flow,
and no judgments thrust.

For once inside, you’re in for life’s ride,
With friends as brothers, side by side.
Yet for some,
being there makes no sense,
Holding back truths, a veil of a pretence.
‘I’m okay,’ they say,
wearing a brave face,
But deep inside, they crave a safe space.

Why don’t we ask, our openness extend,
To those beside us, who may need a friend?
What harm is there, in seeking advice,
In saying, ‘I need help,’
to break the ice?
So let’s cherish these ties that bind us tight,
Embrace the vulnerability, sharing the fight,

For in unity, in honesty, in being true,
It’s okay to not be okay,
we’ll be here for you.
Whether in a dressing room or a WhatsApp thread,
It matters not where we turn our heads.
Reach out friends,
our inbox is open wide,
To anyone feeling lost,
with nowhere to hide.

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Palace in the Roy Time

We’ve had ‘em all,
the hired guns,
the journey men,
the over the top of the hill.

Managers promising stability,
and less of a football thrill.

Pulis and Pardew.
Neil, Sam, and the Ollie.
Drawn by our desperation,
and the right amount of lolly.

We’ve tried to progress,
step up,
move on.
But each time we try,
we go back
to square one.

This time
we got lucky,
know he’s the one.
The steady hand
local boy,
Roy Hodgson.

His timely resurrection
is just what we need,
and his wish to play like Brazil.

So, we’ll stick by Roy,
especially if we manage
to create his de-aging pills.

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Roy Hodgson

We wish you well Roy
Since you were never coy
With your playful toy
At the Palace
Without malice
Tactics and formations
Those splendid transformations
When England called
You never fooled
Those who froze
Who know you well
Voice stronger than a bell
Clearer than ever
Those who thought
You were at the end of
Your tether
Who believed your style
Without any hint of bile
For Roy Hodgson
Poorly but surely
You convalesced
When put to the test
Roy, it was you who bossed
Added lustre and gloss
In charge of the Swiss
Never amiss
Finnish but never finished
Then Liverpool, Fulham,
And naturally England
Certainly not Rutland
Patriotic as warm beer
Always there
For us as like the
Red Routemaster bus
An elder statesman
But always ahead of the rest
Progressive as the best
Multi lingual, a polyglot
A man who’s got the lot
For country and club
This man at the hub
Centre stage
Never beige
The classical sage
With perfect humour and witty
Banter never the ranter
Impassioned but fashioned
By the finest cloth
Never with wrath
Forget Iceland
Merely a Neverland
A motivator and navigator
Of troubled midfield huddles
Muddled thinking
Tinkering but never sinking
Roy is your man
Who brings palatial riches
Overcoming the roughest ditches
And Selhurst Park hitches
Roy Hodgson, back in the
Hot seat, precise and neat
Suit, shirt and tie
Roy will undoubtedly apply
The Midas touch
We will always clutch
The memories of victories
Back in the technical dug out
Your expertise and clout
Welcome back Roy Hodgson
To your revered seat

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The Christmas Truce

Our family football scarf holds many memories, from its time within our clan,
Some fantastic tales come with it, as it’s passed from man to man.

Great, great granddad Jim told how he got the scarf when he went off to war,
A gift from his father to remind him of home, when he had left these shores.

That was back in 1914, when he and thousands of young men,
Set sail to sea, for queen and country, some never seen again.

He told of how that Christmas time, the enemies called a truce,
They sat and shared their food and drink, and hostilities were diffused.

They even played a football match, after they had finished dinner
Great granddad Jim was the proudest man, as he had scored the winner.

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I Like to Be

I like to be in Afghanistan.
Okay for me in my Sudan.
I like to be one team Iran.
I like to play in peace when I can.

I like to be safe, without war.
Bring it right on, early doors.
I like to play, win, and score.
I like to be welcome on your shore.

Bullets for me, not in Hertfordshire.
Jumpers for goalposts, yes in Yorkshire.
No penalty kicks in Shropshire.
I’d clean the boots of Lincolnshire.

If you’re all white in Bedfordshire,
then you’re alright in Wiltshire.
One look at us in Middlesbrough,
they’ll think twice in Peterborough.

No welcome dream for us in England,
more years of hurt, that’s for sure.
No safe space for us, we’re alien,
England’s sold-out; crammed brim full.

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Woe United

Oh it used to be the Theatre of Dreams
And yet now spirits are restless
In the wings
Where Coppell and Hill lived
And thrived
But now
Off stage and in the dressing room
Haunted and thwarted
Never flaunting in the
Way Sir Matt would have demanded
Angst, anguish and altercation
At Manchester United
In fact twisted turmoil
Rather than blood
That somebody in football
Was once heard to utter
United crippled with divisions
Dire warnings
Behind the scenes fury
A hint of both accident
And emergency
Almost a medical apocalypse
What on earth would pass
The lips of Fergie
Yesterday the Seagulls
Of Brighton came to Old Trafford
Treading those boards
While the lead protagonists
Almost froze on stage
Several pennies for thoughts
Sir Bobby Charlton and Denis Law
The knights of distinction
Where once Viollet, Bent, the
Beautifully blessed Duncan Edwards
Lives snuffed out tragically
By Munich airport runway
Also claimed Tommy Taylor
Roger Byrne
Yes the Busby Babes
What would they have made of
This modern day Greek tragedy?
United racked and rocked
By the Glazer family
Old Trafford girders and
Tottering and teetering
In early autumnal gusts
Of wind and rain
The Stretford End
Now threatening riots
On the streets of Salford
The empires built by Sir Matt
and Frank o’Farell
Smashed to smithereens
Then the philosophical Dave Sexton
Too nice for football management
Before Ron Atkinson discovered
Flamboyance in United’s back catalogue
Whiteside, Hughes, Robson, Strachan
It could have been so much more
But now United in the land of
Agonised struggling, striving
And scrimping
McTominay still fresh and possibly
Poised for greater things
But not a Beckham, Giggs or
Butt, most certainly not
Football genuinely grieves
For the pitiful plight
That now faces Manchester United
Whose landscape once boasted
European Champions nights
Of bold but now cold
United were always our
Second favourite team
Since their football
Pushed back all frontiers
And broke record breaking boundaries
Sir Matt the pioneer,
Of the Red Devils resurrection
Now though Erik Ten Hag
Drowning in sorrows
Clinging desperately onto
Life rafts not at the ready
Yet at their disposal
If needed but not yet
But sinking in the quicksand
If they’re not careful
Five games now into the birth
Of another Premier League
Season of see saws
Manchester United woe for
A while at least
The neutrals wish the very best
For you and yours
Since United were the best
Of the rest
When Bestie’s snake hips
Shuffled, darted, dummied
Humiliated and then hurt
Nutmegged with carefree glee
The opposition at any
Given moment
What a tease were those
Twinkling Irish feet
And yet in the class of 2023
United are languishing
The laughing stock of
Football’s comedy club
But not here
United reaching out for
Something to hold onto
Of course the legends
In everybody’s estimation
And respect rubber stamped
In our affections
Manchester United
A force for good
And everything that
Football finds favourable
And beneficial to the soul
Hopefully a temporary blip
Here and now
But football needs
A Manchester United
In command of their gifts
And arts
Where the sciences of
The game will always reside
Shaped and refined
Manchester United
To a samba beat

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Where are we now

Give us
idea of moving
Everton to La Liga
Then we can compete with
Bilbao and Real Sociedad
Atletico Madrid and Betis
May we build our new stadium
at Costa Dorada
May we play 10 friendlies
with the rest of 777 owned Clubs
The spirit of Sir John Moores
and the idea that
his club is run by
Multi Club owner, oh,
Where is Everton in Multi Club
Are they unique club or
some part of Multi Club invester
Are we special
May we host many many friendlies
with 777 owned clubs and
join La Liga
Are we Everton or Multi Club society
May we remember John Moores
May we say the word Identity

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Business as usual

After the international break
It’s business as usual
Domestic drudgery
Toil and trouble
Pleasure and pain
The Premier League
In all its matchless splendour
Again and again
Saturday lunchtime, Sunday tea time
No objections from the modern age
Because they can only identify
With recent presentations
New interpretations of Super
Sunday on Sky TV
Rather than those old, grainy
Images of Ken Wolstenholme
Live from Beatleville
Black and white heaven
From Anfield
When Match of the Day
Was but a child of nature
Tomorrow though
Shock, horror, and
That rarest of species
The Hammers rock up to
The first instalment of
The Premier League
Showtime extravaganza
West Ham against Manchester City
At three o’clock in the
Afternoon. You have to
Be joking
And yet jest we not
Roll up. Roll up.
Get your tickets now
Ladies and Gentleman
They will enchant you
With remarkable skill
And athleticism
City undoubtedly ready
For dance and theatre
Heavenly histrionics
But in a pleasing way
Tantalising terpsichorean
Feats, passing
Made to measure
By the finest of tailors
Feathery touches with the ball
Spun with silk
Perhaps far too good
For the East Enders
From the London Stadium
But who knows
Miracles were often known
To happen on
Jewish Rosh Hashanahs
How blessed we are on this day
Of days
Maybe the team in the top four
At the moment
Can aspire to the soaring
Stratosphere in Stratford
Happy days for the Hammers
Almost too good to be true
Altitude sickness
For those in claret and blue
But tomorrow reality must
Intrude on delusions of grandeur
City will once again announce
Themselves as they invariably do
Pep will be back in his hot seat
And City will win
Or maybe not
We shall see

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Our Club Will Never Die

But through it all, we’ve stood tall,
Defying odds, we’ll never fall.
For in our hearts, the fire’s strong,
Though times are tough, we’ll carry on.
The days of blue, they’ll fade away,
Replaced by skies of brighter grey.
And when the dark nights come to pass,
We’ll find the strength, they cannot last.
The half-truths and lies, we’ll put aside,
Beneath the surface, our love won’t hide.

For in this world of deceit and pain,
We’ll rise above, our spirits remain.
The sneaky cheats, they’ll meet their fate,
Their wicked ways, we won’t tolerate.
With unity and truth on our side,
Their influence will soon subside.
For those who seek to see us lose,
On match days, we will light the fuse.
To overcome, to prove them wrong,
With strength and pride, we’ll sing our song.

The problem days, they’ll soon be gone,
Replaced by hope, a brighter dawn.
In every challenge, we’ll keep refining,
A chance to grow, a silver lining.
Relegation may bring us down,
But we’ll rebuild, from the ground.
With determination in our hearts,
We’ll make a comeback, our skills impart.
No threat of extinction can break our will,
We’ll fight for the club, and never stand still.

For through the storms, we’ll weather together,
Our love for the club, will bind us forever.
Through days of frustration our passion grew,
Our love for this club, so genuine and true.
With every setback, a lesson we’ll learn,
The journey continues, it’s our turn.
The vultures may circle, but we won’t fear,
Their negativity, we won’t adhere.
For in our chests, the heartbeat remains,
The love for our club, coursing through our veins.

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When Football Stops

Now’s the time
when football
stops on the pitch.

Now’s the time
when football
stops on the telly.

Now’s the time
when the parks
go quiet.

Now’s the time
the grass
starts recovery.

Now’s the time
my to do list gets sorted.
Tidy under the stairs,
old shoes get booted.

Make hollandaise sauce,
buy a horse, rearrange
the tablecloths.

Now’s the time
I don’t travel.
No Birmingham, or
away to Newcastle.

No M6 to M40 interchange
hassle. No video assistant
referee panels.

Loads to do
in the coming weeks,
before the transfer window
opens in fourteen sleeps.

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/