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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.

Football to Me

Shankly making the people happy
Mooro pristine in his tackles and kit
Banks of England with his safe pair of hands
Chippy Brady darting over the pitch
Adams as stoical as the house made of bricks
Football to me

Paisley and friends three cups at their knees
Ferguson’s treble not forgetting Busby
The fallen of Hillsborough the 96 flame
Dalglish a King no other head fits his crown
With Lennon McCartney singing songs at the ground
Football to me

The Boys of Brazil taught the world how to play
The finest the greatest the Beautiful Game
The Angel Diego whose hand bore the stain
But the 2nd goal godly and washed away shame
Rossi on fire Maldini the same
Football to me

Henry and Zola and Klinsmann makes three
Boots made with miracles Moses agreed
Garrincha Gentile Tardelli and Greaves
Money and madness can never succeed
The passion is priceless and goals flowing free
Football to me.

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Places of Poetry (2)

In the boots of a striker
The bliss of a kiss
The quiet of a heron
Pursuing a fish

Upstream and sparkling
Where the wild salmon dart
But most of all

Through the aching capillaries
Of my lost childhood’s heart.

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Blue grit leaves Toffees top

Everton 2-2 Liverpool

Mane put the Reds ahead
Keane rises to answer the call
Rodriguez conducts the Blues
Thiago at the heart of it all

Ban Dijk out, Salah volleys in
Yerry Mina far from deft
Calvert-Lewin’s towering header
Restores parity with nine left

VAR is the talking point
Denying Hendo a stoppage time winner
Everton salvage a point
In a Merseyside derby thriller

17 10 20

number7
© emdad rahman

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And a Celtic Song Was Sung

In the year of 1967
When the European Cup was won,
My father danced down Maryhill Road
And a Celtic song was sung.

When he took a trip to Parkhead
To watch Celtic’s playing sons,
He would stand within the famous Jungle
And a Celtic song was sung.

When he came home from the Firhill Tavern
With a carry-out in his hand,
We would hear him climb the tenament steps
Were a Celtic song was sung.

When we stood together at Paradise
Over Real Madrid, the Celts had won,
We travelled home full of joy,
Were a Celtic song was sung.

And still this day, I watch the Celtic play
And it is a wondrous thing,
For far above Parkhead’s sky
I can still hear my father sing.

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Leaving Five Minutes Before the Game is Over

to avoid the ‘crowds’ at Plainmoor is a misnomer.

It’s like
reading a whodunit and tearing out the final page;
going to a play but not watching the ending on stage;
going out to dine and not finishing your meal;
going to the pictures but not stopping for the second reel;
going to a concert and not waiting for the encore;
or missing United’s ninetieth minute score.

It’s like leaving the celebration before
the bride says I do;
the baby cries boohoo;
the graduates throw their caps;
the Torquay crowd claps.

It’s like
not eating every Rolo in the tube;
but most of all, it’s downright rude.

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For Club and Country

He was banging ’em in for his Club,
Then came his Country calling.
Dom pulled on the White Shirt,
And guess what – he kept up the scoring!

Some say it was only a Friendly,
But I say a goal is a goal,
Whether scored in a beach kickabout,
Or a Champions League Final at Wembley.

So ladies and gents raise your glasses,
Drink a toast to Dom Calvert-Lewin,
If he plays his cards right, this prospect so bright
For the next ten years is a shoo-in.

And who can we liken him to?
Bobby Charlton, Geoff Hurst, Stanley Bowles?
He reminds me of fabled King Midas –
All he touches is turned into goals!

11/10/20
Denys E. W. Jones

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A Team Brother Walfrid Called Celtic

In the Archdiocese of Glasgow
In the city’s east end,
Brother Walfrid sat with his assistant Brother Dorotheus,

The vision they shared
Was that the poor must be fed
As the dinner tables lay empty for the immigrant Irish.

Brother Walfrid had a dream
That wore Ireland’s emerald green
And would be saviours to the minority Catholics,

The Irish stood at Parkhead
And the football was played
By a team, that Brother Walfrid called ‘Celtic’.

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Happy Birthday Johnny Rhythm

You didn’t play football
On the grass of Strawberry Fields
You didn’t wear a red or blue scarf
You didn’t strain yer neck trying to watch
The game from the Kop at Anfield or
The street end at them there Blues
You were too busy listening to Elvis,
Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly
On the back of the bus with Paul
Scribbling the words
That the world would sing to dance to
Dream to to fall in love to
And when you left home
Leaving behind the streets
Of your birth
We sang your songs
To Shankly
Cos he like we all live
In a Red and White Kop.

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Places of Poetry

The toes of a dancer
The swish of a kiss
The splash of red ketchup
On lush fish and chips

Upstream and sparkling
Where the wild salmon dart
But most of all

Liverpool Football Club
The place in my heart.

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Signor Ancelotti

Mi Scuse but I’m potty
For the charm of Ancelotti
Tho his chosen club of blue
Is not my mighty bold red hue.

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