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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.

In Big Dave We Trust

At Big Dave’s feet we lay our solemn trust
On his attacking intent we pin all our fervent hope.
To circumnavigate the cut and thrust
Of November nights in Rotherham… Dave will cope.
(The nickname goes back to when first the link was made
Between the gentle giant in a junk food advert
And our own stone colossus of a man who played
In the heart of a similarly stout defence; enough to disconcert
The most potent of attacking threat).
And it seemed to sum the great man up:
Unflappable. Towering. Cool. You didn’t fret
When he pulled on the stripes to play for us in league or cup.
And who can forget that arm-pumping goal against Palace to take us back
To the Promised Land, where we truly belong?
Years later, after Pardew was awarded a well-deserved sack,
The fan’s favourite gets moved on up, to deep-throated song
And deserved adulation. Almost kept us up too, against insurmountable odds…
But the Championship it must be for now,
Perhaps Fate decreed it so, written, somehow, in the Gods,
So w can boing boing back in suitable style… and how!
Scoring goals for fun; Gayle and Barnes, both class- (Mooro was inspired
When he got that pair to scrawl their autographs on the dotted line…
And neither cost a pretty penny when their services were hired!)
Yep, in Big Dave we trust- lose not a wink of beauty sleep ‘cos we’re gonna be fine-
Forget all the doom-mongers with their petty snipes and whingeing gripes;
For, like a stick of rock, Big Dave bleeds blue and white stripes.

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Fara Williams

Out on the football fields
Williams finds her true home
The record-breaking golden girl
With the world of the ball at her feet
Instrumental play-maker weaving and teasing
Those big game changing diagonal passes
A midfield maestro dazzling as Gerrard in his pomp
Football needs its warriors
And ‘Fabulous Fara’
With glittering boots
As deadly accurate as prairie rattlesnakes
Dismantles defenders walls with her sublime skill
And broke society’s walls with her indomitable will.

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Poetry finds the God

I will tell you there is the God
The names close to him
tell me that

But to be down to earth
I need the friends

I find my friends in the words

Some love a football club
and two more things

The musical band and the movie star
to make the list of three loved things

Some kind of Trinity

This time I have found one Trinity
in the language, Maybe someone
really unites all three in his life interests

BOGNOR REGIS TOWN F.C
HUMPHREY BOGART
BOG

I drew this Trinity from the dictionary

BOG in some Slavic languages means the God

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Sandy

The number of years is a mathematical fact
Everything the minds of people can know

The years of the past football games
can’t be anything but the past football years

The football events are the part of the world events
The world events and anything called the event
is what surround our lives

The house near stadium is surrounded by football
and the stadium is surrounded by the houses

Sometimes, the stadium location changes

But all what was said here will do any harm to
the fact who was playing and when

Whatever is the Universal picture of the world
Some kind of timeless representation
in the way this rock is here where it had been
since prehistory

Whatever is in the same shape forever
It cannot change the fact that Everton had
full- back Sandy Brown

It is always the same pride
the same honour

Sandy Brown played at Goodison
You can call it 1970
You can call it 1969/1970

But forever it will be the fact
the greatest full- back of early 1970’s
is Sandy Brown

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Football Haiku

Football Poetry
The goals the songs the heartbreaks
Cabbages and kings.

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The Years Slip By

A new season comes and we’re all filled with hope.
Hope, hope and the years slip by.
Soon it is May, and we can but mope.
Mope, mope as the years slip by.

Players are bought and players are sold.
Bought, sold for a fee sky-high.
But never a sign of bronze, silver or gold,
Out in the cold as the years slip by.

Managers hired and managers fired.
Hired, fired in the blink of an eye.
But this only serves to increase our ire.
Aye, ire, you heard me right.

Pledges are made and promises broke.
Made, broke like a child’s cheap toy.
Our once mighty Club is the butt of the joke.
Joke, joke and we can’t reply.

There’s much talk of Projects, Rome not in day built.
Build, build, yet the years roll by.
And we can’t help weeping at milk that’s been spilt.
Spilt, spilt and our tears won’t dry.

Can anyone tell us, does anyone know?
Where, where does the answer lie?
When once again we with pride will glow?
Glow, glow with our heads held high!

3/10/18
Denys E. W. Jones

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Sir Matt Busby (for National Poetry Day)

Man of blood
Not impenetrable stone
Who gathered genius
Like fish in a net
Hewn from the same Scottish rock
Of Stein and Shankly
Game changer supreme
Father figure whose beloved sons
Perished in the cruel Munich snow
But whose spirit remained resolute
Unbroken
To find its peace in 1968
Upon a Wembley turf
Graced by the fires of Best, Charlton, Eusebio
And there resurrected
With the stolen hopes of youth
The scattered tears of benediction.

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Football Curriculum

When I was in high school all those years ago
In English I was taught Keats’ “Ode To A Grecian Urn”
And whilst I loved this bright star’s resilient rebellion
Not one single word other than those in the title did I retain
But Rushie’s goals the style technique I’d practice practice
Practice until just one toe poke poacher’s goal I’d mastered
The tireless heart of Razor Kennedy his crosses I’d read
Each collective noun bursting with football life for me…

In English the subject I loved most whose language was rich with
Lennon’s sarky verbs and Lydon’s snarling adjectives these were the
Words that spoke loudest to me not those of Jane Austin’s
Pride and Prejudice and Jane I was told was a genius but not compared to the
Genie Dalglish who could trap a ball and then cajole by pure instinct alone
Now that was artistry for me and Kenny’s boots not Austin’s prose
Who thrilled my willing soul and taught me sense and sensibility

In English our teacher was alright, you could talk to him and in spaces
Between classes we’d moot the dark energy of Jim Morrison, the exploding
Freedom of Hendrix, the electricity of Dylan (Thomas) and I would ask
“Sir, why can’t we read about what we want to learn,
The way Steve Heighway twists and turns, Bob Paisley’s post match clipped adverbs?”
But our teacher would smile and shake his head and point the way to the
Poems of Post-Modern Poets ensconced in faber forward penguin idolatry
Yet the canon of football with its thunderous boots spoke, aye, more eloquently

I was a child of Liverpool, Football and Punk Rock & Roll
Maggie Thatcher’s endless desperate lines of dole and our teacher
Would smile and shake his head and lead us on to exam regulatory
“You have to read what the (now defunct) JMB Decrees”
But me (the bored) thought “Not for me” and jumped school as
Quickly as the door allowed and left those “Essential reading” books in
A forgotten corner of an unused sold-off playground…
With Liverpool Fc programmes stored lovingly
Those Bootroom proverbs and poems my philosophy
With a nod to Bowie, I can’t change time, but it won’t change me.

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Where’s My Gnashers !

The Accrington Stanley fan got excited
when his team did score,
he jumped wildly in the air
as fellow supporters let out a roar.
His team were beating AFC Wimbledon
and they finally won 2-1,
but when he got home later
he discovered his false teeth had gone.
They must have shot out
when the second goal hit the net,
his beloved dentures were gone
so would he need a new set ?
But the fan was in luck
his gnashers had been found,
a steward saw them shining
on the terrace inside the ground.
The supporter got his teeth back
so now it was smiles all around,
but the next time his team scored
he stood still and never made a sound !

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They Stole Our Rice

I witnessed a commotion in my local saloon
With an Irish fan ranting and acting the loon
“They stole our potatoes
now they’re after our Rice.”
He was so agitated he screamed it out twice.
“They took our potatoes
now they’re taking our Rice
I always knew Southgate
acted way too much nice.”

I soon came to realise it weren’t Rice from Vietnam
But young Declan Rice
who plays for West Ham
Southgate got young Declan to talk on the phone
And played him the song
Foot—ball’s Coming Home.
He told him he was the greatest
Young player he had seen
Who’d look better in white
Than wearing the Green.
“You’ll get plenty of endorsements
I’ll make you a star
And you’ll be in my squad
When we go to Qatar.”

So as the Irish fan by bouncers
Was thrown out of the pub
He still screamed of Rice
And the stealing of Spuds.
So who Declan will choose
It remains to be seen
The Three Lions of England
Or the boys in the Green.

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