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.

Mood For A Day

Meandering out when the whistle had blown
Shaking our heads we’re amazed
Couldn’t Adam n Eve we played so bad at home
Awful, a bleatin disgrace.

Throats sorely taut from the shouting
Of verbally trying to spur the team on
Vocal chords expressing serious self doubt in
Our angst of those last shallow songs.

Hurling our hurt at the waster up front
Who couldn’t score, if their keeper lay prone on the ground
Fans near by me, a trifle more blunt
Refer to a birth certificate not being sound.

Glistening streets reflecting our ire
We trudge toward a small pub near the ground
With our luck of today the pub has caught fire
So our sorrows have no place to drown.

Chances missed, and the freak goal they scored
Going joyously back to The North points in hand
Replayed so many times on pub’s telly we’re bored
Into thinking…giving drowning our sorrows a blank.

Fans pore over programmes from cover to back
In search of inspirational hope
To stop excessive drinking, thus bringing on an attack
Of the blues, where the whole week-end winds up morose.

Idols with trophys smile down from pictures
From a wall adorned with Gods in the past
A time when our club and it’s mystery
Inspired an interest in kids built to last.

Staring in to the froth of watered down beer
We dwell on the points total grossed
A funereal mood encumbers all gathered here
Where winning’s a pleasurable ghost.

James Alexander Gordon reads out the full times
We hear our fierce local rivals are beat
The mood changes to singing, beer in to fine wine
Jubiliant fans race off home, down the street.

Eternal optimism informs me and my mucker
Dire post match-days like this will soon pass
Right now, from lying face down in the gutter*
We’re sipping drinks…looking up at the stars!


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The Passion and Madness of Football

Oh, the passion and madness of football
The saints and the sinners we love
The golden gods seated above us
With their bright boots and warm knitted gloves

The swaying of life is an ocean
From terrace to terrace o’er the land
And we sing with our throats purging hymns
Raising the rooves off the stands

Where poets and scribes drunk on moonshine
Resplendently scribbling for joy
Conjure the goals and the titles
In the dreams of each girl and each boy

Up on our feet with our banners
In whose nets we are helplessly caught
Oh, the passion and madness of football
Makes penniless fools of us all.

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Luciano Pavarotti was singing Figaro,
Somewhere the same evening
fortutious goal
in un unpredictable game,

Mystery of luck,
The football player Figo,

We have compared FA CUP third round
with every football contest

Argentina v Cameroon
8 June 1990

Something like FA CUP in January

Giant lost,

Never a national team throughout the world
was so much liked as it was Cameroon of 1990

Sophisticated fellow natural football brothers
the football writers had indeed
something to say

Football was still game to watch

Irish supporters, Cameroon supporters
started blossoming

We stopped reading,

We, the football’s public
felt football was as old as Colosseum

But to say Cameroon was great
I would say it was not surprise
they have beaten Argentina

The feeling that their victory is
of the taste of January FA CUP
changes into feeling they played
World Cup Final

Simply, No surprise,
Argentina nil, Cameroon one

Italy, Italy, Italy
were you most beatiful place
in the 1990


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“Hitting The Post Again”

I got a slap on the wrist
Not hard but gentle and nice
Can I please reel in my poetry
I didn’t have to think twice.
Seems my backlog of poetry
Is clogging up the ‘Football Poets’ site
I really don’t want to upset them
When I’m struggling to sleep at night.
My Dulwich Hamlet in trouble
I don’t need any more worry
Humble apologies to the webmasters
For publishing in a hurry.
Clogging your contributions
With my backlog of crime
I’m only ‘guilty’ of keenness
Sharing my love of rhyme.
See when you changed things over
Going all website state of the art
You didn’t take into consideration
That I’m a useless Luddite old fart.
Couldn’t work out how to log in
So had to stop sharing my stuff
Not sure if that was good or bad
My poetry’s might be total guff.
Now you’ve enticed me back
Loving giving it another go
I’ll just take care with my backlog
Taking it nice and slow.

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The late seventies

On Mersey
the answer my friend
is blowing in the wind
and apprehension
On Mersey
seven seven
or 77 was that answer

Everton travel to Wembley
League Cup was lost

the year is 1977

In 1978 there was the match
who might mean something
for the Queen

The goal for Everton was scored
by King

A year before
all Merseyside F.A CUP semi-final
will be remembered by
disallowed goal

The goal, of course, would be
enough for the match at Wembley

Brian Hamilton scored

But Everton played the replay

Liverpool went to ROME in some
other Cup

Today, it is the past,

But the years 1977 and 1978
on Mersey were convenient for both clubs

I don’t think about football alone
I think that beatiful football was
played in beatiful 1970’s

Hadn’t we lost in the FA CUP semi final
in 1977 we would have won
the European Cup Winners Cup
in 1978

But, The World Cup
was held in 1978

The Netherlands, one of the
best football playing teams
lost in the final again

Maybe in the late seventies
Everton needed Crujf

Kendall came,

And Everton have raisen
in the 1980’s

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Just Fontaine

The chapter and verse who beguiled and dazzled
With the smooth seduction of a million, million hearts
Beating to the rhythm of the beautiful soul
Whilst defences fell like discarded notes
From a trembling box
Each shot a kiss from a Smith & Wesson
Leaving the net blistered with grace and integrity
Of a touch sublime and defined
Of long runs that did not linger
Nor hesitate
Of a ball clinging to feet like a lover
Unwilling to leave
Merging with the perfection of Monet’s oils
Into legend and ideal above the dust and dirt
And blood drying on scars from mortal studs
Left stranded like yesterday’s news.

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The Splash

Giver of life
Cleanses, and quenches such thirst
The Baptist used it making waves in Jordan
Before the Grace of Word had spoken
The Plumber needs water knows its power
And harnesses it
Works his skills with a sublime grace
The tools of his trade
Captured now immortal
Unafraid to walk on water
With the dignity of genius.

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The Old Man And His Grandson

In a little Yorkshire village that Maggie helped destroy
A Grandfather meets his Grandson who’s no more a little boy
The Grand-son’s a millennial, born the year of ninety five
And his grand-dad’s nearly ninety and just barely alive.
The Grandson he loves football, his heroes are Scholes and Shearer
Grand-dad loves his football too, but from a very different era.
The Grandson’s from London and for a few days is staying
With Grand-dad oop North, in a house now decaying.
The old man rolls a ciggie, then sticks on the tea
And tells his young grandson to turn on the TV.

“Here put this old tape on – you kids have the knack
It will show you real footballers and what nowadays they lack.”
The lad eyed the cover when he pressed video to play
It was all about football from way back in the day.
As they made themselves comfy and turned up the sound
The Grandfather smiled and the young fellow frowned.

They watch Man U – Benfica — Eintract Frankfurt – Madrid
Celtic ‘gainst Inter and Giles – Banksy and Kidd.
They view Finney and Blanchflower and many more from the past
But the Grandson just said, “They don’t look very fast.
Do you know Zaha runs a hundred in nine point nine secs?
And no one hits a football like Shearer or Becks.”
As the lad kept on talking he watched Charlton with the ball
Who cracked one from fifty past the keeper McFaul.
“Now that’s how you hit em lad – that was some mighty thud
And look at that football all covered in mud.”

“Look at that pitch and those two footed tackles”
said the Grandson, before saying, “Stiles should be tied up in shackles”
The grandfather smiled, his eyes glistening with glee.
As he watched Norman Hunter chop down Franny Lee.
They watched Greaves playing for Tottenham
Of whom the lad didn’t think much
“He strolled through that game, hardly getting a touch.
Do you know Kane runs for Spurs
Seven- point three – miles a game?
It doesn’t look like Greaves does anywhere the same.”
“You weren’t focusing thy lad, you were lookin at thy phone
Jimmy Greaves scored four goals there, all made on his own.”

They watched Lee, Bell and Summerbee and clips of George Best
As the young lad checked Facebook he wasn’t impressed.
“He was drunk on the pitch, but just look at his pace.”
But his Grandson just shrugged, and said, “he’s an absolute disgrace.
Do you know that sports scientists
To a man they insist
It takes a week to recover
if you go out and get pissed?”
“Aye lad, I do hear you, but he was the best player alive
And I don’t know if you noticed in that match he scored five.”

They watched Osgood and Matthews, Peters and Hurst
And a scorcher from Lorimer when the goal net near burst.
They watched Moore and Jeff Astle – Jim Baxter and Law
But the grandfather’s, grandson was not one bit in awe.
“They all look so slender, so dainty, and so thin
And they all have their socks rolled down on their shin.
Their bodies are lacking a muscled, ripped definition
Not enough pasta, Creatine or nutrition.”

“Believe you me young lad them there were tough times
I worked with the hardest men down in the mines.
Those players they got kicked and nowt did complain
None of them dived, or an injury feign.”
The grandson he argued – his generation is more strong
And his grandfather offed the telly, and told him he’s wrong.
He took a pull on his ciggie and his lungs started to pant
His face reddened up and he started to rant.

“You can stick your metatarsals and your Health and Safety looneys
All your foreign coaches and your Beckhams and your Rooneys
Keep your snooker table pitches and the blow footballs that you use
Bring back the old characters that liked to gamble and to booze.”

Then out of the blue there was a mysterious sound
As a plaque with a medal fell onto the ground.
The grandson retrieved it from the carpeted floor
And when he had read it, he’d slag Grand-dad no more.
The engraved medal read — Arthur Suggett June 6 – 44
For your Gallantry on Junu Beach upon the Norman shore
And for the bullets that you took and for all the lives you helped to save
This medal goes to heroes and the toughest of the Brave.

“How awesome,” said the Grandson, “I had no idea you were such a hero.”
As he straightaway forgot about Paul Scholes and Alan Shearer.
“It’s nowt thy lad,” said Grand-dad shyly, “it’s only a piece of metal.
Now put that stupid phone away and stick on thy bloody kettle.”

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Gordon Banks

Banks of England
What athletic dignity
Poured through each finger
And ripped through the sky
The Arc of Triumph
The athletic body pushed through
Impossible angles
And as the man wheeled away
Body flexed in celebration
Even Moses shouted “GOAL”
And echoed a million breathless hearts
And yet the ball fell harmlessly away
The script unheeded and hastily rewritten
Touched by the hand of God surely
As the hand of the grateful emperor ruffled hair
A moment of breathless relief
A lifetime of modest.

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National Football Museum

They have pictures of miracles
At the football museum
Photographs that hold
Within the flimsy paper
Faith, Hope, Love
Wrapped up in football boots
That we all longed to pull on
Wrapped up in football shirts
We claimed as ours
If only in dreams
But what are we without dreams
Those fickle sleep urchins
But at the football museum
I have stood close to such dreams
I have whispered to these icons
I have lowered my head close to the
Shadow of Bobby Moore
Still marvelling at the impossible angles
Of Gordon Banks
The beauty of Pele
That not even Monet could match
I witnessed the soul of Jock Stein outshine
The beguiling silver of the European Cup
Shankly immortal immeasurable Shankly
How his spirit rested upon the steps of Deepdale
As he dreamed his dreams for a Liverpool
Not yet born still to be created by him
But patient in waiting
At the national football museum
I counted the medals of titles
And Stanley Matthews his dignity counted
For greater glory like Arthur Wharton
Remembered now
The 12 Apostles of football
Spread the word and The Good News
Arrived on the 8th September 1888
Accrington Aston Villa Blackburn Rovers
Bolton Wanderers Burnley Derby County
Everton Notts County Preston North End Stoke
West Bromwich Albion and Wolverhampton Wanderers
How well these football Gospels sowed the seeds
The salt of the earth Football
The opiate of the working class?
Are we duped?
Well we’re not fooled by politicians
Or the new rock & roll
But football, that will always be ours
The Women’s Game
Finally earning the respect it deserves
Striving towards a level playing field
Where girls dream of being the new Rose Reilly
It’s the authentic accent
The clarity of the soul
For “I love Football, therefore I am.”


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