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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.

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Testimony of Soul

Gacina Bozidar

Monday, April 21st, 2025

The expression
“Football lost its soul”
is very very old

It has been repeated for years

Who knows how old it is
1/4 of 21st Century had gone

But whatever is the soul of football now
the football fan The Pope Francis prayed with heart for its
salvation

With his true love for this game

When the World had the football fan the Pope
there was hope that
football and The World have still had the soul

Without him the phrase “Football lost his soul”
would be the ultimate truth

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England in Europe.

joe morris

Friday, April 18th, 2025

Oh what a Good Friday morning
For the English contingent
In European fields of
Burnished brass and
Glorious gold
Last night it was Spurs
And not forgetting Manchester United
Who now find themselves
On the threshold of that
Fabulous coronation
The stately procession
And then
Lifting UEFA’s most
Valuable trophies
Spurs in their
Europa League voyage of discovery
Frankfurt fallen from dizzy heights
Into the piranhas of hungry
North London mouths
It’s been over 40 years
Since Belgian buns were
Devoured ravenously
At White Hart Lane
Anderlecht beaten on penalties
The icing on the cake
Spurs – UEFA Cup winners
What a night that was
But nothing since then
Although the FA Cup in 1991
Did find a clearing in the Forest
And Cloughie waved the white flag
Then there was Manchester United
And the cathedral of sound
Echoing in the chambers with
Thunderous roars at Old Trafford
Last night the French revolution
Left Lyon gasping for breath
Stunned amazement
When victory seemed so assured
Even Napoleon must have
Spun in his grave
And the Champs Elysees
Ground to a halt
Macron mesmerised by the
Stirring rhythms
Of United’s Red Devils past
Returning to the here and now
Where they belong
After the most horrendous
And grotesque, tattered
Remnants of their Premier League
Season, patches of torn fabric
Blowing in the wind
The most dire, dark and dreadful
Season for Manchester United
But now United are on the verge
Of European redemption
Perhaps a European trophy
To repair the criminal damage
For either United and Spurs
To lighten the mood of
The never ending tunnel
Of domestic drudgery
Dreamlike daffodils in spring
For either North London or
Alternatively the North West
It hardly seemed possible
The unlikeliest destinations
But now two matches away from the Final
Finally the Gunners
Toppling the might of Madrid
The legendary craftsmen with
Europe’s classiest tools
Real Madrid
European Champions
In a constant repetition of decades
Is it really 15 or 16 times now?
Arsenal, now reflecting in the
Mirror of what might have been
In the Premier League
A lighthouse of
Magical magnificence
Through the ups and downs
The victories and vagaries
Of dazzling form then
Discarded as an oily rag
Slipping on the banana skin
Of second place
Not quite in the shadow of Liverpool
Who look commanding on the
Palatial verandas of football’s
Most well appointed
Olympic rostrum
But still there’s Manchester United,
Spurs it could turn out
All right on the night
Buoyant and bright
When the Premier League looked less
Than divine
And Arsenal
European Champions?
Deservedly so.

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Nothing Came Easy

Mike Bartram

Tuesday, April 15th, 2025

Nothing came easy, 15/4/89 the date.
For every bit of truth, they made us wait.
Stuck together like glue, skilled in lying.
The first lie was told as fans were dying.

Duckenfield said fans stormed the Gate.
‘Ticketless, drunken fans, arriving late’
Some media lapped it up, mainly The Sun.
Everlasting damage to our City was done.

On mass, the fuckers threw their mud.
And would it stick…they knew it would?
Heartless corruption from the very top.
Tears and flowers took over The Spion Kop.

They took on the wrong City, red and blue.
Because so many blues, they suffered too.
Nothing came easy, but we endlessly fought.
Every cheating liar, we eventually caught.

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‘Move Back’

Mike Bartram

Tuesday, April 15th, 2025

‘Please help us Policeman, help us please.

Don’t turn your back, walk away or freeze.

My friend needs help, he’s gasping for air.

He’s just a young lad, he needs your care’

‘Move back’ you say, that’s impossible to do.

We’re in trouble here, you must see it too.

There are fans fighting for their lives in here.

Can’t you recognise panic, the chaos and fear?

We’re trapped in here, there’s no way out.

We need help fast, but there is none about.

There are people dying, we’re at that stage.

Fans getting crushed and pinned to this cage.

Surely the people in charge must understand.

This grave situation is now well out of hand.

People have fallen over, can’t get to their feet.

We’re hemmed in all sides, this trap complete.

‘Move back’ you shout, but that can’t be done.

We need a way out, already too late for some.

There is death all around me, so why the delay?

Yet ‘move back… move back’ is all you can say.

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Southampton relegated – and two more.

joe morris

Saturday, April 12th, 2025

So there it is
Southampton relegated
From the Premier League
Oh woe by the South Coast
Too late to boast
Conclusive proof
That those in the Championship
Were far too aloof
Could never quite hack it
Without the kit
Among the bigger boys
With the Premier League toys
In the most daunting school
Of them all
Yet never the fool
The Saints go marching out
Never given a shout
At the burning embers of the season
No reason
Here in early April
Springtime flaunts her
Daintiest dresses
Never messes with our body clock
You can still hear the tick tock
And the cuckoos
Who used to open
Their sweetest throats
Amid the bobbing boats
At the court of
Lawrie Mcmenemey’s
Decibel driven Dell
All was always well
Now mourn the loss
The gathering moss
Of another wasted
Premier League campaign
What an excruciating pain
The blue spring skies
Why oh why?
Weeping copiously
Sobbing hopelessly
On tear stained terraces
St Mary’s broken and beaten
Desolate and defeated
No longer heated by
The wistful warmth of late
August
What have Southampton
Got to do
To keep afloat
In the shark infested waters
Of the Premier League?
Maybe the Saints need
The rosary bead
The comforting influence
Of vicars and priests
With kind hearts
But now the Saints
Hang their heads not
In shame and pity
Or maybe not
More resignation
To harsh reality
Whatever will be will be
But certainly not
Going to Wembley
More like the New Den
At Millwall
And deep into Deepdale
Where the Preston plumbers
Of Tom Finney’s finest await
Football can be so cruel and callous
Southampton out of their depth
In the Premier League
But probably too good for
The Championship
Then there’s Leicester
Down in the dejected dungeons
Mired in the relegation drop zone
Foxes teetering on the edge
Wolves hounding them
Predators hunting both
Ready to devour the
Rotting carcasses
The King Power no longer
Rubbing shoulders with regal
Crowns and princes
Destined perhaps for demotion
Ruud Van Nistelrooy
A Dutch master still seeking
The perfect masterpiece
And then there was Wolves
Howling in the wilds
And wind swept
Fields of old gold
Possibly, hopefully not
Your claret and blue
West Ham to the core
Never losing the faith
And yet left adrift
In the placid lagoons
Of gentle lapping waves
Going nowhere in particular
The most dreadful season
Where a valiant Spaniard
Julen Lopetegui thought
He knew best
But only produced the worst
It’s all too much for some
The final furlongs of
That Premier League steeplechase
Relegation and promotion hurdles
Wreaking havoc with our
Seasons of snow, wind
And now the cherry blossom
Of springtime fruition
Light and shade
Darkness and delight
Ready your transistor radios
For the last day of the season
It’s make or break
Nerve wracking in the extreme
Bite those teeth
Clench those molars
Again and again
Fingernails fraught with fear
And terror
But sadly the Saints are down
Donning the downcast gown
We’ll miss those
Virtuous souls
Who thought they’d seen
It all but then found
That hope had gone
To stony ground
Those caring faces
Wearing proper bootlaces
At St Mary’s
Now grim and gaunt
Those spirits will haunt
Them when June meets July
Oh why?
And football reflects
For a while
The Saints did have style

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My Dad…Footy In The Park

Mike Bartram

Thursday, April 10th, 2025

I was told this today, of which I wasn’t aware.
Liverpool’s Croxteth Park, my Dad went there!
With his Niece Janet, my Dad went to play.
To think, I was in Croxteth Park the other day!
They played football together, chasing the ball.
My Dad made Janet aware, football was for all!
As that wasn’t always the case, way back then.
And Janet still loves footy thanks to ‘Uncle Len’
I can imagine Dad and Janet playing their game.
And in the background the fantastic mini train!
I rode on that mini train track a few days ago.
I wonder if Dad saw me from Heaven, I hope so!
I never got to play footy with him, yes that’s sad.
But that doesn’t mean, I don’t love Len my Dad.

(I never knew my Dad, but after posting a poem on Facebook about my trip to Croxteth Park in Liverpool a distant relative messaged me to say that my Dad (her Uncle Len) took her to the very same park, this would be the mid 60’s I guess)

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‘Power Is Off…So Coates On’ !!

Mike Bartram

Tuesday, April 8th, 2025

In Season 65/66…in came a new law.
It changed English footy for evermore.
If an injured player could no longer play.
A substitute player could ‘enter the fray’

Barrow’s Bobby Knox, in this new role.
Was the first ever sub to score a goal!
He was also the first sub to save a pen.
2 pieces of history, he made back then!

The rules changed the following season.
Subs could be made for a tactical reason.
Managers could change an in game plan.
So a vital player became the ’12th man’.

We had a ‘super sub’ Fairclough his name.
A Kop hero, after that St Etienne game!
He came on late, a winning goal to score.
Davey’s goal went down in LFC folklore!

From 1 sub, sitting on the bench alone.
Gradually to 5, that number has grown.
In 3 ‘windows’ those subs can be made.
For each change, added time to be played.

‘Concussion Subs’, came about in 2023.
This new law was pushed for by the IFAB.
Players welfare was brought to the fore.
This proved a much needed, vital new law.

I’ll finish this poem, in a humorous way.
This was heard over the Macclesfield PA.
‘Substitution…Power is off, so Coates on’!
The best sub announcement ever, bar none!!

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The old days again

joe morris

Friday, April 4th, 2025

There used to be a time when
Two points for a win
Meant pleasure personified
At 5.00 on Saturday afternoon
When Pools coupons represented
Eight draws and
Satisfaction guaranteed
And James Alexander Gordon
Held fate and destiny in his hand
When the world seemed to stop
Spinning on its axis
Since at last we’d hit the jackpot
And mountains of thousands of pounds
Would be winging its way towards
Your hearth and home
And football was the greatest game
We’d ever known
Strikers were centre forwards
Half backs and inside rights or
Lefts, whatever your preference
Ran themselves into the ground
Like industrious dray horses
Ploughing their furrow
On any given day
When football was played with
Medicine balls designed
To break any part of your anatomy
Be it head, feet or fingers and thumbs
And the factory gate would moan and groan
All out brothers, dads, grandsons and
Grandpa.
Chase that bus or train
Look sharpish
We’ve only got five minutes
The terraces will be heaving
Seething, believing
Gallows humour, cynical
Sceptical and why do
We do this to ourselves
Punishing our souls and senses
United will simply thrash us
Battering us into submission
Never mind son or daughter
We’ll always love you
Regardless of the score
Football was never meant
To be seriously
It was only a game
And besides mum’s made
Egg and chips
And that steaming mug of tea
Warm reassurance and consolation
Amid the jaws of adversity
Threatened our serenity
And yet hold on
Football loves its resounding wins
Home and away
Those red raw cheeks
On a wintry Saturday afternoon
Young kids chattering, clattering
And clapping thunderously
Beating the advertising hoardings
And the alphabet half time
And full time results
For all its worth
For this was football’s
Purest democracy
Unchallenged by time
Rattles rattling to the dulcet tones
Of well oiled voices
Come on you Spurs, Chelsea, Liverpool
the Manchesters United and City
There’s only one Arsenal and Spurs
50,000 or 60,000 squeezed together
Into the ultimate confinement of spaces
Jammed solid, no more room to move
Shove over mate,
The terraces are now breathing
And finally the referee
Blows that official whistle
And the game proceeds as
It always has done
Spluttering and stuttering into
Life since this is an end of season game
That demoralising
Anti climax
And nothing depends on it
Voices now muted and subdued
Since relegation is more or
Less settled, time to put the
Kettle on mum because
We’re going down
And resigned to the inevitable
Or maybe Liverpool will win
The League once again
Hold on, I’ve lost count
Since maths becomes irrelevant
But come August
We’ll do the same thing
For the umpteenth time
Since the fans would demand
Nothing less
The sweetest nectar of victory
And a promotion push this year
It has to be
Trophies galore you feel sure
It’s our turn, our time
Forget about the past
The emptiness of one season
After another
Without anything to show
Come May bank holiday
We’ll be doing a lap of honour
Around our ground
Rain or shine
You bet we will

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Telstar Football

John Gilbert Ellis

Thursday, April 3rd, 2025

Look at me
in my thirty-two panels

designed for touch
and to be more magical.

My hexagon and perfection
pentagons

have made me a black-and-white
football icon.

So, get me over
the jumping wall

caress my inner
rubber soul.

Let me feel
the onion bag catch

primal horde roar
and devotion to match.

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Gotta Support Somebody

Denys E. W. Jones

Wednesday, April 2nd, 2025

You may be a miner working down a pit.
You may be a rock star playing sold out gigs.
You may be a fireman putting out a blaze.
You may be an inmate chalking off the days.

But you gotta support somebody.
Yeah, you gotta support somebody.
It may be the Toffees, or it may be the Reds,
But you gotta support somebody.

You may be a gardener mowing people’s lawns.
You may be a midwife helping babes get born.
You may be a shop girl sitting at the till.
You may be a doctor trying to cure the ill.

But you oughtta support somebody.
Yeah, you oughtta support somebody.
It may be the Devils, or it may be the Saints,
But you oughtta support somebody.

You may be a tinker, you may be a tailor.
You may be a soldier, you may be a sailor.
You may be a beggarman, you may be a thief.
You may be a joker, who can’t git no relief.

But you haveta support somebody.
Yeah, you haveta support somebody.
It may be the Robins, it may be the Owls,
But you haveta support somebody.

Early on in life, you must choose your Team.
Then make sure you stick with them,
Yes, through thick and thin.
You should not be fickle, do not chop and change.
Follow them when you’re a kid and at a ripe old age.

You needta support somebody.
Yeah, you needta support somebody.
It may be the Yellows, it may be the Greens,
But you needta support somebody.

It could be the Pilgrims, it could be the Potters.
It could be the Tractor Boys, it could be the Trotters.
It could be the Hornets, it could be the Hatters.
Could be any Club you like, doesn’t really matter.

But you better support somebody.
Yeah, you better support somebody.
It might be the Brewers, it might be the Blades,
But you better support somebody.

You can call me Denys, or you can call me Den.
You can call me Edward, or William now and then.
Or maybe by my surname, which, as you know, is Jones,
But if you support someone, you’ll never be alone.

2/4/25
Denys E. W. Jones

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