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Poetry Archives

concession speech

She spoke to me, did Kamala:
“It’s OK, to feel sad and disappointed”

I’d forgotten
that we had shared ground:
each a true Blue!

But still
I imagined her woes today
seemed to Trump mine own (or maybe not)
I may have lost the plot
but if Palmer is truly injured, well:
where Kamala has been schmucked-
CFC / the World, is well and truly ……

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Rubber Crumb Gully

Black cushions of recycled Continental
are semi-volatile compounds
like the Sandhurst centre-back
channelling his week into a tackle.

In Tiempos, feel the rubber crumb
of zinc-enriched non-organic infill
rush-tipped on a garden’s London Clay
for snails or insects to appropriate
a cost for keeping flesh wounds at bay.

Rake out the cork, sink a foot in the natural
here-and-there carpet of rotting mulch
approved by the Riverkeepers of Delaware
in place of rubber mists, clouds of lead,
magnesium from Apollo, General Tyre,

Hoosier, Kalani, Nankang, Orium,
Michelin, Westlake, Courier and Carlisle.

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Sir Geoff Hurst

In the vanishing mists of time
One man stood tall
But now remains in not so
Splendid isolation
Because we’re here for you
Sir Geoff Hurst
The man who set
Millions of pulses racing
With hat-trick heroism and
His brothers in arms
On that fateful day on
The last days of July 1966
The man who never even
Remotely thought it was
All over because he
Knew it would never be so
Three goals from the fields
Of glorious Nirvana
But now he tours the country
With soulful but forlorn
Cries from the heart
There’s nobody left, Sir Geoff
Empty rooms, silenced voices
Your faithful colleagues now
Residing in football’s most
Heavenly furnishings
It all now seems ages ago
When Sir Geoff, in acres of space,
Nodded home Mooro’s beautifully
Weighted free kick for 1-1
And then chaos and bedlam
The shot that hit the bar and line
Never a goal or was it?
It had to be undoubtedly
England bellowed it out
With the loudest lungs
Of course it was
Then Sir Robert Moore
With remarkable coolness personified
Chipped over an
AWOL West German defence
Sir Geoff in telepathic pose
Knew half an hour before
Everybody else
On his own, racing away,
Streaking clear
Head down
Then with a pulverising swing
Of his foot
Smashed the fourth goal
With a deadly signature
Game over
The lad from the
Hammers academy
Sealed the deal
But now 58 years later
Sir Geoff yearns for
The company of those
Who made our day complete
And only finds teardrops
Of dear old colleagues
The friends who once shared
His precious thoughts and
Memories that seemed to last
For ever but now
Gone, deserting him
So heartbreakingly
And poignantly
It was never intentional
But of course they’re there in spirit
Oh, nobody left in the building
But Sir Geoff will never be alone
You’re a gentleman and scholar
The World Cup was once ours
If only briefly
Never, ever forgotten

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Thomas Tuchel- the new England boss

Here’s a word or two
To all you doubting Thomases
It’s Thomas Tuchel
The new England manager
It’s true, you know
A German at the helm of
The England hot seat
Irony of ironies
Particularly since 1966
When the Germans insisted
That cheating and subterfuge
Had denied them the World Cup
At the hands of England
But now 58 years later
You have yet to be convinced
But here we are
The roles have been reversed
A German in charge of England
You have to be joking
Totally baffling
Because scepticism is
Bobbing around in
A raging, thunderous ocean
Of panic stations
Tuchel, it doesn’t seem to fit
No surely not, time for
Thinking and questioning
Why, it hardly makes any
Sense, whatsoever
A penny for thoughts
Of the football community
Radio phone ins pounding
To the beat of disgusted
Of Dover
Tuchel can’t be the
Right man
Or will he surprise
Us all?
Social networks
Reduced to anguished
Groaning desperately
Bleating and complaining
How did Thomas Tuchel
Become manager of England?
Seemingly five minutes
At Chelsea but certainly
No Jurgen Klopp
Now he would have been
The overwhelming choice
But Thomas Tuchel
Winner of trophies
But not the poisoned chalice
Of England boss
The rumour mill was buzzing
Excitedly yesterday
With Pep as Blighty’s new boss
Now there’s one
Of the world’s finest
Coaches with four
Premier League titles
Unparalleled genius
But Tuchel is surely
No Sir Alf, nor Sir Bobby
Glen Hoddle, Kevin Keegan,
El Tel in his Barca pomp
Athleticism on the touch line
It’s true,
Scurrying and scampering
Like a liberated cheetah
On the run
Up and down the touchline
Gesturing and gesticulating
A war of words with a thousand
Referees, eyes blazing with
Anger, smoke pouring from boiling
Ears, baseball cap
Locked firmly on his head
But manager of England
Mr irate and irascible
Thomas Tuchel
It just feels as though
It’ll end in tears and tantrums
The England job requires calm detachment
Gareth Southgate
Showed us how to do it
Still, let’s see where
This coach will take us
So to speak
Let’s give the man a chance
Teutonic thoroughness
Guaranteed
No stone left unturned
Every detail researched,
Every formation studied
From every angle
But please no Christmas trees
Just yet
Thomas Tuchel
Manager of England
Patience has to be a virtue
Time is of the essence
For some
But let the probationary period
Start now
Thomas Tuchel
We place our faith
In you.

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Selling to Survive

Selling to survive is an art.
Some clubs do it exceptionally well.

They flog their star player for a princely sum,
Then unearth two nuggets that make their Ground hum.
Two young, bright prospects who cost next to nowt.
One bungs ’em in, and one keeps ’em out.

But GCFC have never excelled
At the wheel and the deal
Of the buy and the sell.

Three good ‘uns were let go
To balance the books:
Keeper Martinez, Retegui and “Gud”.

As oft-times before, we sold to survive.
But now we’re in trouble, gone into nose-dive.
Seven games played and points only five.

Sell to survive if you’ve mastered the art.
If not, keep best players,
Don’t let them depart.

10/10/2024
Denys E. W. Jones

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Greek tragedy

Smash those plates,
Smash those plates
Once and for all

No Retsina please
No Retsina please

It’s a Greek tragedy
It’s a Greek tragedy

We blame you Homer
We blame you Homer
That Greek chap
That Greek chap

Apollo Apollo
Apollo Apollo
It’s definitely your fault
It’s definitely your fault

Oh Lee Carsley
Oh Lee Carsley

Woeful England
Woeful England

Wembley woebegone
Wembley woebegone

Desperate, defeated
Desperate, defeated

Move on again
Move on again

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The Grandstand Teleprinter

A great memory from a time long gone.
The Grandstand Teleprinter on BBC1!
David Coleman stood beside camera 3.
But only the Teleprinter appeared on TV!

The Teleprinter would often stall or pause.
Kept you in suspense for the final scores!
It would judder and whirl and chatter away.
That was all very high tech back in the day!

If a team scored a big hat full, you could tell.
The Teleprinter put the tally in words as well!
If a team scored an amazing 7 goals or more.
It was typed as a worded, bracketed score!

Can you imagine VAR in existence back then?
Only one score would be typed instead of 10!
The confused Teleprinter would blow a fuse.
Did a goal stand did a team win, draw or lose?

At 4.40 the Teleprinter took centre stage.
I’d wait for our result to appear on the page.
That was in the days of a 10 minute half time.
Injury time only added if the weather was fine!

So, by 4.45 most games were over and done.
As for me…I’d be praying Liverpool had won!
Letter by letter Liverpool’s name would appear.
A Teleprinter glitch was then my biggest fear!

But most times, the Teleprinter worked a treat.
And the correct final scores it would complete!
Then technology moved on, I’m saddened to say.
And so the loveable Teleprinter soon had its day.

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Johan Neeskens- a Dutch master dies

And so football bows its head
For a Dutch master
From its greatest team
Of World Cup editions
When 1974 and 1978
Belonged to the golden age
Johan Neeskens
Dies but certainly
Not without recognition
Since Johan was born
Among a glittering array
Of stars and men
Who embraced Total Football
In a way a mother or father
Hugs their son or daughter
We speak of Neeskens
But have to include Cruyff,
The King of that noble castle
Krol, Rensenbrink, Van Hanaghem
Neeskens was a full time architect
In a team of builders and
Reinvention, always riffing
And always models of improvisation
With or without the ball
Neeskens was the emotional fulcrum
Handsome as his extraordinary colleagues
Measuring, always at ease
Seeing things that very few saw
Never quite as feted as Cruyff
Since Cruyff was tying all
Of his defenders in twisted knots
And blood vessels
But Neeskens was the barometer
The gauge behind the
Orange revolution
Always gazing around at
The bigger picture
Thinking one step ahead
Of the rest
Incomparable genius
Goal scorer of course
But contemplating
The future rather than the
Past, always on the
Same page as his Dutch
Crowned kings
A radical visionary
The Dutch template
Two successive World Cups
Slipped agonisingly from
His grasp
Netherlands
Losers in two finals
But nobody blamed
Neeskens since
He was immune from
The snipers, the bullies
Neeskens had everything
In his locker
Touch, awareness,
Almost a sixth sense
A premonition of goals
Stepovers and dragbacks
When the mood suited him
Since the Dutch could
Multi task, spin a thousand
Plates at the same time
But Johan Neeskens
Rose above the carnage
And madness of
Football’s red and yellow cards
The ferocious fouls
And the sumptuous stylists
Even though he too could
Get stuck in
Passing with scientific
Succinctness
Knowing where the goal was
Studying the game
In the quietest of
Footballing libraries
Barcelona clutched him
To their heart
Like a beloved son
But the Netherlands
Claimed him as
Part of their family
And never looked back
Again

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This Old Turnstile

like them all before

I’m one more who makes their way

through this old turnstile ~

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Business as usual

It’s business as usual
It almost feels like a
Throwback
When John, Paul, Ringo
And George
Were a worldwide phenomenon
And Sergeant Peppers was
A cultural icon
Listen to the sweetest larynxes
Of the Kop
When Anfield was the place
To be, clearly and powerfully
Heard and seen
Unmistakably so
Liverpool will never walk alone
And now back
At the top of the pile
Premier League pacesetters
It was never in any doubt
Yesterday ransacking the
Cottagers of Fulham
Get out of their property
Craven Cottage, still a
Thriving industry
Holding their own
Under Marco Silva
But demolished by
The wrecking ball
Of Arne’s army
Liverpool lording it
Again at the top
Of the Premier League
The flying Dutchman
A gentle, tranquil wind
In the air
Amid the canals and windmills
Of Liverpool’s
Watertight defence and
Purring, humming attack
Meanwhile back at the
London Stadium
Your claret and blue
Squadron of battle hardened
Soldiers
Finally crack open
The bubbly
West Ham, awake
From a hat-trick of
Home discomforts
No longer the laughing stock
Of those who still believe
David Moyes should
Still be in charge
Finally the penny drops
Trouble at the Olympic Stadium
Lopetegui, knives were out
Gallows and executioners
Sharpening blades
The sack race is poised
And ready to go
Sack that Spanish toreador
But fourth defeat
On home turf
Avoided thankfully
Yesterday autumn parked itself
On the lush green turf
Of the Olympic Stadium
Shadows stretching their limbs
Across the verdant acres
Of wide expanses
Of East End pasturelands
Which is where Ipswich
Came in from their world
Of cattle and livestock
Where the crops have yet
To yield a harvest
Of form or goals
This is the Premier League
And the Tractor Boys
Have yet to hit the ground
Running, instead wading in
Treacle and stuck fast
Near the bottom of the
Top flight
Languishing in the Plankton
Yet to adjust and acclimatise
Familiarising themselves
With the script and punchline
Of the Premier League’s
Latest episodes
Yesterday Antonio after 50 seconds
Flicking home the opener
For the Irons
And then suddenly Suffolk
Hearts were boosted
Surprisingly and unexpectedly
Delap drilling home the equaliser
Now the grumbling throats
Of the harrumphing Hammers
Growled their dissent and discord
Not again surely they
Cry in unison
The natives were restless
Dumbstruck and despairing
What will become
Of those euphoric European
Heroes when Prague
Was once conquered?
Then just before half time
A light at the end of
The darkest tunnel
Mo Kudus showered with kudos
Scrambling home via Antonio
And the crossbar
Give that man a seat
Now the second half
And the music has rhythm
Claret and blue
Orchestras tuned and
Hitting melodic heights
Pacqueta spicing up
The coffee beans
Of the Brazilian blend
Neatness and artistry
Whenever the mood took him
Illustrations and pictures
In his mind
Before Soucek, Emerson,
Rodriguez from the pampas
Of Argentina
Carve open the blue fields
Of Ipswich
Sowing the seeds of more
Ripened crops
But then,
Stopped in their tracks
Firstly Jarrod, the captain
Bowen at his most
Sharp eyed and observant
Runs and runs
Before cutting back onto
That lethal, favoured feet
Third goal at a heartbeat
West Ham home and hosed
No way back for newly promoted
Ipswich
What on earth would Sir Bobby
And Sir Alf made of the
Modern incarnation?
When Portman Road almost
Saw yet another fruition
Of best laid plans
When Crawford and Phillips
Mariner, Gates, Mick Mills
Eric Gates
Were always on song
But the class of 2024 is
A labour of love
The potters wheel yet to
Produce from the
Finest clay
But yesterday
Pacqueta finishes
With fourth
The Hammers happy again
Glazed earthenware
Yesterday a masterclass
Masterpiece.
That’s the way to do it
West Ham
Up into mid table safety
Yet to reach double figures
But London Stadium
Not quite as toxic
Or inflammatory
Four goals in the East End
Now there’s a rarity
Mini celebrations
Let the panic dissolve
Like pills in water
Soothe savage breasts
Victory lives again
Take it easy
West Ham
International breaks
To calm raging storms
A hint of revolt
Now stilled and stalled
Early season traumas
May just have vanished
Like stars that wax and wane
Rest worried West Ham
From the woes and cares
Of alarms and agitation
Let the season
Begin here and now
We must hope

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/page/2/