Poetry Archives

Justin Edinburgh 1969-2019

Justin lived life fully
An O’s hero to the ordinary
Driving Orient to the League trophy
Taking 23,000 to Wembley

Whether it’s Southend or Billericay
White Hart Lane or Pompey
Those you knew speak with clarity
You were a man of great integrity

At Brisbane Road with Dave and Kirsty
We stood with Brillo and Jobi
All thoughts with your family
You made a good few folk so happy


© emdad rahman

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Lily Parr

Lily strikes a pose
Not the women’s or men’s game
Just football, for all.

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Football is the game
The men who play that game are
the football players educated
at Football Academy

But me, an amateur player
never walked alone
I thought there were two clubs
in Liverpool,
Everton and Everton reserves,

That is what I thought
But are there really two different clubs,
No they all do the same,
They defend and attack,

There is not Champions League
There is League,

There are not the Champions,
There is traveling 11 players
who met the others

22 persons,

Who are then Champion of Europe

That is some 11 players paid for the job

What the job ?

The job the rest of the world do not have

Who is little one ?

Nobody !

Just there was football player
Brian Little at VILLA PARK

In the same manner
if Brian Little has something to do with
the word little

In the same way
Uefa has nothing to do with UFA

AND UFA IS French German University
in French

UFA Université franco allemagne

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Trent Alexander-Arnold

Long after the songs have been sung
And the red flares that flooded the sky have slowly dispersed
The billowing flags of poetry and sardonic Scouse wit folded for memories
The football streets of Liverpool find themselves woke once more
No B word for Liverpool was made for Europe
Klopp with his ebullient wide mile smile, aye boss tha’
But Scouse football is always back to childhood for me
And home remains that most nostalgic rose tinted romance
As always holds me fast, unbreakable that umbilical chord of Football Beatles and Grace
The boy in the picture, socks rolled down, face reflective in dreamy contemplation
Lives my dream, our dream, and sets the brimming hope-filled youth in me free.

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A Scouse Counting Song


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The Six Pistols

Klopp’s name writ home with
Paisley Fagan Benitez
The Fab Four Walk On.

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Refugee football in Syria

Imagine you’re a terrified child
Fleeing persecution and danger
Betrayed by those you call your own
It’s a given you’d be brimming with anger

They channel their fury on the field
Without doubt a powerful release
There’s an inner rage firing within
Grave expressions craving peace

“Yaa Muhammad!” “Yaa Ustad!”
At Barr Elias they called my name
I’m proud I’m not a cause for fear
Thanks to the beautiful game


© emdad rahman

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A win on the rim (of Europe)

So where was the value, in last night’s victory?
Ok yes, another trophy
Another cache of millions, in prize-money
A three goal cushion
Bragging rights over North London rivals
And the delight in denying them a Champions League spot

But in the numinous sense?
Have we lost the plot?
The match played out
In a soul-less stadium
In front of barely any true-fans
And those that were there
Had to make outlandish plans
We wanted a Ryanair romp, in all our pomp
But had to trek, to a far outpost of quasi-Europe

We should have been talking about
Glory days, bright futures
Transfers in, transfers out
Loans sealed, or repealed
And whatever happened, to Izzy Brown?
Instead, all the chatter on soshe
Is about back handers and brown envelopes
Of Blatter’s boots
Being filled by others in cahoots

And where’s the value, with a 3 goal gap and 3 minutes to go
In subbing on the un-zippy Zappacosta?
Why not reward the Young Player of the Year, Conor Gallagher?
Why not brighten up with Ampadu?
Or blood McEachran or Cumming?
Thoughts to occupy the mind
On the way back from Baku, when serially thumbing!

And how can we truly celebrate
When everyone’s favourite son, is setting sail?
All in all, it’s a sad tale
And for those in the know
Football could be heading in a direction
Where no-one wants to go

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Un-wanted hat-trick

We see our boys
out on the pitch
giving their all
chasing the oppo
chasing the ball

we see our players
skillful and wilful
at the top of their game
but we see them having a ‘mare
and we mete out the blame

we see them on the telly
we see them being papp’d
we see them all too easily
but how about when they’re trapped?…..

an Irish chat show coup…
John Walters welcomed like a hero
post retirement, announcing
“my Achilles heel, was literally,
my Achilles heel”

“So, how do you feel?”
the presenter poses
and one supposes
we’ll hear the usual
footy cant
a cache of clichés

coaching badges, blah
punditry, blah
golfing, blah
a cushy life, yadda yadda

but we were un-prepared
for the baring of the soul
no care for Euro qualification
or the scoring of a goal

for John swerved
from “missing the boys, and the noise
from the stands”
weaving to
a “triple whammy”
a heartfelt admission
from an 11yr old boy, still missing his mammy

and I don’t have his permission
to present this commission
but as a fan
hearing the true story, the back story, the black story
the real behind the reel
“so how do you feel?”
and he draws us in
to the depths that he plumbed
loss after loss after loss
not, as in games or matches
but the tragedy of losing life
of family dispatches
and losing health
and sod the Premier wealth
for it brought no solace

he welled
he blanked
he tanked
he “corpsed”
but he showed us a way
to the man behind the “stoic star”
we were no longer
looking in from afar
but sobbing with him
approving of his disapproving
of the way he tried to be –
footballer first
wounded human second
suppressing the grief
of just days before
by training hard and pushing more
being “a man”
and taking it on the chin
of not wanting to break “the taboo”
of hardy men
and the barriers erected
against sensitivity
and the proclivity
to not share, to keep hidden
any susceptibility
that emotion might obscure
the single minded view
of winning at all costs
of winning ugly
and if not winning, then not losing
not losing points
not losing face
not losing your place
on the team…

no-one would deem
that this strong man fronted, for personal gain
for this portrait of pain
of a man, bowed by anguish
by despair, was all too obvious
showing us a man incapable of unburdening
at say, Burnden Park

but here he did
he swallowed hard
he caught his breath
he forced himself, he willed himself
to unload, to share
to show that it’s good to talk
and that we should never walk

Spoken like a true Scouse
Of proud Irish Heritage.

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Glory be!

Glory be the days
When we were young
And fun
Was on the menu

Glory be the days
When boots were grabbed
And anywhere at all
Was the venue

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