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A Lot of Hard Work

Denys E. W. Jones

Wednesday, October 2nd, 2024

The whole week long we trained hard for this match.
We practised corners, throw-ins, penalties.
And free kicks too, from fifteen, twenty yards.
Next came an hour of dribbling around cones,
To make sure that our skills were finely honed.
Then sit-ups, press-ups, other such exertions,
To guarantee that we were fully fit –
Our Boss is a great one for risk-aversion.
When match day came, a pep talk from the Gaffer,
To psyche us up, ensure there were no slackers.

But after all that, how did things pan out?
We did enjoy our fair share of possession.
Yet could not transform that into a lead.
We hit both posts and bar in quick succession,
But lacked the slice of luck you always need.
Appeal for penalty of course denied.
And linesman’s flag went up to show offside.
Then at the death a treach’rous cross came in…
Our Keeper failed to grab… their Striker pounced,
And bunged the ball into the Onion Bag.

So after all that effort, we got beat!
A lot of work, lots of hard work
Went into that defeat.

16/9/2024
Denys E. W. Jones

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Happy Birthday Sir Trevor Brooking

joe morris

Wednesday, October 2nd, 2024

Happy Birthday
Sir Trevor Brooking
76 today
Flights of fancy
Whim and impulse
Majesty and elegance
In his white and red blood cells
From birth in Barking
To the Empyrean heights
Of Ron Greenwood’s England
Only his mentor and muse
Could have brought the best
Out of him
Brooking floated and fluttered
Like the most graceful bird
On a whispering breeze
Balletic as Nureyev
Across the muddy battlefields
Of Upton Park
An East End national treasure
Where once Ron and Reggie Kray
Once ruled the roost
With evil, nefarious deeds
Sir Trevor Brooking now
Became lord of the manor
With the right honourable
Bobby Moore
Equally as beautiful
On the eye
Never rattled or perturbed
Remotely, for a minute
Brooking stooped to conquer
In the 1980 FA Cup Final
Of course he did
The unlikeliest headed winner
But that was his forte
We knew that
Against the Gunners
Silenced for a while
Red vapours of defeated smoke
Drifting mournfully
Over the old Wembley
Arsenal beaten for a change
But that’s medieval history
And then there was that shot
Explosive as cordite
Amid Hungarian goulash
In World Cup qualifying
Conflict and battle
Sir Trevor drives home
A wondrous dreamlike
Goal that hits the stanchion
Of the net
In Budapest
Of course it was a goal
But the Nep Stadium
Could hardly believe
The evidence of their
Startled eyes
Sir Trevor Brooking
Decorating hundreds
Of canvases
With artistic brushes
Gliding and pirouetting
Stateliness in claret and blue
Peacock plumage
Skipping gingerly
Through minefields of tackles
Shielding the ball
Protecting it tenderly
Like the kid in the street
Who owns it, treats
It like his best friend
Swaying this way
Dancing the next
Trapping it gorgeously
This precious diamond
At his twinkling feet
His relationship with a ball
Lifelong and affectionate
Happy Birthday
Sir Trevor Brooking
A stunning example
To all

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The Match Day Hot Dog Seller

Mike Bartram

Monday, September 30th, 2024

When close to the ground…you could always tell.
You were suddenly greeted by that Hot Dog smell!
On every corner, there was a mobile Hot Dog stand.
A seller at the ready, with a bread roll in his hand!

Walking to The Kop, it was my teen pre match treat.
Back then, food hygiene standards took a back seat!
In fact, I don’t think they even had a ‘seat’ at all.
Not when you judge the state of that Hot Dog stall!

The sellers wore long white coats, just like Lab men.
Coats, not been washed since I don’t know when!
Venders puffed on their ciggies, with a smokers cough.
But even that wasn’t enough to put people off!

On the stall, grubby old bottles of mustard and sauce.
And the sellers never had the right change of course!
Trays of onions, swimming deep in last week’s fat.
Can’t imagine todays match goers, putting up with that!

Oh, but that beautiful aroma, was simply one of a kind.
But today at Anfield, that aroma is impossible to find!
Personally, years of eating Hot Dogs, never took its toll.
As my immune system got used to that sausage and roll!

Now sadly disappeared, has the Hog Dog vendors voice.
It’s all different now, ‘customers’ demand a fancy choice!
But back then, most footy fans were a different breed.
As an expensive in-house Stadium menu…we didn’t need!

The sellers should now make a comeback on match day.
With their current food hygiene certificates on display!
And give them nearby toilet facilities, with soap and sink.
So, come on Liverpool City Council…what do you think?

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West Ham walloped again

joe morris

Thursday, September 26th, 2024

Oh woe West Ham
Walloped without
Legal recourse
Agonising and anguished
At Anfield
Over and over again
Another 5-1 thrashing
Of bloodthirsty savagery
What is to become
Of our claret and blue
Heroes?
Whatever happened to them?
So they told us in the punk
Vernacular
Muddied but studied
From a distance
Useless as a chocolate teapot
Nothing last night
At Liverpool
Probably quite spineless again
Defeatist, submissive, surrendering
As if football were a broken clock
No timing, no appetite, no inclination
Energy drained, just compliant
Fill your boots Liverpool
Men against boys
Not another cliche
But the truth
And nothing but
Oh Lopetegui, the jury
Is deliberating
The court is out
But Brentford on Saturday
Bees gathering over the honey pot
West Ham just hoping
For rainbows and miracles
A win will do
Just a win or two

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A busy night in Europe.

joe morris

Thursday, September 19th, 2024

It was busy night at the
European conference table
As opposed to the
UEFA conference League
A distinction to be made
Between the two
Since the Champions League
Returned with a flourish
And typical swagger
We knew it would
Because it always does
At this early stage of
The season
Those regulars and
Household legends
Who always seem to turn
Up for the big occasion
Wearing their smartest garb
An air of aristocracy
That never seems to fade
Familiarity never breeds contempt
Those refined feet and cerebral minds
Liverpool, traditional sitting tenants
At all European celebrations
Serial European Cup victors and
Champions League winners
Graceful, gracious and never less
Than charming hosts
Last night sweeping aside
Italian sophisticates
AC Milan, once feared, revered
Deeply admired
The greatest of them all
All over Europe and the world
But Arne Slot’s latest
Footballing royals
Were wandering through
The state rooms
Glittering portraits
On the wall
Liverpool, discount
Them at your peril
Then there was Celtic
The first British ambassadors
To represent the UK delegation
When Chalmers, Gemmill and Murdoch
In 1967, the Lisbon Lions
Roaring on that
Memorable night
Were wee bairns
Full of thrusting youth
Patriotic as haggis and kilts
At hearty Hogmanays
When Scottish eyes were smiling
Last night the green and white hoops
Were at it again
Blasting Slovan Bratislava
To smithereens and total submission
Meanwhile Aston Villa
Now there’s a surprise
But not quite since
Realistically Villa have history
On their side
European Champions in 1982
When the hitherto all conquering
Bayern Munich
Were beaten by the ever alert
Peter Withe hirsute,
Booted and suited
Last night the boys
From Villa Park
Dumped Young Boys
Yes, those juvenile upstarts
From the Swiss alps
Most unceremoniously
On their backside
Italy and Russia
Make their presence felt
Bologna grind out
Bore in stale goal-less
Draw, no score there
Shakhtar, new kids on the block
In recent years
Sadly Russian voices
May have to be silenced
Since dictators have now
Made unforgivable noises
War and football
Orwell knew what he was
Talking about
This is not the right time
For Russian football
To be held to account
For the sins of Putin’s
Bloodthirsty bullyboys
Finally French flair setters
PSG, narrowly edge past
Girona, Italy once again
On the tastiest menus
Appetites never sated
In European club football
We can never get enough
Of its crafts and powerful
Shafts of radiant sunlight
The giants and contenders
To the throne
Welcome back

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Toto, RIP

Clik The Mouse

Wednesday, September 18th, 2024

Toto,
you broke our hearts
but as life departs
we can only weep and pray
and thank God that we saw you play

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Analeptic Athletic FC

Clik The Mouse

Wednesday, September 18th, 2024

Football has always interjected into my life:
intervened at my lowest points
in reparative fashion, putting a smile on my face
and mapped a path, back to the rat-race;

It has capped my highest highs
reminding me that they don’t last
that the next match
or the next season
will bring another set of struggles
another gaggle of glitches….

but always
a sentient solution is summoned….
at any succession of mud-splattered pitches!

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UEFA Nations League?

joe morris

Monday, September 16th, 2024

So, answers on a postcard
On the subject of
The UEFA Nations League
Another bout of head scratching
Confusing imponderables
Rather like the earth being flat
Is there life out there?
It’s a week ago
Since Lee Carsley
And his brand new England
Set up the signpost for
Another foray in another direction
Some distant,
Unheralded location
A destination to who knows where?
Or just a fuss about nothing
The UEFA Nations League
Second rate, utterly inconsequential
UEFA sending out some meagre
Consolation prize
To an England team,
Stuck between the devil and deep blue sea.
Do they whip themselves
Into a genuine frenzy of excitement?
After the loss of two
Successive Euro Finals
And yet Irish eyes were tearful
At the Aviva last week
The Republic of Ireland
Green with envy at England’s
Promised land
Firstly a liberal sprinkling
Of Rice, Declan,
Initially of the Emerald Isle
But now lion hearted
England, fires the sweetest shot
A goal across the bows
Of Dublin and County Cork
Where the pumps of a thousand
Literary bars of Guinness
Once rang to the palpitating poetry
Of Joyce and Yeats, Oscar
At his wildest and most expressive
Then, just to rub salt into the wound
The Importance of Being Jack Grealish
Since it was he who completed
A spellbinding tapestry
Of wonderful, one two
Intricacy and the consummation
Of a marriage made in heaven
Close passing at its most dazzling
England carving through
The Republic of Ireland
A knife through butter
Grealish almost too smug
After declaring his Irish
Ancestral bloodstream
Then at Wembley on Tuesday
Finland finished off finally
Harry Kane, yet again
Goal scoring expertise
When most needed
But the UEFA Nations League
We sigh with reservations
Since none told us
About its job description
Its rightful place
In football’s bigger picture
An international anomaly,
Maybe, or yet another competition
With no vivid rhyme or reason
The jury has to be out on
This one, will the members
Please deliberate at both
Half time and full time
Since the World Cup now
Feels like some unfamiliar
Stranger to dear old Blighty
Another two years to go
For England to flow
And don’t England know
We’ve been here before

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Palace of Tears

John Gilbert Ellis

Thursday, September 12th, 2024

In the fanfare seasons we get spoiled
delight screams in legions.
A mercy break from desperate
our default formation for eons.

Not a piss pot, pan, or trophy
or league won in years.
Resignation lingers
behind red eyes and blue tears.

Equine false nine strikers
draw wicked lines for laughter.
This we know is who we are
our allegiance a running reminder.

Like asking an ocean to dismiss
rivers in love with life.
If we can’t laugh with misfires
the stars should ignore the night.

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A Saturday Afternoon In Winter

Beth Rogers

Thursday, September 12th, 2024

Stride a littered path
Meld with pouring blue-clad crowd
Tense hope unites us.

Clanking turnstile squeeze
Concrete steps to bird’s eye view
Pie? Chips? Kit-kat? Tea?

Tinny music plays
Hi-vis cluster at tunnel
At last! Legs burst forth!

Expectant roaring
Ref’s hand high. Breathless hush. Shrill!
The precious first kick….

Pass, cross, pass again
Possession lost – tackle back
Foul, free kick, ball sails….

Their goalie hugs it
Strong kick lofts the ball forward
Boot connects. One down.

Despair engulfs – but
Fresh hope blossoms in sad souls –
Cutting pass to wing.

Man hacked down. Crowd growls!
Players rage. Ref waves yellow.
Free kick short. Wasted.

Their cross lands sweet. Shot –
Taut muscle blocks. Phew! I love
That solid player!

Tip-tap, lose ball. Sigh.
Tip-tap, back pass, tip-tap. Sigh.
Nose, bum, toes – all cold.

Corner. Shirts bob up.
Strong neck fires ball. Net bulges!
I burst with rapture!

But it’s the Cup! We
Need another. Nerves jangle.
Ball scrambled over…

It is theirs. Hearts bleed.
Their fans, then whistle, taunt us.
I drift home, grieving.

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/page/3/