Poems tagged ‘Crystal Palace’

A Liminal Evening

A spring evening,
bats flit the warm twilight.
Enjoying the swarm,
feeding on the excitement,
chants echo under the floodlights.

A ravenous crowd, and
the biggest gathering ever.
Roosted to the rafters, some
hanging off the trees,
been there, queued up for hours.

Bats back in my essay!
I should be there, not you.
Stadium bound, and
feasting on the spectacle,
instead, I’m writing tepid, about you.

Phylum, class, and order,
your Yinps, and your Yangs.
Mammals who fly
with the wisdom of birds,
found in warm, across every land.

I could paint you positive,
or associate you with the dark.
Protector from disease,
or mythic purveyor
of a well-known deathly trademark.

Here’s a deal, if the football goes my way,
I’ll write you up as symbols
of rebirth, luck, and long life,
not unhappy birds,
who prayed to be like mankind.

Until then, I write liminal,
sitting on the fence.
Darkness, light, doom
and hope equally reign,
unless we win the game.

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Palace in the Roy Time

We’ve had ‘em all,
the hired guns,
the journey men,
the over the top of the hill.

Managers promising stability,
and less of a football thrill.

Pulis and Pardew.
Neil, Sam, and the Ollie.
Drawn by our desperation,
and the right amount of lolly.

We’ve tried to progress,
step up,
move on.
But each time we try,
we go back
to square one.

This time
we got lucky,
know he’s the one.
The steady hand
local boy,
Roy Hodgson.

His timely resurrection
is just what we need,
and his wish to play like Brazil.

So, we’ll stick by Roy,
especially if we manage
to create his de-aging pills.

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I Wonder. Did I Ever Tell Yer…

Knew this fella, knew a fella
Old lags in The Boob together
For a little bit a TDA, while absolutely stocious drunk?
Every Saturday after-noon, in their cell
They joshed each other merry hell
Tuned in to Five-Live, lounging on her Madge’s bunk.

“Kev, we didn’t hardly ever ruck
Life in our Dingly? Sweet as hazel-nut
Till in The Derby, Tottnem miss a sitter
The sarcastic comments, guy lets fly
Set-off a ginormous hue n cry
Turning Spurs fans on our landing proper bitter.

Blimey, if only I tumbled him a Gooner
Would a dropped the loser sooner
T’was him what caused me stuck there in The Boob
Anyways, I cheer on Spurs, despite a slight conundrum,
With, “There’s only one team in North West London”,
Coz as you know, I’m through n through a Blue like you”.

“So, what landed the pair of you in The Boob?”,
“Well, we’re “Over the water” having had a lube
Tube Station shut, can’t hail a sherbet dab
We stagger in a South Westerly destination
Seeking a night bus to Fulham Broadway Station
A little worse for wear, due to shandy’s had.

Anyways, near The Crystal Palace ground
You’ll never guess what us two found?
An eerie garage rammed with resting double-deckers”,
“Right, we’ll soon be good to go to Fulham Broadway
Hi-jack one of these, we’re right as day
Just see me out son, that done, I’ll pull up and get yer”.

“Kev, so I see him out to the main road
Where I quickly have it on my toes
And wait for him to pick me up, in the dead a night
But, the hi-jacked double-d flies by
Him waving at me (I thinks) bye-bye
Perturbed, I chase the bus to catch it at the lights.

Banging on the passenger door
Kev, you should have heard me roar?
Like a Banshee, proper vexed at my accomplice
“Let me on, you no good so n so”,
I’m screaming at this hi-jacker, I hardly know
His reply, “Can’t you read the sign son…Out of Service?”.

“Anyways, I prise open the emergency door
Just as the long arm of local law
Come blue lights flashing, roaring round a hairpin bend
Another ten minutes I swear to you Kev?
That Gooner might have been brown bread
Eejit, displaying, Out of Service, instead of…The Worlds End”.

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Bobby Kellard (he was Well ‘ard)

Some players are born to ramble
Others play for just one side
Bobby Kellard played for eight different teams
And led them all with pride.

Robert Sydney William Kellard
A north Londoner by birth
A born and natural, feisty leader
And a salt man of the earth

Near the earth, he was we know
Standing only five feet four
But anyone tackled by Bobby Kellard
Always came out bruised and sore

His son Rob was often told by fans
‘you’re dad was a dirty player’
“No, he was just a little bit ‘ard,” said Rob
“He always tried to play it fair.”

He started out with Southend United
Then was signed, by Palace boss Dick Graham
And in midfields throughout the football world
Bobby Kellard caused sheer mayhem.
Combative, ferocious, tenacious
Were descriptive words for Bobby
Whose ruthlessness in winning tackles
Was on par with MacKay and Nobby.

Sold by Palace to Ipswich town
Was the man with the chest of barrel
Bought by Bristol City, Pompey,
and then Leicester’s Frank O’Farrell
He re-signed for Palace in 71
About forty grand we paid
And after just half a dozen games
Our captain he was made.
He led us into battle
Saved the team from relegation
Loved by all the Palace fans
For his inspirational dedication.
He weren’t no Martin Peters
And he weren’t no Johnny Giles
But to the fans of Crystal Palace
He brought happiness and smiles.

He was transferred back to Pompey
Where he made the history books
Being the first player ever sent off on a Sunday
After throwing a few right hooks.
So Bobby you were a rare one
A captain through and through
While some players for brekks have cornflakes
It was nails that you would chew.
So for all the clubs you rambled
And all the grounds you played
The name of Bobby Kellard
Will never, ever fade.

R.I.P. Bobby

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The Eddie McGoldrick show

Standard Liege 0-7 Arsenal (1993 Cup Winners Cup)

Ariel Haan got the sack after the first leg
George Graham left Ian Wright out
Four at Highbury, seven away
Standard Liege get a huge knockout

Eddie McGoldrick on at half-time
For the Gunners a huge dividend
Setting up Merson and Campbell
And goal of the game at the end

Smith, Selley, Adams, Campbell twice
Merson adds six after five
Seaman’s throw, Merse plays Eddie
Ghosting run and rasping rocket drive

03 11 19

© emdad rahman

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Argy Bargy.

Watching them, Irons, alight from a barge
and gracefully skip over a myriad of puddles
On their way to the stadium…after, avin it large
Singing their traditional, “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles”.

It suddenly dawned on me, stood in awe on the tow-path
As the blatantly obvious things in life sometimes can?
Is an Iron travelling on a barge, avin it large,
Making haste to the stadium…the quintessential floating fan?

If so? What a right blinding way, to make tracks to the match?
Their singing and impending arrival majestically regal
Well at least until twenty past seven on Saturday evening perhaps?
When their bubble got burst by the claw of an Eagle.

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The Story of Mrs. Minchella (the peanut seller)

Some call her Lou Lou, some Isabella
But to most fans at Palace, she was Missus Minchella.
“Peanuts forra sixpence
A tanner a bagga”
Her accent went through you
Like a sharpened up dagger.
She was boisterous and moody
and prone to a moan
and before Kane was to Tottenham
She was one of our own.

Back in the Sixties and Seventies
her primitive bark
would compete with the chants
at pre-match Selhurst Park
“One two, three, four
Can you hear the Palace roar?
Peanuts for Sixpence”
Would mock the visiting fans

Unlike the players who came, played and went
Missus Minchella was always there
Rain, snow. wind — sun or hail
You’d always hear her accented wail
“Peanuts forra a sixpence,
a tanner a bagga.”

So who was the mysterious Missus Minchella?
The monkey-nut lady with the feisty demeanor
The bandanna covered head
And the olive, leathery skinned face.
A face that had memories, it couldn’t erase

A face that witnessed poverty, war and relegations
A lined face that saw much sorrow
But very few elations
Many claimed to know her
but no- one really did.

Urban legends abounded
Some said she was an Italian countess who fled the Nazis
It was whispered that she had Mafia connections.
And in her younger days was a raven haired beauty
Whose husband died
on war time duty.
That the large gold earring’s that hung down to her shoulders
would fetch thousands if sold
Some assumed she was a gypsy, who hoarded her gold
in a secret compartment, that her basket would hold.
That she lived in a mansion of luxury
Far away from the din, of match day Selhurst Park
from her boisterous persona and thunderous bark.
“Peanuts forra a sixpence – a tanner a bagga. “

Some bought her wares, for a quick pre-match snack
Others to take aim, at the stern Peelers back.
If your aim was well practiced and you’re nut hit the cop
You felt like Jocky Wilson finishing
on double top.

She was hated by police
And the ground staff alike
The apprentices on Monday
felt like calling a strike.
Having to clear more spent shells
than a South Bronx shot up street
Shells that had been stomped
by thousands of feet
that throughout the match
jumped up and down
and an occasional knees up to old” Muvver Brown.”

On terraces packed
As kids were being passed
down to the front
Missus Minchella for sales with her basket would hunt.
With wicker basket, tied to her chest
She’d wade her way up the terrace
Parting the red and blue sea
of working class humanity
As easily as Victor Moses would part
the heart of an opposition defense.

Many’s the decent pre-match terrace brawl
was rudely interrupted by the threatening call
of Missus Minchella
“Stoppa you punching, you kicks and head butts
putta you hands in your pocket and buya my nuts.”
They always did.

She pulled a crafty substitution in Seventy – One.
Decimalization meaning we changed up our mon
She subbed the D for the P
said she was only doing her job
And now our cherished monkey nuts
cost just under a bob.
But she still said tanner.
“Peanuts forra a fourpence
A tanner a bagga.”

Then one mid- football season around the year Eighty -Four
At Palace Missus Minchella was not seen no more.
At first no one took much notice
But soon with the rumour mill we got a bad vibe
Was Missus Minchella dead or was she alive?
She was murdered by the Mafia
She was banned by the club
But all of these stories just didn’t add up
Nowadays. “ Find Missus Minchella” Facebook groups
Would spring to life
And Twitter pages would be rife
But then there was just gossip.
More than a Coronation street corner
or a Sky studio on transfer deadline.
She was reported seen, at the Den, Millwall
and selling nuts at the Albert Hall
At a Status Quo concert at Charlton’s Valley
and even outside the Hammersmith Palais.
She was sighted at Sainsburys more times than Elvis
But sadly — never again at the Palace.

Now the tannoy makes the pre-match noise
as fans look at their phones
Oblivious to the sounds of Elton and the Rolling Stones
But old timers claim to hear another sound
As they moan ‘bout peanuts for two pound
They swear that as the game gets near
a voice attacks their inner ear.
After maybe drinking too much Stella
they hear the voice of Lou-Lou Minchella
And despite the tannoy blaring out
the latest sounds of Lady Gaga
They hear the feeble, eerie cry
“ Peanuts forra a sixpence a tanner a bagga.”
The ghostly voice of Missus Minchella
The Crystal Palace peanut seller.

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Source: https://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/crystal-palace/