Poems tagged ‘Football’
Those were the days again.
You always knew where you stood
Quite literally
In splendid isolation
But an integral part
Of match day
Surrounded by
A choir of obscenities
Anglo Saxon blue
Roaring across the ether
Football in full bloom
OK then, I’ll say it
Football at 3pm
Saturday set in stone
Part of the concrete and steel
Of football’s routine lives
And yet
No more interruptions and disruptions
For World Cup qualifiers
What we really want is
Weekly ambrosia for the weary soul
A simple thread of continuity
Now then, though
A day sometimes for football to
Make up its mind
We could still be here
Until midnight
Have our boys won or not?
Is it Saturday, Sunday, Monday?
Or quite possibly just after
Breakfast on Monday morning
When most of the nation
Are toiling at the coal face
A game whose outcome
Was in the balance
Because there were seconds to
Go and all we needed was
The winner in extra time
But not now
Just scratching of heads
Because TV screens
Were seeking confirmation of
Goals, legitimate goals
Now it takes an age
Goal or no goal
The burger and hotdog
Fraternity will either
Explode with happiness
Or slump into a morose sulk
Football dithering and dallying
Over offsides, decisions
That seem to take a lifetime
Now the fans are
Left in limbo,
Rather like waiting for the last
Bus home
That never arrived
First the certainties and then the wait
For the referee’s signal
Or that ridiculous
A game of charades
Where the ref draws
A picture of a TV screen
A chaos of imponderables
That frightening delay
In case the ball was over the line
Maybe not
No goal, so officialdom insist
And about time too
It’s one o’clock in the morning
And of course the
Family are fast asleep, but
You’re still cheering or
Just embittered by defeat again
And you’re playing in the
Fifth round of the FA Cup
Football is your medicine and antidote
For everything you’re devoted to
Its irresistible smell
The soundtrack of where
You were, when the League
Was almost won in 1986
Oh if only we’d found
That extra yard of stamina
West Ham, it could have
Been so different
If only Liverpool and Everton
Had taken an early holiday
To the Costa Brava plains
We’d have won the old First Division
By a country mile
League champions
The East End warriors
The best in the land
But now it’s out of our reach
As elusive as the summit
Spare a thought, though
For the likes of Rochdale,
Grimsby, Plymouth and
Accrington Stanley
Exactly, never the
Back page headline makers
Just earning the plaudits
Of their faithful
They’ll probably never
See a trophy in my
Lifetime
Just one long and winding
Sequence of local derbies
Intriguing, the plot thickens
But nothing to please
Our tired eyes
Just the privilege of finishing
12th in League Two.
And the one ambition
Of finishing in mid table
Or just a finger nail
Clear of the relegation zone
Gripping on for dear life
And football goes on
Delightfully,
The seasons always flow
Jewish New Year
Oh well, the beginning of
A New Year, the genesis
5786, for Jewish friends and families
So many civilisations
In the history of our lives
When Israel was but an
Apple in our eye
But now the first seeds are
Planted in the rebirth
Of our Jewish world
And then Ossie Ardilles was in
Football’s unenviable dug out
Manager of Beta Jerusalem
In 2005, barely a novice
As boss and governor
It could have been
Maccabi Haifa
But then he discovered
The apple and honey symbolism
Of tomorrow’s sweetest song
And pulled the strings
From the bench
Football was never
Israel’s cup of tea
But, given half the chance
Of course they can play
The Beautiful Game,
Tomorrow we will seek
Repentance and forgiveness
Free from sin
And we will think
Of Yossi Benayoun
Hammer and Gooner
In their blood and dreams
The desperately tragic
Late but much loved
Avi Cohen
The Liverpool’s Kop
Poster boy
Then there was Ronnie Rosenthal
Another adored at Anfield
Idolised but then
Cruelly exposed
At Villa Park
When with the goal begging
He crashed the bar
Sadly but truthfully
And so we settle down
Tomorrow for prayer and worship
At global synagogues
Your minds briefly glancing
On thoughts of the
London Stadium
West Ham, but of course
What a mess and melancholy
Hardly worthy of any consideration
On these holiest of days
Who cares about the morbid
Spectre of relegation
Since this is a stuck needle
On a timeless vinyl record
And yet for those of a
Spurs and Arsenal persuasion
The Jewish community
Enjoy the historic rapport
With the past
And still do
North Londoners one and all
But for those
Lovely Jewish people
A happy and healthy New Year
What is a football fan to do?
So the curtains and blinds have closed
What is the ardent football fan to do?
Twiddle thumbs and fingers until August
Nothing but a relentless barrage of
Transfer rumours and tittle tattle
There is a haunting emptiness
Around both the Premier League
Championship, Leagues One and Two
Tumbleweed blows softly across
The summertime haze and heat
Football must be wondering whether
It was something it said or didn’t
Because June, July and August
Are like vacancies during the winter
When bed and breakfast hotels cry out
And yearn for customers and visitors
And those sodden promenades look
As forlorn as yesterday’s chip paper
But now summer is here
So that must mean the Club World Cup
Somehow defying logic, explanation and
And relevance to any of us
Just ridiculously unnecessary
Or just making perfect sense
Inter Milan against Hackney Marshes
You may laugh but
That’s how it feels
Madness in just a word?
Obviously surplus to requirements
But a money spinner of course
A commercial jackpot, watch
The millions of dollars spin
Around the Las Vegas gambling casinos
Where one armed bandits
Pour waterfalls of cash
Into its materialistic arms
But please give football a
Well earned holiday
Away from the hoi polloi,
The wealthy elite of the Premier League
Give football its well deserved
Sun lounger next to the thrashing
Crashing blue seas and oceans,
Slip some stylish shades onto
Its tired eyes and bronzed physique
Rest football just for a while
Soak up the Mediterranean rays
In the summertime
Of course Mungo Jerry was right
No more grievances
About VAR’s, offsides by players
Fingertips
Hours, months and weeks
Spent agonising over goals
Justice or injustice
As be it the case
It’s all horrendously bloated
Perhaps bordering on the obsessive
But we love the Beautiful Game
So let’s just relax
In the aura of sultry sedateness
Of Lords and Wimbledon,
The Henley Regatta if this is
Your sporting choice
Football is back in August
So patience is a virtue
Liverpool, Arsenal and surely
City again, they have to
Be Brando’s Premier League contenders
It really can’t get any worse
Than last season’s debacle.
Football, football, football
The roar of the grease paint
Supporters always there
Loyalty again
Soccer Aid
It’s time to think of
The children of the world
For it is they who are
The foundation stone
Of human existence
In their hands we trust
The Beautiful Game
Tonight we think of those
Suffering the horrendous
Diseases and crippling
Disabilities of the unfortunate
Misfortune greets their staring
Pleading eyes
Bodies wasted by the
Cruelty of neglect
Malnutrition and starvation
Tearing through hungry minds
Oh, how distressing to we
Who live in the privileged world
Of hedonistic luxury
Who can only look on in agonised
Dumbfounded silence
Soccer Aid,
Let it be repeated
Over and over again
Football must extend the hand
Of unconditional love,
Healing hands
Kindness and consideration
For those with nothing
Nothing to look forward to
Helping profusely those
For whom breakfast, lunch
Tea and supper
Are just alien concepts
They are the ones who
Can only dream of our
Daily normalities
Of enjoying the joyous
Thrills of five a sides
On the parks
And Power Leagues of
British kick offs,
Free kicks, corners
And goals galore
In the back of the net
That lovely onion bag
But for those who
Continue to be so horribly
Deprived of centre circles
And running rampant down
Touchlines on wide, inviting
Wings where doves still fly
But we must think of the children,
The kids who just want to strike
Spectacular volleys from the
Half way line
Let them roam free
Playing their game
With beaming smiles
As expansive as the one touch
Game, we’ve always advocated
For tonight Robbie Williams,
Lee Mack and celebrities from
Football’s benevolent hearts of gold
Will be playing for the
Precious cradle of youth
Who may never know the meaning
Of eternal happiness and freedom
But we have to extend the warm
Embrace of optimism to
Our next generation, certainly
The present day
For football is their
Universal language, our
Spoken words of passion
Dominant conversations
In every pub, shop, village,
Town and city
Of course children are our future
Let the charitable face of UNICEF
Spotlight their woes and travails
Bless them for ever
With the heartiest of good health
They too can be the next M’Bappe,
Neymar, even the remarkable Cristiano
Ronaldo, a world class
Footballing intellect
But first and foremost
And above all
Let the kids with
Little and pitiful
Strike out and venture into
Their Bernabeu, Nou Camp,
Maracana, Anfield and the Emirates
Waking from troubled beds
And striding confidently
Towards food and drink
Into welcoming stomachs
And play football into the
Fading darkness of twilit stages
Running into space
Leaving the past behind them,
Passing as if by memory
Let the children who express
Simple desires
Just smile and laugh
Incessantly, just score
Goals for pleasure and fun
Care unquestioningly
For their welfare
So let’s celebrate Soccer Aid
Today, tomorrow and for ever more
Sir David Beckham
So arise Sir David Beckham
Now entitled to admission
To the Garrick gentleman’s club
Pour that man a brandy
A Havana cigar of the finest tobacco
Now officer class
The highest of accolades
Yesterday our great British monarch
Becks rubs shoulders with kings
King Charles The Third
Shares pleasantries
With the modest lad from Leytonstone
Hackney Marshes finest
Now accorded seniority status
A knight of the realm
Chivalrous soul
From the days of medieval age
Lords and ladies
Please address this
Gentleman of importance
With a deferential bow
No longer just Becks
Formerly of Manchester United
Sir Alex’s carefully nurtured
From the Old Trafford dream
Factory, where once Giggs, Butt
And Scholes plied their trade
When Premier League titles were
Won with eyes closed
It’s Sir David Beckham
The Right Honourable one
From London’s East End
A man of upper class distinction
It’s Sir if you please
Remember who you’re talking to
Now Sir David formerly of Real Madrid
Will be sharing glittering dinner parties
With presidents and Prime Ministers
No doubt clinking glasses
With the noblesse oblige
Champagne for breakfast
Lunch and tea
Fraternising of course
With titled princes and princesses
Sleeping in affluent
Four poster beds
Silk sheets
And gold brocade
Would Sir like pate and
Foie gras
For breakfast?
Perhaps an audience
At Windsor or
Buckingham Palace
Caviar and smoked salmon
For lunch
A neatly ironed copy
Of the FT
We gather sir
Would like the best seat
At Ascot?
Top hat and tails
Of course
Next to Charles and Camilla
Oh and of course Lady Victoria
Would prefer the
Poshest of company
Now on first name terms
With Kate and William
Please curtsy before
Posh spice
It’s only right and proper
Admire her ladyship’s tiaras
While Sir David
Entertains dukes
From stately piles
Of Persian rugs
Would Sir David
Prefer ginseng or Earl Grey
Tea in the banqueting hall?
Maybe a game of croquet
Or a summer afternoon of Polo
Only the best for Becks
Lordly lawns
Sir David is cordially invited
To the ambassador’s residence
For bridge or baccarat
Be sure of the red carpet treatment
Sir David Beckham
Your yacht awaits
Next to the country mansion
Many a gravelled driveway
With Rolls Royces and Bentleys
By the hundred
Sprawling acres of green affluence
Vast gardens of
Riotous roses of red and yellow
The shrewdest of shrubberies
Sir David, you’ve fallen
On your feet
And landed in the gentry
But still admirably grounded
No airs or graces
It may be a long way
From Leytonstone
But Sir David Beckham
Down to earth
Always patriotic England
Leading from the front
A national treasure
For any occasion
Sixty Second Minute
With sixty-two minutes played
at a rancid, rainy Selhurst Park,
two photographs appear
on the jumbo screen, floating
over the on-pitch preparations
to take a disputed penalty.
Matthew Higgins and Mick Lloyd
sixty-two years of age
eternal supporters, fathers,
stalwarts, drivers and friends,
give us a mirrored reminder
of well lived lives played out
with more than nil-nil intent.
A minute of gentle clapping
rises in kind acknowledgment
of their coincidental death,
while on the pitch,
the bickering football match
continues oblivious and intense.
The whistle blows, and the ball
stumbles towards a Palace post.
The penalty kiss and miss
takes the crowd by surprise
enough to break the reverential bliss.
Claps turn to jeers and boos.
A lifetime chance squandered,
life come breaking in, as usual,
leaves us with the ‘if onlys’ to ponder.
Happy New Year.
Happy New Year football
Best wishes Premier League
Like one continuous sequence
Of festive frivolity
Seemingly 365 days of the year
Raucous repetition
Over and over again
Throughout the dazzling illumination
Of Regent and Oxford Street lights
The glittering tinsel and bobbing baubles
A permanent Boxing Day fixture
This constant bombardment of one
Game after another
Football on our guilty conscience
When the kids are crying out for
Yet more presents
This incessant indigestion
A bloated diet of Arsenal,
Liverpool, Chelsea, and,
Astonishingly, Forest flashing
On our radar
At the top of the Premier League
Business as usual
And business class
Economy suite
Liverpool leading the pack
A throwback to days of yore
When Bill, Bob, Ronnie and Joe,
Messrs Shankly, Paisley, Moran and Fagan
Dictated the tempo and
Dominated the game in vivid shades
Of pure red, scarlet or magenta
Painting Merseyside red
Decade after decade
Of ruddy complexioned beauty
During those vivacious and vibrant
Years of 1960s and 70s ownership
Throughout absolute domination
Now the Anfield masses
On the Kop roar again
For Arne Slot, a Dutchman
Inheriting the mantra of
Total Football
It’s a genetic thing
You know
Salah, Gakpo, Van Dijk,
Robertson, Arnold
Ripping it up
Six at Spurs, five
At the claret and blue Hammers
Is there no stopping this
Red runaway train?
Arsenal, Forest and Chelsea
On Liverpool’s coat tails
Clinging desperately onto their hood,
Pockets of defiance
Anything that gives them hope
But here we are
At the half way point
Of the season
City are in no man’s land
Alien territory
For Pep, no fifth
Premier League title for him
Or so it would seem
Just out of contention
Nowhere to be seen
Almost a pathetic shadow
Of their former selves
Even noisy neighbours
United look like sick patients
In Accident and Emergency
Manchester United relegation material
Unthinkable, surely sacrilege
It must never be allowed to happen
Particularly after that famous day
At Old Trafford when the Law man
Denis back heeled his old muckers
United into the old Second Division
It’s the second half of the
Premier League
A quarter of the way
Into the new century
It’s anybody’s guess
Happy Birthday Match of the Day
Happy Birthday Match of the Day
60 years old today, hey
And there we were thinking
That you were only 59
Where have the years
And decades gone
Since you arrived in
The world of
Harold Wilson’s
White Heat of Technology?
Swinging London
Possibilities and
Potentialities
Everything had life
Colourful vibrancy
London’s finest feelings
Everything rocked
Everybody danced
In Trafalgar Square
Fountains of any age
When Bobby and Nobby
Brought home the 1966 World Cup
To our doorstep, our village
Our city, the sprawling, stretching
Metropolis and then nationwide
Then, suddenly as if by magic
Match of the Day
Arrived, a bonny, bouncing baby
Healthy, screaming with joy
On that distant day, Kenneth Wolstenholme
From a fledgling BBC 2
Also in its infancy
Made that momentous introduction
Welcome to Beatleville
She loves you, yeah yeah
We came to idolise and worship
Match of the Day
Every Saturday
Initially at tea time
Just as dad threw his cap,
Scarf and rosette
Onto the rosewood dining table
Pools coupon tucked away
Discreetly but excitedly
Dad loosened his braces
Dug ravenously into his
Egg and chips feast
Match of the Day
He cried as if just
Promoted at work
With just a couple of shillings
More in his wage packet
Dad just had to be home
For black and white
Highlights of the big matches
Little cameos and snapshots
Of Saturday’s sweetest
Fragrances, burgers all around
On heaving, sweating terraces
Put the kettle on love,
It’ll be on shortly
Football as you’ve never seen it before
Football on the telly,
Said the doting husband
To his shocked wife
Not again she groans
With doleful despair
But it’s Match of the Day
From Anfield
Liverpool against Arsenal
Pass the ketchup, love
Before the opening credits
Of men in thick raincoats
Women with hair curlers
Large gatherings of football’s
Working class solidarity
Men with chiselled faces
Straight from the factory
Milling around Victorian turnstiles
Bobble hats perched strategically
On perfectly combed hair
Some in workaday suits, shirts
And ties
Must look good for
Match of the Day
Football from Highbury,
White Hart Lane, Anfield,
Old Trafford, Stamford Bridge
When Chopper Harris was but a boy
Giles, Lorimer,
Tambling, Venables,
Law, Best and Charlton
United’s Holy Trinity
White, Dyson and, Peter Thompson
On his debut Match of the Day,
Ian Callaghan, Roger Hunt
All par excellence
Football’s master crafstmen
In 1964, it was a revelation
A novelty, rather like
That treasured
Porcelain ornament
On our mantelpiece
But to this day
It still chants
That lovely old signature tune
In our head
That refuses to go away
Firstly reminiscent of
A wartime ditty
From our local brass band
But now associated
In the mind’s eye
With Jimmy Hill’s face
And a thousand cardboard
Cut out images
More extended highlights
Of the game’s spectacular
Moments to digest and drink in
First the late and deeply missed
John Motson, who just adored
The factual and obvious
Barry Davies, perfectly eloquent
Short, succinct, economical
With every word, sentences
Weighed carefully and lovingly
Jimmy Hill presiding like
A Roman emperor
Beard bristling with wisdom
Today Match of the Day
It’s your 6Oth birthday
Don’t forget the candles and cake
The drinks are on us
Saturday nights
Would never seem
The same, without you.
It was 5O years ago
It was 50 years ago tomorrow
A half century ago
How time flies
On the wings of the old Wembley
Where Billy Bremner and Kevin Keegan
Donned welterweight gloves
And yet they were
Far from the stereotype
Of flying wingers
Nothing could have been further
From the truth
More explosive fireworks
Than old football chums
From way back when
It was the Charity Shield
Or perhaps the combustible Shield
Little in the way of
Generous hearts
Or even a whisper of benevolence
More like scrapping children
With scruffy shirts
School ties like bandanas
Snotty faced nine year old
Rascals and scoundrels
Who should have known better
But none of us really cared
Since charity
We volunteered and
Kindly donated
To our Oxfam friends
So back in 1974
Leeds and Liverpool
Pennine neighbours
But childish altercations
On the day
Handbags and flailing fists
It was 1-1
But this one was far from
Amiable, this one meant war
Tackles were flying in like
Spitfires from a military sky
Bremner, all Scottish
Grudges to settle
Fired up and ready to
Launch haymakers and upper cuts
And hooks of seething savagery
To Keegan, a pocket battleship
Ready to wear his heart on his sleeve
On the verge of England recognition
Power and lethal finishing touches
Goals like water from
A gushing reservoir
The man who became a Liverpool legend
Before Germany and Hamburg came
Calling louder and louder
Suddenly, Bremner and Keegan
Locked in a vice of hatred
And roaring recrimination
Come on Billy, Kevin
Let’s settle this one
Behind the bike sheds
No charity in the Charity Shield
That belongs at home
But 50 years later
It’s the Community Shield
Now that has a far homely ring
This one belongs
To your village post office
The church bazaar
The local supermarket on the
Corner of your road
Your pub games of
General knowledge quizzes
Shove ha’penny and dominoes
In snug corners
Money raised for your
Neighbourhood hospital
Or Victorian school
Marathons on behalf of
Those less fortunate
Yes, the Community Shield
The connotations are similar
And the sentiments are much the same
But don’t mention the
Charity Shield to Liverpool’s KK
Because he’ll just whip
Off that unforgettable red shirt
From the land of Scouse matiness
And storm back to the tunnel
Off you go Kevin
But fear not since
It was just the Charity Shield
The curtain raiser to
Another season
But those fleeting fisticuffs
With Billy Bremner
Freckles on late summer chest
Wild as Bill Hickock
The gun slinger from Elland Road
No malice or harm intended
Of course not
But burning rage
Flaring from smoking ears
As the bell went for
The end of round one
Nobody wins
On Sunday though
Manchester giants
City and United
Gathering their
Derby needle
Animosity unconfined
Tomorrow it’s the
Community Shield
It’s just for fun
Remember
It’s a reminder
Of Premier League
Autumnal beginnings
Before August
Becomes next May
And winners are
Declared
On that far off day
Football’s coming home…
In 66 we won the cup,
The football world was shaken up.
But since then, it seems, we’ve had a curse,
Our football luck’s been quite perverse.
In 1970, we gave it a try,
But in the quarter-finals waved goodbye.
In 86, Maradona’s ‘hand of god’,
Won the quarter-final for the cheating sod.
Italia 90 brought semi-final pain,
Gazza’s tears like pouring rain.
2002, the quarter-finals brought no joy,
Beaten by Brazil’s samba boys.
2006, another quarter-final curse,
Every time it feels much worse.
2018 saw a semi-final try,
But Croatia’s win saw our dreams die.
In 22, expectations high for Southgate’s men,
But the quarter-final jinx struck again.
Our Euro hopes, they’ve been much the same,
Quarters and semis, usually end the game.
In 68, we reached the last four,
In 96, lost a semi-final once more.
2004 and 12, quarter-finals brought yet more pain,
Our poor supporters left to groan again.
In the 21 final we faced Italy’s blues,
Penalties again, of course we’d lose.
It’s now fifty-eight years of hurt.
For those three lions on the shirt,
But let’s leave all our tears in the past,
Football’s coming home, at last!
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About This Site
Welcome to Football Poets -- a club for all football poets, lovers of football and lovers of (alternative) poetry. Discover poets in every league from respected internationals at the top of their game to young hopefuls in the school playground.
Publish your football poems here and then discuss them with your team mates and fans. We're archived by The British Library, so your masterpieces are in the safe hands of a world-class keeper. What a result!
Latest Poems
Crispin Thomas
3rd November 2026
joe morris
31st October 2026
kevin halls
30th October 2026
Clik The Mouse
28th October 2026
joe morris
25th October 2026
Jason Prasad
24th October 2026
joe morris
15th October 2026
joe morris
9th October 2026
Alex Saynor
8th October 2026
Clik The Mouse
7th October 2026
Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
3rd November 2026 at 10:23 pm
Hi Crispin,
How are you doing mate? I was just curious to know whether you were watching Countryfile on Sunday evening and that programme devoted to your Forest Green Rovers. Great watch.
Best wishes
Joe
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24th October 2026 at 2:31 pm
Ha!! Just brilliant! I can hear this being sung. So funny!
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24th October 2026 at 2:28 pm
I love this verse as I know exactly that feeling of living in a fantasy while kicking the ball as a kid. Makes me wonder what fantasy world professional players live in when they dribble, pass and shoot? Hopefully it’s doesn’t always feel like routine job fired them
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28th July 2026 at 9:40 pm
Hi Denys. Thanks for your kind words. I could have mentioned Dixie Dean but decided not to.
Best wishes, mate
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26th July 2026 at 3:47 pm
Great knowledge of Everton history, Joe.
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23rd July 2026 at 6:54 pm
Hi Jason,
Sorry I forgot to congratulate you on your excellent poem as well.
Keep well
Joe
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23rd July 2026 at 6:43 pm
Hi Jason,
Thanks so much for your kind words about Kevin Keegan, a footballer of legendary status and deeply missed.
Best wishes
Joe
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23rd July 2026 at 12:01 pm
Thank you, Crispin. I will defo encorage my bunch to contribute and will of course clear it with staff room.
Many thanks
Jase
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22nd July 2026 at 6:48 pm
Great poem Jase.
You are a man of my own heart …
And great to hear that you your students poems from our site.
Keep on and more please
if ever some of your students write anything suitable for here and most importantly they give you permission to publish them, you can always do so under your name referencing their names and the school..and year.
Best Crispin
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22nd July 2026 at 10:29 am
I think this is best thing I have read so far about the legend. Thanks
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