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Poems tagged ‘PSG’

City still top.

joe morris

Monday, March 14th, 2022

City still top.
City still on course for
Back to back Premier
League titles
Without even playing
Where Chelsea seem
To be playing Russian roulette
Where the stakes are high
And money dictates the market
The Roman empire is tumbling
Alarmingly, or has fallen
Quite dramatically
Beads of worry and agitation
In the Chelsea boardroom
They’ll pay the bills but not
The transfer fees
Not even engaged in souvenirs
And merchandise in the
Land of Chelsea’s commercial
Dealings but Abramovich
Is now in the dock
Accused of Dangerous
Liaisons with Putin
On the field though
Chelsea give resurgent Newcastle
A rude awakening but
The Geordie bandwagon
Is rolling again, relegation
Now but a distant yell from
Newcastle’s tumbleweed
Season of haggard looks
Struggling at the wrong end
Of football’s endless ladder
Neither up nor down but
Eddie Howe has inhaled
The salubrious seaside
Scents of Bournemouth
And revivalist signs
Of dynamism are in the air
Still, Chelsea, despite the
State of limbo, remain
In contention for Champions
League finish, Bruce Buck
Temporarily stills raging waters
Everton though are troubled
Concerned at dire predicaments
Beaten by the old gold of those
Howling Wolves, Everton cornered
In the thick tangle of forest that is
The wrong end of the Premier League
Lampard’s dad, who once jigged around
A corner at Elland Road in FA Cup glory days
Finds his son Frank Junior grinning and bearing
It. Goodison trapped in desperate straits,
Surely not relegation for the Toffees
But who knows?
Leeds are leading the way
In relegation greasy and oily
Territory, sliding towards the bottom
But Norwich now doomed and condemned
And facing the firing squad
Too late for any rallying or recovery
Oh, the Championship it has to be
Sadly, but again
At St Mary’s the Saints were marching on
But were then stung by a hornets nest
Roy Hodgson’s football encyclopaedia
Once again gives Southampton a valuable lesson
An educated football mind, cool and unruffled
Watford, stirring, emerging from the rough
Slowly but surely, but haunted by yellow shadows
Your Hammers
Riding on an emotional stallion
Yarmalenko gives his Ukranian
Nation, moving messages from the heart
A tearful acknowledgement of
Love and concern
Football thinks of its family and community
The claret and blue of East London
Give their negative claret and blue
Visitors, a bloodied nose
Villains of the piece
So unlike a Steven Gerrard
Eleven of recent times,
Villa, beaten and not so inviting
At the Emirates, the season is
Now bursting into early spring
Colours of red, stunning crimson
Arsenal, bolder and brighter
Football flowing like the endless
Silvery streams that gush
Idyllically from heavenly
Heights, Football from
A thousand art installations
Leicester outfoxed
Then finally Manchester United,
Liverpool and Brentford all deliver
From the good book of victory
Ronaldo, a hat-trick pass master
Outclassing Spurs, blowing hot
And cold, Conte bemused
But Spurs still in stick or twist mode
Brighton are rocking on their heels
Oh if only Graham Greene were here
To pass honest judgment since
Liverpool are pushing and prodding
City, professional at Brighton’s rapidly
Fading season of mid table mediocrity
Brentford have been impressive
Debutants, sipping from the Burnley
Claret, confidently striding away
From quick sands of relegation blues
The runners and riders
Of the Premier League form teams
And not so fortunate,
A Bayeux Tapestry of bruising battles,
Spectacular light shows and fun fairs
Relegation and promotion
As many fluctuations of fortune
And misfortune as the Stock Market
Sinking hearts and soaring hopes
Football at its taunting and teasing best
It could finish on a high or hinging on
The result you didn’t want
High and low, precariously balanced
On the cliff or the Premier League
Trophy within your sight or
The forgotten figures
Of yesterday’s men
And condemned to an emptier world
But surely not.

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Wounded Pride.

kevin raymond

Thursday, March 11th, 2021

Would history repeat itself, on a cold Parisienne night?
A deft fleet footed tiny elf, vacate his throne, take flight?
The answers to such questions, quickly disappeared
In a blitz of ball possession, to be dreamed about, revered.

PSG turned up at home to play, win, entertain, and enthral
But, to play as wizened pundits say, a team needs have a ball
Relentless in subtle approach play, little give and go’s sublime
Another sphere, another day? Barca victors come half-time.

Sipping Fentimans Ginger Beer n ice, I urge Dembele…score
Not once, not twice, not thrice times, an exasperated four
Reminded of Meadowlark and co, I envy PSG their thankless task
Eclipsing Barcelona’s ebb n flow? Seemed an unattainable ask.

Despite a double dodgy penalty, a blinding Messi thunderbolt
Seemed to me at least that PSG, struggled hard through-out to cope
Messi sees his spot-kick saved, followed by a frantic free for all
PSG trudge off the field of play, seeking out the BFC exclusive ball.

Would the second half surpass the first? Dembele caress the elusive net?
Might PSG quench Barcelona’s thirst, lack nous, sit back, en garde, regret?
What happened during the second-half, is of little consequence at all?
PSG stutter through midst a nervous gasp, trying to find and keep the ball.

During the initial forty-five plus minutes, watching the Barcelona way to play
The intricate deft give and goes within it, retrieving the odd ball gone astray
I’m reminded football’s a simple game, to control, receive or make a pass*
Played by a team, not one lauded selfish pseudo-God, ply’s his trade on grass.

The Champions League dream done n dusted, this decimated term at least
Barcelona bid, au revoir to Paris encrusted in plaudits post a veritable T.V. feast
Sometimes it isn’t the at all cost winning, attracts fans hankering after fame
It’s the pleasure your teams delivering, in the guise of playing a simple game.

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