Poetry Archives

This archive contains every poem that has been published on Football Poets. They are listed ten-per-page in reverse chronological order so the most recent poems appear first. Click or tap the arrows in the corners of the page to navigate between pages. It's easier to use the search form below to find a specific poem.

City- what a team.

Six out of six for City
Staggering swaggerers
Stunning, untouchable
Yesterday the angels kissed
Their football
Burnished and varnished
Almost lacquered
With the finest coat
Of varnish
46 passes that thrillingly
Opened up Forest like a
Pandora’s box
A treasure chest of passes
That glistened in the autumnal breeze
Yes 46 passes
Like a child’s birthday party
Pass the parcel
Dizzying daisy chains
Vapours of breath taking telepathy
How did that happen?
Minds tuned into the same conversation
Reading morse codes
Of the same language
Anticipating thought processes
To the second
Automatic and off the cuff
All around the Etihad
That gathering of magicians
A symposium of beauty
Where music of exquisite
Syncopation dropped like
Gentle raindrops before
The sun came out in the
Manchester rhythm section
Precision engineering
Levers and pulleys
Oiled to perfection
Merry go round of
Bewildering feet to feet
Alvarez, Haaland and
Rodri before he lost his head
Too good to be true
Two up in no time
Then resting at leisure
Job done
Forest lost in theirs
Just impartial observers
At a simple ceremony
One touch, two touch
Another feast for the eyes
City, wandering through
The quaint villages of
The Premier League
Arsenal though await
With their repertoire of arms
Guns ready and primed
Gunners always
Permanently striking
From here to there
But 46 passes for City
The final diagonal
Found Walker then
Phil Foden
Eager beaver
Struck with both
Thunder and lightning
A goal made from the
Finest clay and
Earthenware, a mesmeric
Majolica, designed
And crafted from
The hottest kiln
City unbeaten thus far
But the chase could
Be over before
The festive glitter
And tinsel
Will City be rumbled
At any point?
The plot will thicken
By the week
So watch this space

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Palace Sunrise

We’ll play it safe and get there for sunrise.
Driving to Croydon, any day,
is like being at Exeter Services on a Saturday
in August, single file by West Cornwall Pasty.

So when should we leave? When will we depart?
Let’s play it safe, say 3 a.m. Get there for sunrise.

Is there anything to do at Thornton Heath
other than mull over shared memories
over insipid pints, surprisingly priced?

What time should we leave for Palace?
Will we be rattling the locked door
of Camberwell Library, delving in –
not far – through glass to local history?

And what time can I get to Crystal Palace Park?
4 a.m. is too early for parkrun
but is still well planned for kick off.

There’s a faint lifting in the sky now
from black to eggplant, eggplant
to iron fog, iron fog to a dull reflective coin
minted in nineteen eighty three

obscuring a view of Happy Valley
and skyscrapers from south London heights.
What time shall we leave for Palace?
We arrived for this inferred sunrise.

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Hammers in Europe again

Ah, yet another claret and blue
Odyssey into the land of the unknown
Travelling light
Voyages of discovery
West Ham transported into
Yet more European battlegrounds
Passports officially stamped
Luggage rigorously checked
Last night
The Europa League welcomes
The East End seasoned troopers
Back into the fold
Where Europe’s finest
Display their garish finery
The obscure but never
To be taken for granted
Since football, in all
Its cosmopolitan clothing
Still commands respect
In those World Cup history
Books of long ago
Where once Real and Bayern
Placed their carbon footprint
In European football
And of course the Euros
Lest we forget
West Ham though
Back in familiar waters
Re-directing their binoculars
On the Europa League
Agonisingly close against Frankfurt
Before the Germans showed
Their fluid patterns
And supple techniques
Teutonic feet of gold
Hammers knocked out by
Eintracht Frankfurt
In Europa League semi final
But far from shamed
Close but not on that night
Thwarted by a hurdle too far
For West Ham last night
This was a repetition of the
Episode from two seasons back
But entirely different circumstances
Football moves on
And West Ham are worldly and enlightened
They’ve known the peaks and troughs
The peaks of Prague
Where the Hammers won
Czech mate
Bishop and Knight
Found the queen
Drunk on success
Take the castle
Break open the portcullis
And hey presto
The Euro Conference trophy
Was yours to keep
For a while
Fleetingly glorious
Fiorentina flummoxed
By the claret and blue
Benrahma strokes home
Penalty before
Lucas with Brazilian
Through the eye of a needle
Slots impeccable through ball
For Jarred to send the Hammers
Into a world of happy ever
After romance and febrile fantasy
Last night Serbia came calling
Backa Topola
Who are they?
Certainly not
Accrington Stanley
A million miles away
from the Milans of AC,
And Inter, the indomitable
Bayern Munich, Real Madrid
And Barcelona
But Backa took the lead
With a comedy act of a
Back pass that defied belief
Before Kudus
Moved the mountain Mohammed
Spring heeled header
Level pegging and then again
Before Tomas met with head
From another JWP special
Straight from the deepest quadrant
Corner. 3-1 to the claret and blue
Assembly line of gilded talent
London Stadium thrilled to be here
Among the European sophisticates
Pinching themselves in case
The sceptics pour scorn
On the downtrodden Irons
How far can they go this time?
We shall see
But please remember the bread
And butter of the Premier League
There are no crusts in the
Europa League
So prioritise the home comforts
And another assault on the top 10
West Ham go gently
Into the night
Carefully, cautiously
Liverpool at Anfield
On Sunday, now there’s
A reality check
You fear the worst
Since the gypsy curse
Has always haunted
The Happy Hammers
For decades now
Apart from that one
Chink of light
During the last season
At Upton Park
When Manny Lanzini
And Mark Noble
Stopped the rot
On Merseyside
Oh to be a claret and blue
Neither up nor down
Never a dull moment
When the odds are stacked
Against them
David Moyes delivers
It certainly can’t be

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The Dressing Room

In the realm of men’s camaraderie, so strong,
We gather, we bond, and we get along.
We drink together, sharing laughs and cheers,
And face the world,
conquering our fears.
In dressing rooms, our sanctuaries of trust,
Where conversations flow,
and no judgments thrust.

For once inside, you’re in for life’s ride,
With friends as brothers, side by side.
Yet for some,
being there makes no sense,
Holding back truths, a veil of a pretence.
‘I’m okay,’ they say,
wearing a brave face,
But deep inside, they crave a safe space.

Why don’t we ask, our openness extend,
To those beside us, who may need a friend?
What harm is there, in seeking advice,
In saying, ‘I need help,’
to break the ice?
So let’s cherish these ties that bind us tight,
Embrace the vulnerability, sharing the fight,

For in unity, in honesty, in being true,
It’s okay to not be okay,
we’ll be here for you.
Whether in a dressing room or a WhatsApp thread,
It matters not where we turn our heads.
Reach out friends,
our inbox is open wide,
To anyone feeling lost,
with nowhere to hide.

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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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Roy Hodgson

We wish you well Roy
Since you were never coy
With your playful toy
At the Palace
Without malice
Tactics and formations
Those splendid transformations
When England called
You never fooled
Those who froze
Who know you well
Voice stronger than a bell
Clearer than ever
Those who thought
You were at the end of
Your tether
Who believed your style
Without any hint of bile
For Roy Hodgson
Poorly but surely
You convalesced
When put to the test
Roy, it was you who bossed
Added lustre and gloss
In charge of the Swiss
Never amiss
Finnish but never finished
Then Liverpool, Fulham,
And naturally England
Certainly not Rutland
Patriotic as warm beer
Always there
For us as like the
Red Routemaster bus
An elder statesman
But always ahead of the rest
Progressive as the best
Multi lingual, a polyglot
A man who’s got the lot
For country and club
This man at the hub
Centre stage
Never beige
The classical sage
With perfect humour and witty
Banter never the ranter
Impassioned but fashioned
By the finest cloth
Never with wrath
Forget Iceland
Merely a Neverland
A motivator and navigator
Of troubled midfield huddles
Muddled thinking
Tinkering but never sinking
Roy is your man
Who brings palatial riches
Overcoming the roughest ditches
And Selhurst Park hitches
Roy Hodgson, back in the
Hot seat, precise and neat
Suit, shirt and tie
Roy will undoubtedly apply
The Midas touch
We will always clutch
The memories of victories
Back in the technical dug out
Your expertise and clout
Welcome back Roy Hodgson
To your revered seat

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The Christmas Truce

Our family football scarf holds many memories, from its time within our clan,
Some fantastic tales come with it, as it’s passed from man to man.

Great, great granddad Jim told how he got the scarf when he went off to war,
A gift from his father to remind him of home, when he had left these shores.

That was back in 1914, when he and thousands of young men,
Set sail to sea, for queen and country, some never seen again.

He told of how that Christmas time, the enemies called a truce,
They sat and shared their food and drink, and hostilities were diffused.

They even played a football match, after they had finished dinner
Great granddad Jim was the proudest man, as he had scored the winner.

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I Like to Be

I like to be in Afghanistan.
Okay for me in my Sudan.
I like to be one team Iran.
I like to play in peace when I can.

I like to be safe, without war.
Bring it right on, early doors.
I like to play, win, and score.
I like to be welcome on your shore.

Bullets for me, not in Hertfordshire.
Jumpers for goalposts, yes in Yorkshire.
No penalty kicks in Shropshire.
I’d clean the boots of Lincolnshire.

If you’re all white in Bedfordshire,
then you’re alright in Wiltshire.
One look at us in Middlesbrough,
they’ll think twice in Peterborough.

No welcome dream for us in England,
more years of hurt, that’s for sure.
No safe space for us, we’re alien,
England’s sold-out; crammed brim full.

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Woe United

Oh it used to be the Theatre of Dreams
And yet now spirits are restless
In the wings
Where Coppell and Hill lived
And thrived
But now
Off stage and in the dressing room
Haunted and thwarted
Never flaunting in the
Way Sir Matt would have demanded
Angst, anguish and altercation
At Manchester United
In fact twisted turmoil
Rather than blood
That somebody in football
Was once heard to utter
United crippled with divisions
Dire warnings
Behind the scenes fury
A hint of both accident
And emergency
Almost a medical apocalypse
What on earth would pass
The lips of Fergie
Yesterday the Seagulls
Of Brighton came to Old Trafford
Treading those boards
While the lead protagonists
Almost froze on stage
Several pennies for thoughts
Sir Bobby Charlton and Denis Law
The knights of distinction
Where once Viollet, Bent, the
Beautifully blessed Duncan Edwards
Lives snuffed out tragically
By Munich airport runway
Also claimed Tommy Taylor
Roger Byrne
Yes the Busby Babes
What would they have made of
This modern day Greek tragedy?
United racked and rocked
By the Glazer family
Old Trafford girders and
Tottering and teetering
In early autumnal gusts
Of wind and rain
The Stretford End
Now threatening riots
On the streets of Salford
The empires built by Sir Matt
and Frank o’Farell
Smashed to smithereens
Then the philosophical Dave Sexton
Too nice for football management
Before Ron Atkinson discovered
Flamboyance in United’s back catalogue
Whiteside, Hughes, Robson, Strachan
It could have been so much more
But now United in the land of
Agonised struggling, striving
And scrimping
McTominay still fresh and possibly
Poised for greater things
But not a Beckham, Giggs or
Butt, most certainly not
Football genuinely grieves
For the pitiful plight
That now faces Manchester United
Whose landscape once boasted
European Champions nights
Of bold but now cold
United were always our
Second favourite team
Since their football
Pushed back all frontiers
And broke record breaking boundaries
Sir Matt the pioneer,
Of the Red Devils resurrection
Now though Erik Ten Hag
Drowning in sorrows
Clinging desperately onto
Life rafts not at the ready
Yet at their disposal
If needed but not yet
But sinking in the quicksand
If they’re not careful
Five games now into the birth
Of another Premier League
Season of see saws
Manchester United woe for
A while at least
The neutrals wish the very best
For you and yours
Since United were the best
Of the rest
When Bestie’s snake hips
Shuffled, darted, dummied
Humiliated and then hurt
Nutmegged with carefree glee
The opposition at any
Given moment
What a tease were those
Twinkling Irish feet
And yet in the class of 2023
United are languishing
The laughing stock of
Football’s comedy club
But not here
United reaching out for
Something to hold onto
Of course the legends
In everybody’s estimation
And respect rubber stamped
In our affections
Manchester United
A force for good
And everything that
Football finds favourable
And beneficial to the soul
Hopefully a temporary blip
Here and now
But football needs
A Manchester United
In command of their gifts
And arts
Where the sciences of
The game will always reside
Shaped and refined
Manchester United
To a samba beat

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Where are we now

Give us
idea of moving
Everton to La Liga
Then we can compete with
Bilbao and Real Sociedad
Atletico Madrid and Betis
May we build our new stadium
at Costa Dorada
May we play 10 friendlies
with the rest of 777 owned Clubs
The spirit of Sir John Moores
and the idea that
his club is run by
Multi Club owner, oh,
Where is Everton in Multi Club
Are they unique club or
some part of Multi Club invester
Are we special
May we host many many friendlies
with 777 owned clubs and
join La Liga
Are we Everton or Multi Club society
May we remember John Moores
May we say the word Identity

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Source: https://footballpoets.org/poems/