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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.

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Munich 58 (In Memory of Those Lost on February 6, 1958)

Phil Brennan

Thursday, February 6th, 2025

Through winter’s breath and icy fate,
A dream took flight yet met too late,
Young hearts that burned with fearless grace,
Were lost upon the sky’s embrace.
Geoff Bent, a loyal soul so true,
A servant strong for the only club he knew,
Roger Byrne, the captain brave,
No storm could shake the heart he gave.
Eddie Colman, bright and fleet,
A dancer’s touch, so light, so sweet,
Duncan Edwards, fierce and proud,
A name that echoes through the crowd.
Mark Jones, a pillar, tall and grand,
A rock who made his final stand,
David Pegg, with skill so rare,
His grace now lingers in the air.
Tommy Taylor, bold and free,
A goal machine for all to see,
Billy Whelan, joy untamed,
A shining light, forever named.
Walter Crickmer, guiding hand,
The club he loved, the loyal man,
Tom Curry, teacher wise,
A mentor’s strength in hopeful eyes,
Bert Whalley, quiet, sure,
The heart of youth now beats no more.
Frank Swift, a keeper’s might,
A hero lost in endless night,
Donny Davies, with pen so keen,
A voice now silenced, once serene.
Ken Rayment, through the storm,
A leader’s will, a pilot’s form,
But memory holds what time won’t fade,
Their spirits live where dreams are made.
In every cheer, in every game,
Forever stands each cherished name,
For though the night took youth away,
The Babes still play in hearts today,
Their story told, their honour bright,
A beacon in the coldest night.

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Ghosts That Whisper in the Breeze (In Memory of the Busby Babes – February 6, 1958)

Phil Brennan

Thursday, February 6th, 2025

The engines roared, the snow fell white,
Through winter’s grip they took their flight.
A team of promise, young and bold,
With dreams of glory yet untold.

But fate was cruel, the sky grew black,
The third attempt, no turning back.
A final breath, a shuddered call,
Then silence as they met their fall.

The twisted steel, the frozen ground,
The echoes lost, no cheering sound.
Red shirts that danced with skill and speed,
Now ghosts that whisper in the breeze.

Though Munich wept that frozen day,
Their spirits rise in red array.
In every chant, in every cheer,
Their memory lives, year by year.

For time moves on, yet still they stand,
As legends woven through this land.
The Busby Babes, forever bright,
A flame that burns through endless night.

Rest in peace, Busby’s Babes.

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London derby

joe morris

Tuesday, February 4th, 2025

The London derby
The East-West axis
Needle and malice
Surely unnecessary
Chelsea against West Ham
So many explosive moments
Rivalry unconfined
Last night
Once again at each other’s throats
Going for the jugular
Vengeance burning
Conflict at its
Most ferocious intensity
Parochial pettiness
But for 90 minutes
It became personal
The Hammers against the Blues
Potter and Marescha
So many chameleon memories
Always changing from claret to
Blue and then the Bridge
Welcome their Blue heroes
After recent Blues
Agonised lack of form
Under the weather
Poorly, briefly
Miserable malaise
But last night
A wicked deflection
Presented Chelsea
With three points
West Ham revived now
Rocking and rolling
Under Potter
A point at Villa
Now producing his
Finest earthenware vase
Art and craft in
Perfect symmetry
Bowen back on fire again
Pouncing on home blunders
Before Chelsea find
Their latest
And familiar fashions
The Kings Road
Alive with monarchs
Reigning supreme
Resuscitated in the
Second half
Cole Palmer
Re-discovering his
England clothes
Jinking,jiving,jesting
With the Hammers defence
Chelsea level the game
It had to be
Overwhelming barrage of
Pressure, pressing, breaking
Of lines and more lines
Then the sudden shot-cum cross
Richochets wildly off Wan Bissaka
Chelsea back in the top four
Oh we can hear the distant voices
And legacies left behind
By Cooke, Webb, Harris, Hutchinson,
Baldwin, Ossie Osgood, Butch Wilkins
Silk and steel fusing and gelling
Perfectly
But now their modern-day architects
Are building from different foundations
Jackson, Pato, Pedro, Palmer
Linking and then threading
With ornate organza
Passes and movements
From instinct and memory
Swagger and smoothness
In their traditional chronicles
Of celebrated history
Chelsea knocking on doors
Of European frontiers
Again, anybody in?
West Ham just muddling through
And pleading for the end of the
Season’s end
Never at the races
Mid table mediocrity
Flat as pancake day
At times
But Graham Potter
He could be there for
Some time
We must hope

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Sonnet for George

Richard Williams

Sunday, February 2nd, 2025

You brought me first to my surrogate home,
we scaled well-worn steps to secure the view,
a white-lined pitch grown from this island’s loam,
barrier to lean on for my debut,
the crowd so large I could hardly believe,
a child so wide eyed just breathing it in,
such innocence then I was so naïve,
now each time I return the moment spins;
to those who’ve passed and the time in-between,
I’m pulled right back to my earlier years,
this field of memories of all I’ve seen,
and though you’re gone you are still with me here,
as the teams walk out and the Chimes begin,
and I raise my eyes to the sky and sing.

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Sequar Te Quocumque Ieris

Denys E. W. Jones

Sunday, February 2nd, 2025

I will follow thee where’er thou goest.
Be thou in highest place or in lowest.
Runn’st thou the swiftest or the slowest.
When autumn leaves fall, when fruit on branch groweth.
When reaper reaps, when sower soweth.
When a bright sun shines, when the flake snoweth.
When a soft breeze wafts, when a storm wind bloweth.
When a goal-drought blights, when the stream new floweth.
But why say I this? Already thou knowest:
I will follow thee wheresoever thou goest.

10/1/25
Denys E. W. Jones

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County Road L4 2.30pm (1st Feb 2025)

Mike Bartram

Saturday, February 1st, 2025

I see lots of Mums and Dads.
Lots of girls and lots of lads!
Fans chilling out, old and new.
The common colour being blue

County Road as busy as can be!
As Everton kick off soon at 3.
KFC is doing a roaring trade.
Not long till I hear an air raid!

I hear programme sellers yell.
I can see The Brick is doing well.
First day of Feb, the sun is out.
This is what footy is all about!

A local stadium, in Liverpool 4.
But sadly, soon it will be no more.
I’m sad, I’m local and I’m a Red.
Next year this area will be dead.

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Silly Sausage

Rowan Waller

Saturday, February 1st, 2025

Biggleswade, in the cup,
Caff’ was doing sausages,
“Gotta try a couple, Martin,
I don’t care how much it is!”
Had to force the blighters down,
I’d had me flatpack sandwiches
at some obscure petrol station,
down the road where Langford is.
Halftime whistle, goalless still,
so to the clubhouse, nice and clean;
watched some footie on the telly,
(smallest thing I’d ever seen);
headed down behind the goal
a second half that saw our team
put three away in gorgeous style
and book a date with Forest Green.
Last 16 then, in the trophy,
hasn’t been the recent norm.
Gotta stand a chance now, don’t we?
(Just ignore the recent form.)
Not a game to hit and hope we
catch a couple down route one.
Eating vegan burgers, then,
with Crispin,
down at Court Place Farm.

#rowanthepoem

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Your first glimpses of football

joe morris

Wednesday, January 29th, 2025

It had to be Brisbane Road
Circa 1974
Orient as they were then known
In the old Second Division
That East End cockpit of
Fondly held dreams and illusions
On wide, exposed terraces
Where you could almost hear and see
The vast children’s playground
Outside Brisbane Road
The swings and roundabouts of football’s
Liveliest youngsters
On the second floor of the Football League
Where harsh realities lived
In the pragmatic world of hard knocks,
Long balls played into optimistic cul-de-sacs
Thugs and cloggers flourished
Amid the global rose beds of the world
Beautiful Game
Your first tantalising glimpses
Of footballing glory
Orient against Bolton Wanderers
Where we heard the first soundtracks,
Those passionate cries and bellowing yells
From the comfortable
Beds and living rooms
Where we’ve always lived
Your neighbour guided you up the steps
Towards Orient’s educated voices
Who’d always known about
Wartime and hardship
The ones who were always
Well informed on
The lower regions of the game
Where the sadly and dearly beloved but
Breathtaking Laurie Cunningham
Once moved his hips
With all the sensual grace
Of a Turkish belly dancer
Little did we know then
That fate would tragically intervene
But then just out of nappies
Twisting, teasing and tormenting
Body balanced as the trapeze artist
Who always took calculated risks
Cunningham caressed a ball
With perfect intimacy
Back then with John Jackson
In goal, always elastic
Phil Hoadley, Gerry Queen,
For jolly good company
The Os against the Trotters
Grind out ghastly goal-less draw
Bolton just forgettable
Orient marginally better
But you’ll never forget the feel
Of that 5p programme
With notes from George Petchey
The boss, the governor
Manager over all he surveyed
Yet to be introduced to burgers
And onions
Before the main act
But when the world was in its teens
You were as well
On the verge
So enthralled and gripped by
Brisbane Road
That first encounter with
Football’s most glamorous
Furniture
Everything a revelation
Like your first day at school

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Sixty Second Minute

John Gilbert Ellis

Tuesday, January 28th, 2025

Sixty-two minutes played and two portraits appear on the jumbo screen, floating over the on-pitch preparations

to take a penalty. A minute of gentle clapping rises in kind acknowledgment of the coincidental death

of the two on-screen supporters, each sixty-two years of age. The match continues oblivious. The ball trickles

towards a post. The penalty miss surprises the crowd, enough to break the reverence.

Claps turn to jeers and boos. A moment to dwell on death gone, only for life to break in.

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Goal Machine

Alex Saynor

Sunday, January 26th, 2025

When he takes a long haul flight
through the sun’s dipped beams outlining grey,
when everyone sleeps he stays awake.

When others revise for future tests
or diverted minds shift between screens,
Erling takes a literal view of what comes next.

Now flight path lines and contrails stretch
even rhythm across a screen of blue
showing future times forecast true.

And as bottles gently rattle
outlandish offerings to remain untapped,
are you somehow on a different plane,
I wonder, when looking at the map.

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