Look At The State Of You!
Jumpers down for goalposts
using a plastic ball
playing out in all weather
only stopping at nightfall.
No replica kits on display
No gloves on our hands
No rings or earrings
No girlie Alice Bands.
Covered from head to toe in mud
getting dark score fifteen all
cuts and bruises no shin pads
playing on with punctured ball.
I nod home the winning goal
and we'll all be back next day
'look at the state of you ' shouts Mum
Dad smiles, that'show he used to play.
Back then there wasn't much health and safety
And we weren't ruled by a nanny state
we just had lots of fun playing soccer
which to us football mad lads was great!
poem by Kevin Halls
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
The Football Fan
They love their football team
their loyalty is never in doubt
they rarely ever miss a match
from the stands they scream and shout.
Even when the teams playing poor
and their favourite player is off key
that will never stop them from going
as the ground is where they want to be.
Football is always on their minds
they think about it night and day
non football fans think they must be crazy
watching men kicking a ball home and away.
Relationships can become strained and tense
as football takes the leading role
partners can become irritable and even jealous
when the fan talks for hours about a wonder goal.
The fan even dreams of football in their sleep
shouting out and butting the pillow with their head
they jump up and down as if they've scored a goal
and kick their partner out of the bed.
Yes the football fan is a breed apart
slightly eccentric and a thick skinned soul
when all that matters to them in life
is seeing their favourite player score a winning goal!
poem by Kevin Halls
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Something Real
words and music by emily saliers
I've seen the sun on a funeral, the full moon in a midday sky
Tactician politician hold his head and wonder why
I'm always struck that much harder by the power of suggestion
By now I know the answer's always in the question
Now that we're done with that why don't you warm the car
All of the fields are filled with fresh boys playing football
More than the weather chills, the bands practicing their drills
I've got to get back to something real with you
I had to call your parents to get your number again
I was either gonna be the prodigal or the banished friend
We were standing against an outside wall, I was afraid of what you'd say
It took me ten years to call you back but here we are today
Now that we're done with that why don't you warm the car
All of the fields are filled with fresh boys playing football
More than the weather chills, the bands practicing their drills
I've got to get back to something real with you
So life has brought you this: two marriages and three kids
And me life as slick as ice that finally hit the skids
You're as sweet as you ever were
A slight sickness of regret washes over me
And in the end that's all I get
Now that we're done with that why don't you warm the car
All of the fields are filled with fresh boys playing football
More than the weather chills, the bands practicing their drills
I've got to get back to something real
I've got to get back to something real
I've got to get back to something real with you
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Playing on the Playground
Everyone plays in groups,
They run across the playground.
Playing football or soccer and,
Maybe even basketball.
Girls running around chasing boys
And here's me playing soccer or me,
playing alone. Maybe always alone.
poem by Sengthida Lorvan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Eleven rules of football
I took my little boy
to a nearby football pitch
He said he was tired
of playing hide and seek
He now wanted a football
to play around and kick
As he clutched my hand
I spoke to him
and tried to make him understand
the eleven rules of football
taking into consideration
that he was quite small
Now rule number one
Football is made of eleven strong men
When one or two are naughty
you may still get away
with playing nine or ten
Rule number two
When a member of your crew
hits the ball into the net
A goal is scored
that I can place a bet
For I am very sure
Rule number three
The maximum number of players
you can substitute is three
It does not cost a dime
It is totally free
Rule number four
There are rules you must comply with
When a team commits an offense
named a foul
before the game can commence
A small advantage has to be given
to the otherside
Rule number five
A freekick
is given after a foul
Sometimes awarded after
unnecessary dives
Rule number six
When you are shown a card that is yellow
Its time for your temper to mellow
or you will get the referee quite mad
and he will dismiss you with a red card
Rule number seven
A penality is like heaven
It is awarded
when a player breaks the rule
maybe by using his hand as a tool
to play the ball inside the penalty box
its time for him to go back to school
Rule number eight
A thrownin
Is when the ball is kicked out of the field
It's one of footballs favorite sins
Rule number nine
Offside is
When you are the only one running
alone to score a winning goal
you must hesitate
till you see a single soul
Rule number ten
A game lasts
for ninety minutes
You are beat
When your team has less goals than the other
That is when you must admit defeat
Rule number eleven
when your team is losing
you have to sing something amusing
saying
All we want is a goal
While we are dressed in coloured charcoal
Now my little boy
I said
These are the eleven rules of football
lets go and practise inside the sports hall
Copyright 2005 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Best Of The Best
Belfast born with magic feet,
Playing ball on cobbled street.
Something with him dwelt,
Something special he felt.
Spotted playing about,
By a Man'U scout.
Telegram was sent,
'I think I've found a genius', it went.
Fifteen years of age,
On the threshold of the national stage.
On his seventeenth birthday,
For the first team, he was to play.
Rave after rave review,
Of his debut.
Slight of frame,
Didn't hinder his game.
Flashes of his lightening speed,
Yes with the ball, at times greed.
The crowds he would enthral,
Extraordinary feats with the ball.
For years he excited terraces,
Putting smiles on faces.
He left a lasting legacy,
'Best player in the World', said no other than‘Pele'.
01/09/92 GUY LIPMORE.
poem by Guy Lipmore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
God's miracle
Say not
That this is just a game.
As I watch the little boys play
After a heavy school day
He goes straight to the field,
And there he is in his element
Raising up the dust
As he scores that goal.
Say not
That this is just a game.
As the boys make their football
Collecting plastic from the dumps
And cutting ropes that were washing lines.
As the boys create a pitch
Or just play on the road,
They take sticks or stones
And they build a goal.
Say not
That this is just a game.
As these boys return home at night
Return to be whipped after their delight
The ball will be smashed,
The plastic seperated from the rope
And the field will be taken.
To the farmers and goat herders it will be given
But the boys collect themselves, with undying determination
And they go back to playing football.
Say not
That this is just a game.
As the scout sees that young player
And he is sent to England
Maybe he will play with Man U or maybe Inter.
He sees a world far from home
From sunny rays to raindropp beats.
Say not
That this is just a game.
As that girl plays on the boy's team
She raises rumours,
As people see her and say she will not marry
She drops her bucket of water and goes to be goalie.
The boys boo and make fun of her
But they know she is a very good player.
And she is an example to other little girls
Who long for that ball and not for pearls.
Say not
That this is just a game.
As old men sleep in bars
Just so they can see that match
Of their favourite English team,
And when they reach home their angry wives will ask
'What will that team give you if they win? '
The men will go to bed silent
But their minds know the answer
'They will give me pride, and honour.'
Say not
That this is just a game.
As the world cup starts
Linking whole nations.
And in that stadium
There is no such thing as rich, poor, colour or religion.
Because everybody will mix
As they go to cheer their country,
And their players from Eto'o to Messi.
Say not
That this is just a game.
When that player has the ball
At the box for a penalty
And it is the finale
When all hearts will stop.
And all breaths are held.
And when that goal is scored,
Each cheer is louder than the next
Every person with smiles so big
Both in the stands and on the field
There stand a connection of confusion,
But also true happiness.
Say not
That this is just a game.
When the team will hold that cup
And the whole country becomes a champion
Every man, every woman, and all the children.
It's name goes down in history
And it will be known as a cup holding nation.
Say not
That this is just a game.
No, this is football.
This is God's miracle,
To that little boy and girl
To that man who knows the answer
To not one but all,
And to you and me as well
Say not
That this is just a game.
For this, this is football!
poem by Mariam de Haan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I was the kid who always liked to take the ball down to the school even in my free time, kick it against the wall, juggle it in the front yard and so it was kind of a perpetual state of playing soccer for me.
quote by Brandi Chastain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Fighting The Odds
It was a wet fall day.
Leaves falling off the trees as if they were helicopters landing on the ground.
I was on my way to me final soccer game of the season.
I was not sure if I would be playing or not because my temperature was 100 degrees.
My head felt like a 100 pound weight pushing me to the ground.
But I had to play because I had started every game in goal and I was just not able to let my team down on the undefeated season and the division title.
I was dizzy and felt like I was just been pushed around on a spinner at the local park. It was a feeling that I will never forget, it has been 5 years and I still remember this feeling.
The referee blew the whistle to show that the game was over after the 70 minutes of harsh play.
My team was as happy as winning a lottery!
After the game we took a team photo by the goal with everyone one holding up one finger to show that we are number one.
Everyone was as excited as can be because our team was not expected to do this well this season.
In the ending I had to have brain surgery because I had a rare sickness called encephalitis.
But it was worth playing in the rain playing a game I will never forget.
poem by Nick Jumic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Phone Gift
Cedric gave you a photograph
in the playground
making sure no one
was looking his way first
Christina said to give you this
he said
you took the photograph
and gazed at a picture
of a girl laughing
with dark hair
looking at the camera
in mid pose
thanks
you said
putting the photo
in the inside pocket
of your jacket
she said she'd meet you
on the playing field lunchtime
Cedric informed
unimpressed
ok thanks
you said
to Cedric's departing back
at lunchtime
after eating your sandwiches
and fruitcake
your mother had made
and the watered-down juice
you went to the playing field
and looked for Christina
amongst the hordes
of boys and girls
basking in the sun
or playing ball
then hands covered your eyes
and a voice said
guess who?
you said
Marilyn Monroe?
the hands left your eyes
and Christina said
no it's me
and she stood there
her eyes almost feeling you
as they moved over you
did you get my photo?
she asked
yes it's in my pocket
you said
don't show it to others
she said
I'll keep it under my pillow
you said
I sneaked it out
while no one was looking
this morning
she informed
I'll be for it
if they find out
she said
when was it taken?
you asked
last summer
she said
when I was 12
you don't look 12
in the photo
you said
do I look 13 now?
she asked
she grabbed your hand
and walked you across
the playing field
not waiting
for your reply
you wondered if Goldfinch
or Rolland were watching
while kicking ball
Goldfinch said girls
were an alien race
and best steered clear of
at best ignored
she stopped on the edge
of the playing field
where a small woods
formed the boundary of the field
and looking back
towards the school
some distance away
she whispered in your ear
you'll see just how 13 I am
in that woods one day
and you gave a sigh
noticing big puffy clouds
in a bright blue sky.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
After the Munich Putsch..
After history
something to do
with the Munich Putsch
in 1923
and going out
on to the school
playing field
Rolland said
That hot lips chick
is waving to you
from the outer fence
and so off you went
leaving Rolland
to go kick ball
with others on the field
and as you strolled
towards Christina
she came towards you
leaving her giggling friends
behind and met you
half way on the field
and said
I dreamed of you last night
her voice floated
around you
for a moment or two
and you saw across
her shoulder
Rolland head the ball
towards the goal
between two jumpers left
on the ground
then looked back at her
standing there
bright eyed
with her dark brown hair
and you said
Did I behave?
And she took your hand
and walked you across
the field slowly
and replied
Of course you did
Oh good
you said
wishing you could
have shared her dream
making it your own
she squeezed your hand
and said
Do you dream of me?
Yes
you said
Most nights
trying to make the lie
convincing you dramatized
a scene that never happened
and she smiled
and laughed
and you noticed
out of the corner
of your eye
Rolland kicking the ball
goal ward and waving
his hand then
having reached
the boundary of the field
at the wood's edge
she kissed you
on the cheek and said
I'm glad you dream
of me as well
and smiled
and lay her head
upon your arm
and soon you knew
the bell would ring
for end of play
and maybe
you thought
smelling her perfume
and shampooed hair
kissing her head
you might
dream of her
for the first time
tonight.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
New Perspective
dust on my feet on my rubber shoes
stamp a mound of mud drying itself
the afternoon sun so hot
this little boy follows me with his gaze
did I appear so big to his attention
or the world is too small for him to play ball?
we look amazed to the same birds
too playing in the skies chasing the ones
not having the same feathers
the sun sets spreading orange colors
waning and now sprinkles some gray hues
the boys playing basketball sweat like they
were bathing on the rain, their bodies gleaming
like some barbecue on spiced oil
time to go home, it is dark, I have no reason to stay
the little boy follows me towards the road
where the fluorescent light is turned on by the guards
then I look back, the boy was gone
the whole block is lost eaten by this night
and on the island of light on this road
I stand, waiting for my ride back home
then I look back again, I smile a while
that little boy was me, I got lost somehow
I touch my head, I am setting a new perspective
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Poem After A Walk This Afternoon
dust on my feet on my rubber shoes
stamp a mound of mud drying itself
the afternoon sun so hot
this little boy follows me with his gaze
did i appear so big to his attention
or the world is too small for him to play ball?
we look amazed to the same birds
too playing in the skies chasing the ones
not having the same feathers
the sun sets spreading orange colors
waning and now sprinkles some gray hues
the boys playing basketball sweat like they
were bathing on the rain, their bodies gleaming
like some barbecue on spiced oil
time to go home, it is dark, i have no reason to stay
the little boy follows me towards the road
where the flourescent light is turned on by the guards
then i look back, the boy was gone
the whole block is lost eaten by this night
and on the island of light on this road
i stand, waiting for my ride back home
then i look back again, i smile a while
that little boy was me, i got lost somehow
i touch my head, i am setting a new perspective
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Goalkeeper Joe
Joe Dunn were a bobby for football
He gave all his time to that sport,
He played for the West Wigan Whippets,
On days when they turned out one short.
He’d been member of club for three seasons
And had grumbled again and again,
Cos he found only time that they’d used him,
Were when it were pouring with rain!
He felt as his talents were wasted
When each week his job seemed to be
No but minding the clothes for the others
And chucking clods at referee!
So next time selection committee
Came round to ask him for his sub
He told them if they didn’t play him,
He’d transfer to some other club.
Committee they coaxed and cudgelled him
But found he’d have none of their shifts
So they promised to play him next weekend
In match against Todmorden Swifts.
This match were the plum of the season
An annual fixture it stood,
‘T were reckoned as good as a cup tie
By them as liked plenty of blood!
The day of the match dawned in splendour
A beautiful morning it were
With a fog drifting up from the brick fields
And a drizzle of rain in the air.
The Whippets made Joe their goalkeeper
A thing as weren’t wanted at all
For they knew once battle had started
They’d have no time to mess with the ball!
Joe stood by the goal posts and shivered
While the fog round his legs seemed to creep
'Til feeling neglected and lonely
He leant back and went fast asleep.
He dreamt he were playing at Wembley
And t’roar of a thundering cheer
He were kicking a goal for the Whippets
When he woke with a clout in his ear!
He found 'twere the ball that had struck him
And inside the net there it lay
But as no one had seen this ‘ere ‘appen
He punted it back into play!
'Twere the first ball he’d punted in anger
His feelings he couldn’t restrain
Forgetting as he were goalkeeper
He ran out and kicked it again!
Then after the ball like a rabbit
He rushed down the field full of pride
He reckoned if nobody stopped him
Then ‘appen he’d score for his side.
‘Alf way down he bumped into his captain
Who weren’t going to let him go by
But Joe, like Horatio Nelson
Put a fist to the Captain’s blind eye!
On he went 'til the goal lay before him
Then stopping to get himself set
He steadied the ball, and then kicked it
And landed it right in the net!
The fog seemed to lift at that moment
And all eyes were turned on the lad
The Whippets seemed kind of dumbfounded
While the Swifts started cheering like mad!
'Twere his own goal as he’d kicked the ball through
He’d scored for his foes ‘gainst his friends
For he’d slept through the referee’s whistle
And at half time he hadn’t changed ends!
Joe was transferred from the West Wigan Whippets
To the Todmorden Swifts, where you’ll see
Still minding the clothes for the others
And chucking clods at referee!
poem by Marriott Edgar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I took a private lesson, but it didn't really work out, so I went back to playing along with records. That's really the thing that got me into playing a lot - getting excited about playing along with my favorite bands like Zeppelin and Black Sabbath.
quote by Chad Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
It Depends On The Situation
In the playing of games,
There are those who are less experienced...
Decide without advice taken,
To play them indiscriminately.
Without thought of who the opponent may be.
Or if the one chosen to be exposed to playing,
Has not in fact...
Elected to do so to prevent total boredom,
To hop and take a ride on one's back...
In the playing of games.
And then,
In the playing of games...
It depends on the situation.
The environment is important as well.
However...
If the playing of the same games,
Gets too familiar...
It becomes very difficult to play them,
With the same exuberance...
As those enjoying to play them repetitiously,
Throughout their lives!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Woman And Her Spring Child
spring has come
spring has come
she has blossomed in the trees
she has blossomed in the trees
the trees are leafing
the trees are leafing
slowly slowly
slightly slightly
everthing is greening
everything is greening
also grinning and grinning
flowers lflower in many colors
flowers flower in many colors
birds are singing gaily
birds are singing gaily
dogs are barking happy
dogs are barking happy
my mother in her grave
my mother in her grave
still waiting me come
still waiting to come
ı do not know where my father lie
ı do not know where my father lie
but the spring made me numb
but the spring made me numb
everybody is in the outdoors
everybody is in the outdoors
a woman is kicking a ball
a balll is kicked by a woman
she is really playing with her
one year old child boy
she is playing like a toy
a beautiful boy
with long hair
dark curly dark hair
trying to step into the spring
trying to step into the spring
the woman is kicking her troubles away
with the ball
the woman is really shooting her troubles
away with the ball
she is very fond of it
very very
kicks the ball again
kicks the ball again
the ball goes very far away
the balll goes very far away
nobody kicks the ball back to her
nobody kicks the ball back to her
the woman looks at her child
the woman looks at her child
nobody kicks the ball back to her
nobody kicks the ball back to her
cause everybody is not a poet
cause everybody is not a poet
the spring has come
the spring has come
blossoming in the trees
blossoming in the trees
but yet
nobody is ready to play
even a ball
the woman
never the less
with her spring child
tries to play
but nobody
kicks the ball back to her
and to the child
his first steps in the springhold
poem by Metin Sahin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I don’t know if God plays ball
I don’t know if God plays ball
soccer or foosball or bacci ball.
Well, I’m a Frenchman and
boules is the name of my game.
Being on the ball is like playing
with Gigi little girls. When God
created Eve I wonder did He
have in mind dirty old men
and did He mean putting man
behind the eight ball
and did He know that eons later
round the corner of the square ball
someone hooks up with
a hooded guy who sells 3.5 grams
of meth and coke and damn,
that 8 ball is already gone!
I wish I had another!
I start singin’ a tune, I don't drink
brass monkey, like to be funky
and my name ain’t Eazy-E
your 8 ball junkie.
We did an eight ball of blow and
danced until next morning.
I ain’t never goin’ out
With an eight-ball Chiquita
Cuz I got balls and I ain’t
givin’ her mine and
she ain’t playin’ with mine.
I wish God had more balls
and my brain marinate
in mothballs.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Aug©2010
AD Something
poem by Alex Nodopaka
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Is My Team Ploughing
"Is my team ploughing,
That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
When I was man alive?"
Ay, the horses trample,
The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under
The land you used to plough.
"Is football playing
Along the river shore,
With lads to chase the leather,
Now I stand up no more?"
Ay, the ball is flying,
The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands up, the keeper
Stands up to keep the goal.
"Is my girl happy,
That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of weeping
As she lies down at eve?"
Ay, she lies down lightly,
She lies not down to weep,
Your girl is well contented.
Be still, my lad, and sleep.
"Is my friend hearty,
Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
A better bed than mine?"
Yes, lad, I lie easy,
I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man's sweetheart,
Never ask me whose.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Wish That I Could Have Stayed In My Twenties
Life seemed so good when I was in my twenties
Before time left me looking old and gray
I used to play Soccer and Gaelic football
And I could run and chase the ball all day.
I was never much good at soccer or Gaelic football
Though like many others I too dreamt of fame
But I did not play for esteem and honours
I only played because I loved the game
I wish that I could have stayed in my twenties
Life is much better for those in their prime
But on looking back three decades passed so quickly
And one can't turn back the hands of time.
It has been said that with gray hairs there's wisdom
But as often is the case it isn't so
Some people as they age they grow less tolerant
And they seemed to have more wisdom years ago.
The best years of my life were in my twenties
When I could run and chase the ball all day
And don't tell me that in gray hairs there is wisdom
When it is more of a sign of ageing and decay.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Croquet by Moonlight
On a moonlight evening, in the month of May,
A number of young people were playing at croquet,
They mingled together, the bashful with the gay,
And had a pleasant time and chat, while playing at croquet.
CHORUS:
This play they call croquet, croquet,
This play they call croquet,
It is amusement for the young,
This play they call croquet.
On that pleasant evening, the moon shone clear and bright,
And every heart among that crowd was filed with great delight.
It was a merry party, for lady Dell was there
Her merry laugh above the rest was heard by all, so fair.
CHORUS: This play, etc.
She was the belle that evening, admired by great and small,
And all the boys liked to play with the girl and blue ball.
She was a splendid player, so lively and so gay,
For she was skilled in playing that pleasant game croquet.
CHORUS: This play, etc.
Two young men among them, that loved this pretty Dell;
Although I write about them, their names I will not tell.
They were fine young fellows, so bashful, and yet so gay;
They tried to beat the girl that with the blue ball play.
CHORUS: This play, etc.
Ah! with those handsome fellows, Dell thought she'd have some fun,
"The one of you that'll catch me, may see me safely home."
The play began in earnest, between those fine young men,
To catch the girl with the blue ball, was impossible for them.
CHORUS: This play, etc.
She went around the play-ground, so full of life and gay,
She left them at the farther arch, so she beat them at croquet.
It was late that evening, and as I went away,
I know not how they came out, in that pleasant game, croquet.
CHORUS: This play, etc.
So croquet by moonlight is pleasant, as you see,
For business cares were laid aside, in that little company.
So playing at croquet, croquet, so playing at croquet,
It is amusement for the young folks, this play of croquet.
poem by Julia A Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!