Quotes about flag, page 102
Meaning Of The Salvation Army Crest
As we look at our flag. Let's remember what the meaning crest is,
Here we go let's as a Salvationist let's see if we can pass this quiz,
Can we think of what makes up the Crest?
Well let's all try to pass this, so let's do our best.
What is the meaning of the Cross?
The cross of the Lord Jesus Christ as he hung, before they took Him to His final doss.
What is the meaning of the S?
The S stands for the Salvation from sin through Jesus.
What is the meaning of the Ray on the outside of the circle?
The Ray stands for the Fire of the Holy Spirit in one day will lead us to something wonderful.
What is the meaning of the dots?
The dots stand for the Truth of the Gospel; this is something we need to hear because at times we do not care a jot.
What is the meaning of the crossed swords?
The Cross swords stand for the Salvation War, and it is something we need to protect our gourds.
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poem by Frank Pulver
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a Country
How can we determine what a country is?
If everyone of us wants to bind
a different meaning to it? Finding our own salvation
our own destruction in it?
That it is a region wherein we exist,
have to make a living, a region that is differentiated for us,
obtained through a struggle in which a flag and anthem
have to bind together but at times rather divide
a place wherein we are born
or of which with time we have become children
which we recognize as our own
and from which we are inseparable,
is no new knowledge, but that life sprouts
from the piece of ground that is own to each one,
that we experience the wonders
in our lives, times that we share with one another
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Drown
Water deep
Surface breathe
Face to face
Fist to fist
Feet to feet
Stroke by stroke
Pain above
Peace below
War above
Joy beneath
Flipping through the pages of seconds
Age takes its stand
Flipping through the photographs of memories
Regret gives its hand
You ask when time waltzed by
10 odd years ago, you had your chance
A chance to be better than now
A voice once said 'Give me your hand'
Swimming on you replied 'Heaven helps those who help themselves'
A great fallacy
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poem by Jenim Dibie
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Poem about Poetry - The Real Poets
poets are birds
birds are poets
and the latter
are the truest poets
singing - from dawn till night and night till dawn
crowning the world
with their exuberant,
health giving and never ending poetry slam
first to flag off
the daily slam
would be the cockerels
sending our heart reeling
with the precision of
their poetic clock
they crow until the sun
has no choice but
to rise to the occasion
and then a thousand
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Truce
Your nacreous eyes is a mirror
Palled by a multitude of horror
A window swung open
But shuttered by a void emptiness
In its hazel glaze I implored
My own lifeless reflection
Still - like a metallic lake
Concealing a surreptitious daemon
Whilst the myopia of vision won
And stifled any sanguine climate
We never batted an eyelash
In hope for a drifting light
And in fear of total eclipse
So eye to eye, we confabulated
With metaphors and false-analogies
As our thoughts morph into blindness
White as oblivion and black as its shadow
Piercing the robust chamber of life
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poem by Norman Santos
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Evil Eyes
oh, trace to the hide out of the evil eyes
and get them back on track to keep our flag flying
Give them free VISAS and seat them in the stadium
and so our bating maestros will hit tons of runs
and look at the sky to thank the Almighty
while the bowlers of the opposite teams
be scratching their heads for their sudden loose balls.
Please post these ominous eyes in the North East.
So the miltants will cross over to Burma
and the fearless rifles of Bangaladesh will be silent.
and our HIV eaten soldiers can nourish for a while.
Settle these danger signals along the Western border,
and the Abdali missiles and the American F16s
will be firing like bogus Sivakasi crackers.
Where are these hawk-eyed evil eyes
which once cursed those in neat clothes,
and cast an evil spell with their glances?
They should come and lay siege to those
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Poetry Such As
Poetry is nothing but the memory of adolescence;
The melancholic face of my mother often remembered by me;
Poetry, the yellow bird sitting alone on a bough of Nim tree;
Poetry, my younger brothers and sisters, sitting sleeplessly
surrounding the fire of leaves; and the return of our father,
ringing bell of his bicycle and his call 'Rabeya! Rabeya! '
Poetry is the southern door kept ajar which got unlocked
by the name of my mother.
Poetry is nothing but going back crossing the foggy way
across the knee-water river. Poetry, the Azan of dawn
or the burning of stubble; it's the expanded smell of sesame
on the belly of cake, the acute smell of fish,
the net spread on the yard and the grassy grave of
my grandfather
in the cluster of bamboo.
Poetry, an unhappy teenager growing up in the
forty six;
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poem by Al Mahmud
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Kaspar Is Dead
(Translated by G P Skratz)
o god our kaspar is dead
& now there's no-one to steal away with the burning flag &
snap it every day in the dark cloud's braided hair.
no-one to crank the coffee-mill in the ancient cask.
no-one to conjure idyllic deer from the petrified grocery bag.
no-one to sniff ships umbrellas bee-keepers udders of wind
spindles of ozone no-one to filet the pyramids.
o god god god our good old kaspar is dead. lord lord
kaspar is dead.
heart-broken shark's teeth rattle with grief in the belfry
when we utter his given name. so i stick to his last,
sighing kaspar kaspar kaspar.
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poem by Jean Arp
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911 Remembered
Diving planes, Black smoke
flaming fireballs, Scaring all
disaster in the skies, shocking world
falling people, falling buildings
losing life, heroes saving
Strangers helping strangers
tears flowing, the flag still blowing
scenes of a movie, realing moving
seconds, minutes, hours go by
but the world stands by
The air is silence, no planes no trains
death falls a pond a nation
whose to blame, what a shame
a never ending night mare
a sign of hope, survivors a merging
Heroes showing, help growing
searching till the end of time
no soul, no mercy, no shame
who cause the pain, lots of strain
a nation rebounds, a turn around
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poem by Michael Peterson
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Call that ****ing poetry?
As one of the wrinkly-crumblies
-W.A.S.P. without the sting -
it puzzles me: in poetry,
does one good **** really deserve another?
fifty years ago - fifty, for ****'s sake -
when I was an army cadet
some squaddies used it every other word
-and since we were in Signals,
it ****ing delayed ****ing battle-orders ****ing long enough
to ****ing mow down a ****ing platoon...
and longer in ****ing Morse... - - -...
and as for ****ing semaphore...makes your ****ing arms flag...
my liberal friends
who never admit to shock
say 'it shows a.... lack of imagination';
now that's ****ing serious in ****ing poets.
outside the ****ing English-spitting world
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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