Quotes about flag, page 74
Nancy Hanks
Prairie child,
Brief as dew,
What winds of wonder
Nourished you?
Rolling plains
Of billowy green,
Far horizons,
Blue, serene;
Lofty skies
The slow clouds climb,
Where burning stars
Beat out the time:
These, and the dreams
Of fathers bold,
Baffled longings,
Hopes untold,
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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Old Glory Stands Alone
The stark white expanse, only broken by a grave stone,
Makes the Stars and Stripes seems to otherwise stand alone;
Truly, the only sign of color as far as the eye may see,
Old Glory stands alone, at The Forefathers' Cemetery.
A gentle zephyr begins, the flag begins to flap,
Maintaining sentry over many a soul, in an eternal nap!
Above, a majestic American Bald Eagle flies,
And peers down, with a sense of pride, we may only surmise,
Then, with what looks to be a very coy smile,
He turns abruptly, in a most majestic style!
The scene repeats in places both far and wide,
Where it evokes an immense sense of American pride
To all fortuitous enough to partake in its splendor-
The country we love is full of them-this is but one wide wonder!
poem by Maurice Harris
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Baby Boomer
Mario's brother is dead. In Brazilia
of the green and yellow flag, at the matches
where we drink beer and watch them run.
All of a sudden. A shock.
Just when he was finally getting happy-
leaving behind a wife and child.
Who will fortunately want for nothing
except him, of course.
But that too passes. Everything does.
It makes us ashamed to be old
though we are not, in fact, that-
hailing from the generation that never dies.
'Thanks for sharing, ' I text.
'Joy is short and troubles abound.
There is still that ideal configuration
of Reality we call the Beautiful
and those who struggle to perceive it.'
-But it doesn't sound real. I delet it.
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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Army Hymn
'OLD HUNDRED'
O LORD of Hosts! Almighty King!
Behold the sacrifice we bring
To every arm thy strength impart,
Thy spirit shed through every heart!
Wake in our breasts the living fires,
The holy faith that warmed our sires;
Thy hand hath made our Nation free;
To die for her is serving Thee.
Be Thou a pillared flame to show
The midnight snare, the silent foe;
And when the battle thunders loud,
Still guide us in its moving cloud.
God of all Nations! Sovereign Lord
In thy dread name we draw the sword,
We lift the starry flag on high
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Sucking Mannual
sucking gets top priority
comparison with any other
annihilation
just give flesh-bomb to suck
pilots would obviously miss
the atom to drop
sucker's lip get expertise by birth
in anticipation with any other
anticipatory capitulation
mom's baby is the first to frame
as micro-observatory species
sucking everywhere keeps
its thumb as protagonist
leaders suck the people
with hot and sympathetic words
marketeers suck the customers
and money sucks multi-power
to flag hegemony with high boots
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poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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We – Not We
My joy and your joy don’t go together,
My thoughts and your thoughts touch slightly.
My hand, your hand – they will meet never,
My dreams want to kiss your dreams lightly.
Your words bloom in my heart like flowers,
I’d like to pick them and not to suffer any longer.
There is my heart and yours in the scattered showers,
My love and my hope - I have to smother them.
My island is so lonely; my flag waves on the pole.
You should have it at heart and come to comfort.
But I had a look around and didn’t see a soul.
Your ship can’t still find the inaccessible port.
My joy and your joy don’t go together,
My thoughts and your thoughts touch slightly.
My hand, your hand – they will meet never,
My dreams want to kiss your dreams lightly.
poem by Jolanta Gradowicz
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Connoisseurs
O look at the horses and people!
How they hurry and trample and fight!
And the smoke blowing over the steeple,--
O look, how the guns shine bright!
See this one, this soldier, he's swinging
His sword over head in the air;
How the shot must be leaping and stinging!
See the men falling down everywhere!
Isn't this what the white folks call the war?
I wonder what they are doing it for.
And there's the big flag flying splendid,
White stars pretty red, pretty blue,
All torn. Do you think 'twill be mended,
And fly out again, good as new?
See the blue coats and gray coats, --I'm sorry
They bleed and they suffer and die;
What made all the fighting and worry?
Can you think of the reason why
They killed each other, the gray and the blue?
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poem by Celia Thaxter
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On The Road To Gethsemane
on the road to Gethsemane...
i pass burned out buildings,
farm lands scorched by the bombing.
i pass the skeleton bodies
of young children who starved.
i pass the unmarked graves,
of young boys sent to war.
i pass the flag of the liars,
and the tents of mourning.
i pass vacant factories,
and houses left empty.
i pass through cocaine streets,
where all flesh is for sale.
i pass the unemployed masses,
and their desperate eyes.
i pass the baby born unwanted,
and the prison's stink.
i pass empty churches,
and hollow ringing bells.
i pass families broken,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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In Tuolumne Meadows
I Love to sit in the sun
And watch the foaming Lyell
Leap over its granite bed.
I love these days that run
On a burnished golden dial
With the blue sky overhead.
I love to waken at night
And whisper the stars above me,
And feel the fingering breeze.
So still is the world, so right,
Where even the black pines love me,
And the white moon guards my ease.
I love the upward ways
To the sun-tipped crest of the mountains
High over the billowy world;
Where the wind sings hymns of praise,
And the snows break into fountains,
And life is a flag unfurled.
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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Every Man Should have a Rifle
So I sit and write and ponder, while the house is deaf and dumb,
Seeing visions "over yonder" of the war I know must come.
In the corner - not a vision - but a sign for coming days
Stand a box of ammunition and a rifle in green baize.
And in this, the living present, let the word go through the land,
Every tradesman, clerk and peasant should have these two things at hand.
No - no ranting song is needed, and no meeting, flag or fuss -
In the future, still unheeded, shall the spirit come to us!
Without feathers, drum or riot on the day that is to be,
We shall march down, very quiet, to our stations by the sea.
While the bitter parties stifle every voice that warns of war,
Every man should own a rifle and have cartridges in store!
poem by Henry Lawson
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