
Stars and Stripes Forever
©2020 Susan Noyes Anderson
The flag is meant to symbolize
a birthright we all share.
Our nation offers citizens
a life beyond compare.
These patriotic poems will be appreciated by anyone who shares my love for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Whether it’s Independence Day, Veteran’s Day or election day, these poems about America and her people will inspire, uplift, celebrate, and honor the nation. (Please email a request to me before using, and be sure to include full copyright information on every copy made. For internet use, a link back to this site is required.)
FINDING THE POEM YOU WANT: As you scroll through this section, simply read each snippet sample (usually the first four lines) to get a feel for the poem. When you find something you like, click “CONTINUE READING” to view the entire poem.
The flag is meant to symbolize
a birthright we all share.
Our nation offers citizens
a life beyond compare.
This brand-new poem I will define
as post-election valentine.
We’ve all fought hard; we’ve all fought long,
but now it’s time to sing the song
of healing and of dignity,
of knowing who we need to be.
For we are needed, one and all,
to save each other from the fall
that must accompany a nation
focused on recrimination.
If you’ve won, show grace and gladness.
If you’ve lost, then feel the sadness,
hope your worst fears are for naught,
and try hard not to stir the pot.
Our country is a sonnet
written in another time.
Set down in 14 lines,
no more, no less.
This year, on Independence Day,
it’s hard to know just what to say,
for words are used as weapons now
by some who vow or disavow
whatever stance one might defend,
with all sides easy to offend.
A merry-go-round is Covid, friends.
Somehow, we will ride through it.
The CDC has put out info.
Why don’t we review it?
Remember them with pride, not shame.
Don’t taint their sacrifice with blame.
When evil fought to have its way,
young soldiers marched into the fray
and offered lives that they held dear.
The principles, to them, were clear.
The parched soil drinks their holy blood.
They lay their bodies down like wine:
last dregs of fleeing innocence,
surrendered on the sacred vine.
I grew up in the golden years
when WWII was finally past.
A grateful country shed her fears
as fighting men came home at last.