I wrote this poem a few years ago in response to a similar situation.
The Soul of Old Glory
by Barbara Latta
Old Glory started out with needle and thread
pieces of cloth of white, blue, and red.
The standard was carried and waved over battle,
It's waved over graves and political prattle.
The message was clear, "it's freedom I won,
paid with the blood of your daughters and sons."
So honored was that banner that it never touched the ground,
even in battles with bullets all around.
When the bearer would fall another would rise
to carry Old Glory lest we see its demise.
So revered was the flag whose message would wave
that it sight over land, over sea, or the grave
would inspire Americans to fight and pursue
to never give up, do what we must do,
To defeat the foes who challenged and taunted
to chase and defeat our enemies, undaunted.
It's waved until tattered, soiled and torn
It's waved in the face of the enemy's scorn.
For with each tatter and tear a drop of blood would cry,
and Old Glory would wave and continue to fly.
The flags that have flown over past victory posts
are now carefully preserved lest their history be lost.
But locked in their glass cases has the meaning behind
Old Glory's message made some people blind?
For to some it's just a nice history relic
to wave over fields where we play and we frolic.
For now the banner of freedom is spit on and burned,
and so few care that Old Glory is spurned.
They use "freedom of speech" as an excuse to abuse
forgetting how easily that freedom they could lose.
Old Glory waves on the grave's sacred soil
asking "why do you hurt me, do you forget my toil?
I am the symbol for you to give you the right to do what you do.
I welcome the foreigner with open arms
to come enjoy my freedoms and flee from harm.
So why do you curse me and say it's an offense
to wave me and fly me, it makes no sense?"
Old Glory's cry in days gone by
of victory and freedom, has it been a lie?
No, for you see the soul of Old Glory is the people of her land,
the ones who dare to still take a stand.
For on many hillsides plains and sands
arises a shining, victorious band
of those whose yearning for freedom will never be lost,
it's the ones who have paid a price
the ones who love it the most.