Angie’s Poetry


The Stars Will Light Our Future Bright

Written on 9-11-01

Red is the anger that we know.

Blue is the sorrow we now show.

White for the peace we feel inside

when feeling all our countries’ pride.

The stars will light our future bright.

The stripes will wave their red and white.

This valiant symbol means much more.

We come together in this war.

Our country is stronger because of our loss.

We’ll always love freedom, no matter the cost.

The heroes prepare for the challenge ahead.

Their fight is a battle to honor the dead.

This war will be fought more in mind than on foot.

Out thoughts say “rush out” but our minds say “stay put.”

We fear the unseen and we now feel unnerved.

September Eleventh was never deserved.

A tear we will shed every time that we see

the fire in the sky and all the debris.

Our memories are set for the rest of our lives.

But let us remember those who survived.

We will prevail in the end, no doubt.

Our future has purpose. We’re much more devout.

These wounds are inflicted deep in our souls.

Let us move forward and set ourselves goals.

We hug our children more tightly today.

The thought of “what if” won’t go away.

What ever the outcome of this fatal war

the flight of our eagle will certainly soar.

His wings will span the ends of the earth.

Our symbol of freedom now knows rebirth.

© 2001 Angie Karcher

Kitty Image


There is this silly kitty

that tiptoes ‘round my house.

There’s something right behind her.

But no, it’s not a mouse.

This thing that follows kitty,

it dances all around.

It swishes and it swashes,

but doesn’t touch the ground.

When kitty isn’t looking,

I quickly take a peek.

The wavy thing behind her

it brushes by my cheek.

I really want to hold it.

I’m sure that she won’t care.

I reach out quick to grab it,

but now, it isn’t there!

One day, when kitty’s resting

and licking all her fur,

I’ll grab it, oh, so tightly,


it won’t chase after her!

© 2001 Angie Karcher


My Family Tree


Our tree sits on a hill so high,

beneath the always changing sky.

The roots from which we all began,

my Great-Great Grandpa Stan.

His wife was Great-Great Grandma Sue.

They planted here in 1802.

They had two sons named John and Will

who worked to build the family mill.

Both these men had lots of spunk.

They built for us a mighty trunk.

Great-Grandpa Will raised branches strong.

Grace and Thomas grew nice and long.

The source of prayers and honest life

helped Thomas find a solid wife.

Grandma Annie, “Ann” for short

was loyal, firm, a great support.

Together when the times were tough,

our tree stood firm upon this bluff.

The wind would blow, the rain would fall.

Our family tree kept growing tall.

Grandma Ann had leaves to bear.

Three in fact, first born, Aunt Claire.

In the middle grew Uncle Chad.

Last and youngest was my dad.

He shaded me from times of fear.

Our love grew stronger every year.

I have grown up from the root.

This tree now grows our family’s fruit.

A fruit whose taste I guarantee,

Because this precious fruit is me!

© 2003 Angie Karcher


Words Out-Going

The web that was spun by the spider so free

was hung in a corner, not from sea to sea.

The mouse that ran through my house, oh, so quick,

He didn’t have buttons on top that you click.

The home that I knew was where I slept at night,

Not the page that comes up with icons at right.

A snail and the mail were two separate things.

Now it’s something that the mail carrier brings.

When I was printing-on-line while at school,

My handwriting followed every rule.

The keyboard played music I practiced each day

And surfing was done on a wave with a spray.

“Yahoo” I yelled, sledding down slopes so slick.

A virus was what made me puke and feel sick.

Software and boots were p.j.’s and shoes.

A port was for docking the boat on a cruise.

Mosquitoes left mega bytes all over my legs.

The menu I liked was with bacon and eggs.

Troubleshooting meant you had really bad aim

And cd’s were letters which after B came.

The desktop I knew was piled high with my stuff,

And files were for filing a nail that was rough.

The Sunday drive we took every week

Was the chat that we had; we did actually speak!

I don’t know when everything got so confused.

The language I knew is forever abused.

These words will never have meanings the same.

I suspect that thing with the screen is to blame.

© 2003 Angie Karcher


The First Day of School

I hop out of bed as the sun gives a yawn.

I zip up my pants and I pull my shirt on.

My socks and my shoes are tied tight on my feet.

I rush down the hall to get something to eat.

I slurp and I crunch all my breakfast real quick.

I comb my hair back and I look pretty slick!

I grab my sack lunch and my backpack is on.

I rush out the door as I slip on the lawn.

The school bus is waiting to give me a ride.

But here on the bus… it’s just me inside!

The bus ride is quick and the door opens wide.

I hop off the bus and I hurry inside.

It’s quiet today for the first day of school.

There’s no one else here and I feel like a fool!

The hallways are empty and classrooms are bare

The kids are all gone and the teachers aren’t there!

The bell starts to ring with a deafening sound

I cover my ears while I’m looking around….

My mom shakes me lightly in bed where I lay.

“It’s time to get up because school starts today!”

© 2008  Angie Karcher


Mama Fixes the World

Mama, Mama the sun is too bright.

Please turn down the heat and soften the light.

Mama, Mama the night time’s too dark.

Turn up the stars so they shine bright and stark.

Mama, Mama the water’s too cold.

The oceans have waves, the rivers are old.

Mama, Mama the sky is too blue.

Lighten it some ‘cause I don’t like the hue.

Mama, Mama the moon is too low.

Raise it up high so the mountains will show.

Mama, Mama the hills are too tall.

The trees all have roots that cause me to fall.

Mama, Mama the apples have seeds.

The peaches have fuzz and meadows have weeds.

Mama, Mama the lightening bugs blink.

The turkeys sound strange and skunks really stink.

Mama, Mama the people aren’t well.

They cry and they whine, they scream and they yell.

The people pull hair, call me bad names,

they break things, take things and cheat during games.

Mama, she smiled and then kissed my cheek.

I felt bad for her, she’d had a bad week.

Mama just laughed and hugged me real tight.

She pulled down the sun and lowered the light.

She warmed up the sea, lightened the sky,

not ever stopping or asking me why.

Ma raised the moon, she flattened the peaks,

cut out the roots and she weeded for weeks.

She seeded the fruits, de-blinked the bugs,

sang with the turkeys and gave the skunks plugs.

Then Mama sat and rested a while.

She hummed and sat folding towels in a pile.

Her eyes twinkled stars, lighting her face.

She knew how to fix this people disgrace.

Smile every day, be bursting with cheer.

Whisper, “ I love you,”  into their ear.

“Just give ‘em a kiss, hug ‘em real tight,

Then put them to bed and turn out the light.

Remember… the problems we have with each other

can always be fixed with the love of a mother.

© 2012 Angie Karcher

Country Color

Where the River Grins

The river, a gentleman most of the time

is constantly flowing with rhythm and rhyme.

In winter his face is so calm and so sure,

content as he dawdles with daydreams so pure.

His currents are frosted with crystals and flakes,

so cold that he quivers and shivers and shakes.

In springtime the tears from up-river descend

and widen his smile at our great river’s bend.

He chuckles and winks with mischievous charm,

then narrows his laugh to prevent us from harm.

The warm summer sun makes him laugh right out loud.

He’s healthy and lively and really quite proud!

Believing he knows all that rivers must know,

he etches his mark on the banks of his flow.

His most handsome face is the one to recall,

when ringlets of foliage surround him in fall.

His cheeks in the autumn will burn in your mind

all rusty and golden and auburn and kind.

Two faces are we, this great river and I,

with me staring out and with him passing by.

This place we call home where the bending begins

is here on the banks where the river still grins.

© 2001 Angie Karcher

4 thoughts on “Angie’s Poetry

  1. Pingback: Angie’s Poetry | Angie Karcher

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