This is my first post of a poem. Don't know how well the spacing will translate but in my version of word, the second and every other verse thereafter is in italics. It deals with my Quaker ancestors.

The Nottingham Quakers

Gathered at the request of William Penn
to strengthen his claim against the Calverts,
built their houses and meeting houses,
cleared woods, planted, and harvested.

        Determined not to mind their own business,
        each transgression carefully recorded:
        this one found in an inebriated state,
        that one married by a hireling priest.

Hard working people. Amelia Coulson Childs,
one year old when Washington was inaugurated,
at 97 remembered spinning by the light of pine knots
three sisters, three wheels, flax lighting on beaux.

        Her parents marked forever in the minutes,
        of giving way to the temptation of Satan.
        Guilty of fornication, of having a child
        “sooner after marriage than is usual.”

Together building new meeting houses,
Old Brick and Little Brick, six miles apart.
Women had a role, ministered, traveled, spoke,
though they entered through a separate door

        Amelia’s brother Eli was duly chastised.
        You can find him on the world wide web
        forever fornicating with Jane Egan
        prior to their marriage, Rachel the result.

Fierce but peaceful, refusing to fight,
opening meeting houses to wounded and sick,
losing whatever political power they had,
because they would not carry arms.

        Joseph Junior fathered a bastard child,
        was confronted, acknowledged the sin,
        would not repent, never went back.
        Doors locked, windows shuttered, pews blanketed in dust.