I. Anna Sophia, 1878

Her name unfolds like raw white hands
small zaffre eyes, hair gold against her neck,
while the autumn air wafts flaxen motes
the men return from the boats and fields.
She follows the soft ripple of black birds
taking flight from a great distance.

II.  Annie Axelina, 1901

Her ankles are angry chaffs of red rings
as she circles the harbor, Torhamn pressed
into a pale flower between winter’s pages.
She cuts across the black ice lea
with my stride. She boards a boat, daughter
wrapped in her arms, leaning into the gale.

III. Eleanor Maria, 1921

Her roses are blooming burgundy against
the blue of the house and the kitchen heat
curls wisps of blonde into gnarled vines
under her nursing cap. She sews neat rows
of nursery rhymes into a blanket, leafs through
a green scrapbook of poetry and recipes.

Her name echoes back wings and the yearning
lilt of a language not entirely lost to me.

IV. Elizabeth Marie, 1991

I'm a butterfly with a broken wing,
there are more ways that I can rise.
I'm a midnight sky with dimming stars,
bright lights have always hurt my eyes.

I'm a weeping willow with a broken branch,
it is no longer in my way.
I'm a messenger bird that lost it's path,
I've always wanted to get away.

I'm a rose with one too many thorns,
less reason to be scared.
I'm a flawed diamond down in the dirt,
I'd rather be hidden than shared.

I sing a tune that's all my own,
some say it cannot be a song,
but many things become so right,
the second they seem wrong.

She lives a quiet life,
she tiptoes around,
she whispers when she speaks,
she hardly ever makes a sound.

Although her words are quiet,
her mind is very loud.
She has so much to say,
but no one listens for soft sounds.

She's an invisible girl,
who doesn't want to stand out,
she just wants to be heard,
without having to shout.

Sometimes the loudest people,
aren't saying much at all.
Empty words and promises,
just leave their mouths and fall.

But whispered words fly high,
and catch peoples attention,
they're intriguing, so amazing,
but only when they listen.

So look outside the spotlight,
because often the real star,
isn't anyone on stage,
but the mind behind it all.

Trapped in the basement i gat no where to go,
I turn to the left,
turn to the right,and there wasn't even an open door,
no one was there to help me,
but i was all alone,
trying to find a way out,
even calling on my phone,
there wasnt even one signal,
that could of be my only hope,
but sorry i decides that i want to let go,
i then gived up and prayed to GOD,
asking him to protect me and to help me find a way out,
but there was a light,
where he came down from heaven,
he gaved me a sword,
inscribe upon it was eleven,
the mighty number,the number of god,
Jesus is the king,and God is our lord