This poem is dedicated to my Great Uncle, Burton Lamoreau Jenks, who died at the age of 15. Quite some time before he was to become anyone's Uncle. He was fearfully inexperienced with the handling of guns, and during a hunting trip, in which he pulled a gun under a fence after him, he was shot, and died.

I think that he was a very bright boy indeed when it came to writing, because of some of the poems that I have found. But unfortunately this intelligence didn't extend to firearms. sigh.....

Such a loss to the world, he might have been a famous author at some point in hislife...



The Patter of the Shingle


When the angry passion gathering in my Mothers face I see,
and she takes me to the bedroom, lays me on her knee,
then I know that i will catch it, and my flesh in fancy itches,
as I listen to the patter of the shingle on my breeches.

Every tinkle of the shingle has a echo and a sting
and a thousand burning fancies into active being spring.
And a thousand bees and hornets neath my coattail seem to swarm,
as I listen to the patter of the shingle oh so warm.

Oh the patter of the shingle has no music for me now,
it has left me feeling queerly, i can scarcely tell you how
But it broke my haughty spirit, left me easy to command,
I was once quite fond of sitting now I much prefer to stand.

In a sudden intermission that appears my only chance, I say,
strike gently Mother or you'll split my Sunday pants.
She stops a moment draws her breath, the shingle holds aloft,
as she say, "I had thought of that, my son, just take them off.

Holy Moses and the angels in pitying glances down,
and thou, O family Doctor put good soft poultice on.
And may I with dunces every-lastingly commingle,
If I ever say a word again when Mother wields the shingle.

Oh the patter of the shingle still is ringing in my ears.
on my cheeks are dried up ridges that once my boyish tears,
if my Mothered only spank me as she once did with her hand,
I could then sit down with comfort, now I much prefer to stand.

Burton Lamoreaux Jenks ........."the dove". Avoca Iowa, 1889
Not to be republished without written permission.

When writing poetry you get an idea, sometimes it is a complete picture, but often it has an element and you might take pieces from many encounters to weave your story. For example, my poem Crazy Quilt, the actual quilt was made by my Grandmother's Mother. Although my Grandmother made many, many quilts, the actual quilt that was the inspiration of this poem was not sewn by Grandmother. Instead she made me a "Crazy Quilt" pillow.

I guess we call it writer's advantage, we can write anything we choose...........