On December 27, 2018, my friend and prolific writer, Don Doman, published a story in The Suburban Times titled, Robin Hood and the Plight of the Arrow. It was an exciting story describing Don’s youth as he related to his TV and movie hero, Robin Hood. If you missed Don’s story, click my custom link Don Doman’s Quiver. Of course, the word Quiver has two meanings; #1 A place to store arrows. #2. To tremble and shake. It should be evident that trembling and shaking do not mix well with bows and arrows. For Don, depending on where any of his arrows landed, I imagine he may have related to either or both meanings of the word quiver.
I have never told anyone, but I think of myself, Joe Boyle, as a hometown hero. I am always watching out for other people, and if I see that they are in trouble, I swoop in to help them. Often it is just a matter of making a person’s life fuller and more meaningful.
In Don’s case, he grew up always wanting to be Robin Hood-like but never entirely made it. It is a genuine travesty that Don had to grow up without having a poem like Robin Hood’s as repeated below.
Robin Hood, Robin Hood
Riding through the glen.
Robin Hood, Robin Hood
With his band of men.
Feared by the bad,
Loved by the good,
Robin Hood, Robin Hood, Robin Hood.
As Lakewood’s self-appointed hometown hero, I am bravely stepping forward to right Don’s wrong by having created a custom Robin Hood-like poem for Don. I say bravely because I am not a poet and as one of my good friends said after reading my last poetic effort, “Joe, fun, but you better keep your day job.”
Don, I hope my words put a smile on your face.
If they do, then perhaps your poem is suitable for hanging over your fireplace.
Don Doman, Don Doman
By Joseph Boyle
Don Doman, Don Doman.
I learn by your words; you were quite a bowman.
As a youth, you shot arrows into the sky.
Causing your neighbors to think, oh my.
If your mother and father only knew.
Your bow and arrow days might have been through.
Where they all landed is anyone’s guess.
But you kept shooting them, nonetheless.
When you shot arrows on Cheney Stadium’s Tight-Wad Hill,
I know it was, for you, quite a thrill.
One day an arrow of yours pierced me where I store my wallet.
Which proved less painful than being pierced on my whatchamacallit.
Not knowing what goes up must come down,
You kept firing arrows like no one else was around.
I hope that one day you and Robin can shoot arrows together,
And if you do, you will soon become two birds of a feather.
So that is it, Don Doman, Don Doman, the end of a tale.
I ask that you give up shooting arrows unless you wish
to write your next story from jail.