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Poems to Goodbye Meadows is a unique collection of poetry by Lewis Regan. Reflecting his childhood in rural Ireland, the transitions of youth's first loves found and lost and the memories we keep with us and that make us who we are.

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Goodbyes are often forced upon us but how we choose to remember the things we have lost is what we create and live with. All my suffering and laughter from my heart to you do go. Lewis Regan. Poems Find and share the perfect poems. Skit: Sun Ra Welcomes the Fallen. Used with permission of the author. He Dreams of Falling At the table in patio seating, a young man starched into my evening in waiter black and white-- he's probably named John, Tom, something less spectacular than the busboy named Ari at the table beside me.

He is a boy I've seen and I hide that from him, a silence he doesn't understand as he turns away not remembering that a week ago while waiting for a bus I saw him step over the legs of an old homeless woman sprawled on the sidewalk. His foot not clearing her arm, caught, so that he jerked her body while a consciousness almost found her but didn't, just stirred somewhere below her face.

In the spiral where he turned he glanced not at the woman but to see who'd seen. He saw me watching him, jack-lighted and drawn into the warm ceremony that fell through him. I understood this explosion, the burn from the beginning, there when a bus passes, or a waiter quietly puts down your check. He could be my brother, have parents at home in Ohio where there is a small lie buried in a garden with snow peas and basil. There may be another breaking the soil, dogs who bark into the woods, constellations who see our freeways as spines-- or he may miss a warm climate, groves of oranges measuring the circular scent of weight each time a heavy fruit falls.

He may know that secretly the hearts of children conspire to stop when parents close their bedroom doors. But in this construction, the pace that takes him back and forth in the servitude of strangers, he has forgotten, again, to feel for me, eating alone, a woman familiar deep in the eyes, with his same knowledge of movement that bends us forward, the instinct of our heels ready to turn against that jerk a body makes even in dead sleep, the stir that is less than we ask for, less than an old woman, or a woman growing old.

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Ruth Ellen Kocher Hope was pro forma then. My father told me not to whistle because I Was a girl. He gave me my first knife and said to keep it in my right Hand and to keep my right hand in my right pocket when I walked at night. He showed me the proper kind of fist and the sweet spot on the jaw To leverage my shorter height and upper-cut someone down.

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