A Mother Cries

As he’s pulled from his mother’s womb
and cat-like cries pierce through expectation,
doctors clean
his wrinkled, red form.
Daddy brings him close for a kiss.
A mother cries.
-----

A tiny body
quivers
With fever and pain.
A mother tries
     to comfort,
          to soothe.
Helpless,
a mother cries.
-----

In anguish
he sprawls on the cold tile,
unyielding sobs,
     little red face,
          contorted and wet.
“Don’t. Leave. Me. Mommy!”
Reassuringly,
She hugs him one more time.
On the way to work,
a mother cries.
-----

Home from school,
a bedroom door slams
     shutting out his pain.
His face flushes in anger.

Isolated.
They can’t bully him here.
Music is his only anesthetic.
He doesn’t hear her questions
from the other side of the door.
A mother cries.
-----

Laid off again.
The economy is down, they say.
The bills keep coming.
What will happen if he can’t pay?
The car - repossessed,
a foreclosure on their home.
They still have each other.
Life is much worse for some.
Far away,
a mother cries.
-----

Starting over at forty-nine,
twenty-two years of love behind.
Unbearable.
Inconceivable.
The color of their love
fades from red to black.
How will he go on?
Without her.
His teenage son's shattered heart
is motivation enough.
Somehow he will be strong.

Still her little boy,
a mother cries.
-----

Lines accent his eyes and forehead,
telling more than just his age.
Happiness found him again,
though, some would argue, too late.

His mother lies
on a narrow, rigid bed,
cold white sheets,
pale walls,
a mixture of disinfectant and urine
perfumes the shared halls.

His mother tries
not to let him see her pain.
She’s not afraid to die,
Just terrified to leave him too soon.
A mother cries.

She’s as fragile as a baby bird.
No trace of the rosy blush of youth.
They must say their goodbyes.
He holds her hand
as she says her last prayer
     for him.
One last time,
a mother cries.

©  9/14/2012

Fall Remembered

Dry, fallen leaves crunch beneath my feet

Burnt orange, crimson red, chestnut brown, and lemon yellow

hang from soon to be barren trees

White-gray clouds billow from chimneys

Gaseous, white puffs of breath escape with each exhale

Stillness.

The season silences the chirping birds and

Sends rabbits scurrying to their refuge under naked shrubbery

The cold, rough leather sphere stings as I catch my cousin’s pass

Barbecue beckons us indoors to Auntie’s kitchen

Sweet, smoky, savory chicken, ribs, and sausages

Steaming hot chocolate with melting mini-marshmallows

Warms chilled and numb hands.

Nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger and hazelnut season the traditional mud pie

Oak and maple logs burn in the weathered fireplace

Orange, red, brown, and yellow

On soon to be barren trees

Dry, fallen leaves crunch beneath my feet.

25 September 2011

Stephanie L. P. De los Santos

The Pearl in the Sand

Your eyes play hide-and-seek with mine

as you slip back into class

hoping no one notices,

praying you will be left alone.

You know I know.

I know you know.

Your heavy eyes hold mine

for an eternal moment.

until your gaze is sucked to the floor

by the force of your failure,

a gravitational pull

constraining your eyes,

        restricting your vision,

                confining your view

to below.

Below the laughter and the smiles,

beneath shared jokes and common experiences,

You hide

believing

you are truly beneath them.

Stripped of your self-worth,

You continue to meet their expectations.

You fail again

        and again

                  and again

until someone notices

the pearl in the sand.

SLPD   5/6/2016

Free

by Stephanie De los Santos

The highway overpass shelters me

From the vindictive wind and rain,

And I wonder why I feel safer here

Than all the places I’ve been.

No one will hurt me tonight.

No one will make me go

To yet another loveless house

More cruel than the one before.

I hope that you are safe tonight,

That your heart knows peace and love.

I hope that you have been protected

As they promised me you would.

One day soon we’ll meet again -

A reunion so well deserved.

We’ll be free from the irreconcilable past

Free from all the hurt.

Hope for my Child

by Stephanie De los Santos

---

A child -

lost innocence,

Dreams crushed

Hopes scattered

like seeds in a seemingly barren field.
Some will die,

remain buried deep.

Others will hide

below the surface

waiting for the warmth

of the sun,

the refreshment of the rains.

They will be reborn,

even blossom

in time.

Purpose will prevail,

though it alludes her now.

Yet, I dream of her.

The child I hope for

hopes not for me,

agonizes at the thought

of my home,

would rather be

alone.

Yet, I hope for her.

This child

resents the intrusion

into her life,

angers

at the disruption

of her world,

yearns for love,

but not from me.

Yet, I love her still.

My child

feels abandoned,

isolated,

out of place.

She hears others laugh,

wonders where

she left her joy,

her smile.

Yet, I welcome her,

yearn for her,

feel blessed

to call her mine.

     

My daughter,

   not yet mine,

will be forced

from her home

by a stranger.

She is struggling now

to concentrate in class

because she is hungry,

insecure,

angry.

None of this

is her fault,

though she feels

she is to blame.

She is angry,

but she can’t

tell you why.

She is bruised,

but she won’t,

tell you how.

She cries,

but no one sees 

her tears.

Copyright © 2015 by Stephanie De los Santos

Soft Rains

Leaves turn,
Warning us with veined bellies
Of a coming storm.
Gentle winds
Tousle our hair
Leaving the impression
Of disarray,
Disappointment,
Devastation.
.                                                        

Unprepared,
We hide away
In cars,
Homes,
bedrooms.
We take shelter
Within ourselves-
Within our own mind
Among our own kind.


Fearfully,
We brace ourselves,
Secure doors and windows,
Hearts and minds.
We startle at each unfamiliar
Sound,

Sight,
Or suggestion.

And the leaves turn.
Gentle breezes subside.
Soft rains cease.
The earth is cleansed.
There was never any reason to fear.


Stephanie De los Santos
1/7/16

Coffee, 咖啡, Café, قهوة, Kape, फलियों की शराब;

The old, more festive cups.
Tastes just as good in plain
red cups.

I ordered two cups this morning.  Venti Zebra Mocha, three pumps white mocha, one pump mocha, no whip.  One of them extra hot. Because it was a two-cup kind of day. 

While in college, creating espresso 
beverages became a hobby to me.  In fact, my favorite job - other than teaching - was working as a barista at Starbucks.  You know, that establishment with the famous, or infamous, plain red holiday cups?  That place. Though I preferred the sugared-up beverages back then, such as the mocha frappucino, I began to acquire a taste for coffee.  More specifically, I fell in love with espresso. Since that time I have experimented with all types of coffees and beans, wondering what makes one beverage taste so much better than another.

The coffee beverage my dad would drink was always watered-down with no real flavor, just a slight bitterness. The coffee that my Middle Eastern friends served me was - Wow! There are just no words to describe it! To say the texture was thick and coarse would be an understatement. Strong? Let's just say, I didn't sleep for a week. There were bitter coffees, smooth coffees, nutty and smokey coffees, floral and woody coffees, sweet with a hint of cocoa coffees. Some were served in a cup while others were offered in a shot glass. Certain varieties were served with grounds included, others were brewed and strained. Why were they all so different? It was more than just the way it was served; the difference was in the bean.

It's all about the beans.

Arabica. Washed Arabica coffee from Columbia is supposedly the finest. However, Arabica beans in general are considered superior than other types of beans. Arabica beans are oval instead of round and are larger, sometimes double the size, of other beans (Baskerville).