earth and sea

the earth

in her brown eyes 

is the color

of the ground

holding stones and soil,

the color 

of soft sound

the sea

in her brown eyes 

Is the color 

of the shore

turning sand and shells 

in waves 

along the moor

I love the plowed earth, 

seeing her

bare feet

I love the open sea, 

floating naked 

just beneath

she is the earth, 

the sea,

the indelible

mystery

la tierra

 en sus ojos marrones

 es el color

 del suelo

 sosteniendo piedras y tierra,

 el color

 de sonido suave

 el mar

 en sus ojos marrones

 Es el color

 de la orilla

 volviendo arena y conchas

 en las ondas

 a lo largo del páramo

 Amo la tierra arada

 verla

 pies descalzos

 Amo el mar abierto

 flotando desnudo

 justo debajo

 ella es la tierra,

 el mar,

 el indeleble

 misterio

- trevor scott barton, poems for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

Einstein’s Compass

 einstein's compass

   trembling with excitement

sparking genius

   creating a universe of thought

small book of Euclidian Geometry

   seeking the miraculous 

in clarity and certainty

   Newton’s gravitational pull

ρ(v, T) = 8πhv³/c³ 1/exp(hv/kT) – 1

E = hv – P

Cv = 3R ( hv ) ²/kT exp (hv/kT)/[exp (hv/kT) – 1]²

Rydberg's Constant = 2π²e⁴m/h³c

landing in the uncertainty of chaos

   wandering and wondering 

in the quantum universe

   playing symphonies on strings

- trevor scott barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2020

an ode to earth

I 

lay 

in

warm,

wet

earth.

The earth 

rocks me

back and forth, 

up and down, 

head over heels,

round and round. 

I 

come

with

colors,

breath,

life.

una oda a tierra

yo

laico

en

calidez,

mojado

tierra.

La tierra

me mece

de ida y vuelta,

arriba y abajo,

patas arriba,

vueltas y vueltas.

yo

ven

con

colores,

aliento,

vida.

- trevor scott barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2020

beautiful feet

Her feet were calloused and cracked. 

They were like rocks in the ground, the ground she walked barefooted with her grandfather as he turned the earth with donkey and a plow. 

She had the feet of her grandfather. 

She walked beside him down the long rows of beans and corn from the time she learned to toddle. 

He walked down those rows until his feet were broken and bent in ways that made him continuously genuflect to God, or to the land owners, or to the land itself. 

Her feet were in the soil.

They were part of the land.

They knew the mystery of how seed and dirt and sunlight and water become beans in pods and corn in husks.

Her heart was in her feet.

Her heart was in the land.

Her heart was the mystery.

Her feet spoke.

Her heart whispered.

“Estoy aquí.”

“I am here.”

- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

The human face/El rostro humano

 

The human face is

faith,

hope,

love,

simply 

being.

See

the human face,

and weep,

tears

from a place 

deep inside, 

"The eyes of the heart,”

for it is there, 

only there, 

that weI can see 

the human face,

build a place

for all  

human faces.

See

brown eyes

filled with kindness, 

See

a smile,

the sunrise and sunset,

Turn

tenderly

and kiss

the cheeks

of the human face

and whisper,

"I’m here.”

El rostro humano es

 fe,

 esperanza,

 amor,

 simplemente

 siendo.

 Ver

 el rostro humano,

 y llorar

 lágrimas

 de un lugar

 en el fondo

 "Los ojos del corazón"

 porque está ahí,

 sólo allí,

 que podemos ver

 el rostro humano,

 construir un lugar

 para todos

 rostros humanos.

 Ver

 Ojos cafés

 lleno de bondad,

 Ver

 una sonrisa,

 el amanecer y el atardecer,

 Giro

 tiernamente

 y beso

 las mejillas

 del rostro humano

 y susurrar

 "Estoy aquí."

 

Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

minimalism

I am a doctor.

The ground is my floor. 

The leaves of the trees are my ceiling.

The good earth is my hospital.

One by one, my compañeros limp to me.

They sit.

They peel off their soaked boots.

They show their blistered feet to me. 

Their feet are the feet of the good earth.

Gabby sits before me. 

I wash her feet.

I gently wash away the dirt and pain, until her feet are cool and clean. 

I rub salve on her feet.

My hands work to heal her.

She leans forward and kisses the top of my head.

- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2020

the human element

 story

He stepped off the bus and onto the street. 

Small groups of people were standing around, waiting to welcome their travelers. 

No one was waiting for him. 

“Oh well,” he thought, “I might not be welcomed with a kiss, but I was sent out with one. And by a guardian angel at that. So I’ve got that going for me.”

The early spring sun was bright in his eyes and made him squint to see the people and buildings around him. 

A hint of warmth was beginning to ease the chill of the upstate morning.

He put two quarters into the slot of a newspaper rack beside the bus station and took out a copy of the news. 

He walked a block toward Main Street and found a small diner that served breakfast from 5 A.M. til 10:30 A.M. and meat and three veggie plates for the rest of the day. 

Little bells rang as he opened the glass door and stepped inside.

“Mornin’,” said a waitress.

“Welcome to the Scrambled Egg. 

My name’s Gabby and today’s my tenth anniversary of workin’ here. 

I’ll be servin’ you today.”

“Hey Gabby,” he said. 

He reached out to shake her hand and take a menu from her. 

“My name’s Elias. 

It’s been ten years since I’ve been to the upstate. 

Happy Anniversary to us!”

“¡Gracias!

Where you comin’ from?”

“I came up from the low country through the night on the Greyhound bus.”

“The low country, huh? I love the low country. There’s nothin’ like wakin’ up early, just before sunrise, and walkin’ on the beach. Good gracious, I bet you didn’t get much sleep on that bus! Come over and have a seat at this table by the window. It’s the best seat in the house.”

“Thank you.”

“What can I get for you?”

“Well, I could use a hot cup of coffee and some pancakes.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. I’ll be right back with your coffee.”

He took out his notebook and pen. He wrote as he read the article in the newspaper.

WHO - Governor

WHAT - Gave a speech endorsing a bill that a state legislator from the upstate intends to introduce that would cut off state funding for three years for any town or city that becomes a sanctuary city

*A sanctuary city (for example San Francisco) does not share the immigration status with federal, state and local officials of a person in custody charged with a crime

*Currently, there are no sanctuary cities in the upstate

A graduate student at the big upstate University, who is working on a thesis examining teachers’ attitudes and awareness about the rights of immigrant students, thinks the Governors comments are a “political ploy”

He thinks the state legislator’s bill would make immigrants less likely to report crimes or cooperate with law enforcement officials

He thinks the bill could increase the chance of “families being ripped apart” if an illegal immigrant is arrested for a minor offense and is deported

WHEN - October 23

WHERE - The county courthouse

WHY - The President wants to build a wall between the US and Mexico to keep illegal immigrants OUT of the US

The Governor endorsed the bill because he is afraid sanctuary cities will “take root in our state.” 

He doesn’t want any town or city to take part in “lawlessness”

The President attended a fundraiser for the Governor the week before the Governor’s speech.

* Note: I do not call people “illegal” or “aliens.” I say “undocumented” and “immigrant”

Gabby walked up beside him as he wrote.

“I don’t mean to interrupt what you’re doing, but your breakfast is ready.” 

There was a deep kindness in her brown eyes.

“Hmm,” she noted, “You’re writing with a pen in a notebook. 

Don’t see that much anymore.”

“I’m old fashioned, I guess. 

I still like to see the words I write on a page. 

Helps me see that I’m moving from point A to point B and getting somewhere.”

“If you don’t mind me askin’, what’re you writin’?”

“I don’t mind you asking. 

I’m working on a story for my newspaper. 

I’m a journalist.”

“What’s your story about?”

“It’s about a family I met in the low country, a migrant family picking peaches and tomatoes on the farms down there. 

When I met them, they were living in an old, gutted out school bus behind the lower 40 acres of a peach farm. 

I wrote a series of articles about them last summer to try to help people walk in their shoes.”

“Well, you’re my only customer right now. 

Mind if I sit down with you and hear their story?”

- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2020

the human element

 Hey Friends. 

I’m writing a story. 

I’d like to share it here, in fragments, as a kind of serial novella. 

I tend to be monkish in my writing, spending most of the work time inside of my own head and heart. 

I’d like this to be a community project and spend some time inside of your head and heart, too. 

You can help me become a better storyteller and writer. 

¡Gracias!

Story

The Greyhound bus squeaked to a stop at the downtown station. 

The old woman next to him fell asleep on the trip up from the low country and rested her head on his shoulder. 

Her face was wrinkled like the bark on an ancient magnolia tree, and colored the same beautiful brown as it’s trunk and branches. 

She breathed in, and the air made a soft, whistling sound through her nose.

She breathed out, and it made a gentle, flapping sound through her lips. 

“Life is a symphony,” he chuckled to himself, “Of whistles and kazoos.”

“Ma’am,” he whispered. 

She didn’t move.

 She kept right on snoring. 

“Ma’am,” he said a bit louder. 

Still only whistles and kazoos. 

“Ma’am,” he said a little louder still. 

He reached out and touched her weathered hand. 

She opened her tired, brown eyes.

She smiled a small smile at him.

“Thanks for a lettin’ me use yo shoulda as my pilla,” she whispered in a gravelly voice. “First time I woked up beside a man in a long time. Hope my snorin’ didn’t bother you none,” she giggled.

“No ma’am,” he said with a giggle of his own. 

“It was music to my ears.”

His knees and back snapped and popped as he stood up slowly and smoothed out the wrinkles in his pants and shirt. 

“My goodness,” said the old woman, “You makin’ music, too.” 

He placed his hand gently on her bony shoulder. 

“We could start a band called The Human Element,” he laughed. 

“People would come from all over to hear us whistle, flap, snap and pop. 

What’cha think?”

“Yep, they’d pay a bundle to hear that!”

He pulled on his jacket and waved to her. 

“Bye, my friend,” he said. 

“Thanks for the song.”

She waved back. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

“And do me a favor. Lean on down here and let me tell you somethin’.”

He leaned down.

She kissed his forehead with a light, tender kiss. 

“That’s the kiss of a guardian angel,” she whispered. 

“Listen to life and do not be afraid.”

hope

 He wrote, 

and light  

settled around him

like the halo

of a saint,

deep in the night,

at his bare work desk,

where he sowed words 

to grow

hope;

the hope of the farmers, 

giving their hearts, 

souls, 

minds, 

bodies 

to the land 

day after day, 

year after year, 

until they became 

the dust 

from which 

they were made; 

the hope of the workers, 

giving their hearts, 

souls, 

minds, 

bodies 

to the factories, 

day after day, 

year after year, 

until they became 

the gears and grease 

from which

they worked;

the hope of the servants, 

giving their hearts, 

souls, 

minds,  

bodies 

to their patróns,

day after day, 

year after year, 

until they became 

the rags and the basins 

from which 

they served;

all hoping, 

the farmers, 

the workers, 

the servants, 

for subsistence, 

food for

3 meals a day;

for shelter, 

wood and tin 

to build a house;

for nothing,

and yet,

for everything.

Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2020

An Ode to Feet

 “Cómo estás, Luisa?” Gabby asked the small woman in the window seat as she sat down beside her.

“Bien,” Luisa answered. “A little tired. I cleaned a lot of rooms at the motel today. Y tu?”

“Si, bien. Un poco cansado, tambien. I scrambled a lot of eggs at the Scrambled Egg. I can’t wait to put my feet up and rest them. What you doing this evening?”

“I’m going to cook for my family and take my daughter to help me clean the doctor’s office. Then I’ll rest.”

Gabby put her arm around Luisa’s shoulder and hugged her.

“Eres una buena mujer,” she said. I’m glad you’re my friend.

“Y tu, mi Amiga. Y tu.”

Gabby got off the bus in front of her apartment on the west side of the city. 

She and her neighbors didn’t have much money, but they did have a lot of kindness for each other.

‘Sup Gabby. How you doin’?” asked Bryant, who everyone called Big B. He had just come home from his job as a mechanic at the auto shop.

“Hola Big B. Not much. Just glad to be home. How was your day?”

“It was all good. The squeaky wheel got the grease, as they say, today and ev’ry day.”

“One of these days I’m gonna buy a car and the only person I’m gonna let work on it is you.”

“Deal. If you need anything, let me know, okay?”

“Sure thing! Same here.”

“You could come over and cook up some steak and eggs for me, you know.”

“Ugh, anything except that. I’ve cooked enough steak and eggs today...and ev’ry day!”

“Bet. I’m jus’ kiddin’ wit’ cha. Night Gabby. Be safe.”

“Night B. You be safe, too.”

She took her key out of her pocket and opened the door to her apartment. 

It was one room. 

There was a holey sofa that pulled out into a bed with a small table and a lamp beside it. 

Three books, The House on Mango Street, The Old Man and the Sea and Poems for a Brown Eyed Girl, were on a bookshelf made out of a cut board and two concrete blocks against the wall. An ancient transistor radio was in the corner. A painting by Jasper Johns of three American Flags, one on top of the other, smallest to largest, was on the wall. It was a gift from one of her regular customers at The Scrambled Egg.

The room was simple and beautiful, like her.

She picked up the small book of poems, turned on the lamp, sat down on the sofa, stretched her legs in front of her.

She opened the book to the poem An Ode to Feet.

She read,

Her feet 

were calloused and cracked  

like rocks 

in plowed ground, 

like stones 

in turned soil, 

the soil 

she walked over 

barefooted 

as her grandfather 

turned the earth 

with donkey and plow. 

She had 

the feet 

of her grandfather, 

for she had walked 

beside him 

down the long rows 

of beans and corn 

since the time 

she learned 

to toddle. 

He had 

walked 

up and down 

those rows 

until his feet 

were broken and bent 

and made him appear 

to be 

continually 

genuflecting 

to God, 

or to the wealthy land owner, 

or to the land itself. 

Her feet 

would one day 

be broken and bent 

like that.

When her feet 

were in the soil 

it was 

as if 

they were part 

of the land, 

as if 

they held the secrets 

of the earth, 

as if 

they knew the mystery 

of how seed 

and dirt 

and water 

can become 

a bean 

in a pod,

a kernel 

on an ear 

of corn. 

Her heart 

was in her feet, 

her heart 

was in the land, 

her heart 

was the mystery 

itself.

Her feet spoke, 

"Estoy aquí, 

I am here, 

estoy aquí." 

Her feet 

were signs 

to the world - 

"I am 

a human being." 

“Estoy aquí,” she whispered to the world. 

“I am here.”

- Trevor Scott Barton, Stories for a Brown Eyed Girl, 2020

Notes from Public School

 Kids are observant.

They watch what you do more than listen to what you say.

The students at my school often ask me about two artifacts - one in my classroom and one on my lanyard.

The artifact in my classroom is a picture of a handshake between my friend Momadu and I when I lived in Mali in west Africa.

Kids look at it closely.

“Hmmm,” say students like Jeremiah, “I notice your hand is white and your friend’s hand is black.”

“Yep,” I respond, “We are good friends.”

And in that moment, I become a civil rights worker.

“Mr. Barton believes we should all be equal, no matter the color of our skin,” they tell each other.

I do.

The other artifact on my lanyard is a small button  that says, “No human is illegal.”

Kids look at it closely, too.

“You really believe that, Mr. Barton?” ask students like Daniel, whose family came to Berea from the farms and fields of Mexico.

“Yep,” I answer. “I’m glad you’re here and I’m here for you.”

And in that moment I become a human rights worker.

“Mr. Barton cares for everybody, no matter where they come from,” they tell each other.

I do.

So I walk out of my school building this afternoon a humble teacher.

And so much more.