from “poems for a brown eyed girl”

her 

brown eyes

deep kindness, 

naked, beautiful, 

her smile the sunrise, the sunset

from “poems for a brown eyed girl”

Kiss each other 

with passionate kisses

again and again.

Make love 

in colors, 

intense 

reds

to

deep 

blues

to 

beauty.

Hold each other 

closely - 

let as much 

of body

be as close 

to body 

as possible.

Feel 

the magnitude

of love.

Besarse

con besos apasionados

una y otra vez.

Hacer el amor

en colores,

intenso

rojos

a

profundo

blues

a

belleza.

Se abrazan

de cerca

deja tanto

de cuerpo

estar tan cerco

al cuerpo

como sea posible.

Sensación

la magnitud

de amor.

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2018

from “poems for a brown eyed girl”

The wind 

blew strongly 

off the Chukchi Sea,

the cold air 

settled bitterly 

over Point Hope 

and made 

even his bones 

cold.

Her brown eyes 

looked tenderly 

into his blue eyes 

and made 

a small warmth 

in the middle 

of his belly 

that began 

to warm him 

again.

Her eyes 

were 

like the earth, 

like the tough yet tender bark 

of the peach trees 

during South Carolina summers 

on the Charleston farms, 

like the blanket 

his abuela 

made 

from the colors 

of the flowers and fields 

of the beautiful mountains 

of El Salvador.

“You know,” 

he thought,

as he looked

into her eyes, 

“They’re just 

like my abuela’s blanket. 

They wrap me 

and keep me  

warm.”

-Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2018

Taki

In a place that hadn’t been seen by many people, she hadn’t been seen by many people either. The Iñuit people knew from the beginning that every snowflake that falls from the sky is unique. No two snowflakes have ever been alike, are ever alike, or ever will be alike. The crystals that form and make the snowflake are so sensitive to the conditions around them that a breeze blowing over the ice, a cloud passing between the sun and the earth, or the vibrations from the heartbeat of a whale surfacing on the waters of the Chukchi Sea can change them into something new.

Taki’s mother and father knew that she was unique.

On the first day of her life, she was swaddled in a warm blanket in her crib.

Her Grandmother had sewed the three Arctic whales into that red blanket with yellow thread the color of the morning sunrise over the waters.

"With the beluga whale, I hope curiosity and song into the life of the baby," she had whispered, "For the beluga look quizzical in the way they hold their heads and can sing songs that cause us to call them the canaries of the sea.

With the narwhal whale, I hope compassion and empathy into the life of the baby, for the narwhal will place the tip of it's own hornlike tooth into the broken tooth of another narwhal to ease it’s suffering and pain.

And with the bowhead whale, I hope mystery and endurance into the life of the baby, for the bowhead's name is Balaena mysticetus and that best describes it's wonderful ways. Because of the cold, cold Arctic water it lives longer than any other creature in the world.

As she looked up into the weathered faces of her parents with her deep brown eyes, she whistled a beautiful song her Father had heard only once before in his life.

He had been a boy roaming across the ice near the edge of the sea, hunting bowhead whales with his father. There, standing silently beside the water, a bowhead rose to breathe in the air.

The bowhead whale, the Baleena mysticetus, was a source of life and pride for the Iñuit. They subsisted on it’s body and bones, eating it’s meat to keep them warm in deep winter, using it’s skin and baleen to make their boats and fishing nets, and using it’s skeleton to frame their small huts. They whispered it’s name with reverence and awe.

As he raised the harpoon to strike the great whale, he whispered an old Iñuit prayer his grandmother had taught him.

I think over again

My small adventures

My fears,

Those small ones

That seemed so big

For all the vital things

I had to get and reach

And yet there is only one

Great thing,

The only thing

To live to see

The great day

That dawns

And the light that fills

The world

He plunged the harpoon into the whale.

He would remember that moment for the rest of his life.

Normally, when a bowhead whale is struck with the sharpened iron barbs of a harpoon, it dives into the deepest parts of the icy waters and flees across the sea, trying with all it’s might to get away and stay alive.

This whale, though, was not a normal whale. 

As he looked into the eyes of the great whale, as he watched the light go out of it’s wise eyes, he realized it was willingly giving up it’s life for the lives of his people.

The last sound it made was the beautiful whistling song that Taki made on that day of her birth.

As her mother and father looked down at her, they wondered if her song would reach the tiny, powerful ears and the giant, kind hearts of all of the whales in all of the waters of the world, and they wondered if the ancient wisdom of sacrificial love was working in the world again.

Christmas Card From A Shepherd

Dear N’na and N’baba,

You wouldn’t believe what happened to me tonight if you didn’t love me. But you do love me so I know you’ll believe me, and I know your mouth and your eyes and your ears and your heart will be as wide open as mine are when I tell you.

The evening was like any other evening for a poor, lonely, ten year old shepherd like me. Momadu, the shepherd on the hill next to mine, brought his sheep by me on the way back from the stream below us. His first sheep had a sticker on it’s bump that said, “Sheep Happens,” and when Momadu passed by he threw up his hands and smiled and said, “We’re in deep sheep,” so that made me laugh. There’s nothing like good sheep humor to help a shepherd’s day go by.

I led my own flock down to the water. Small clouds of dust rose from the dry, hard, ground as we made our way down the hill. My bare feet stepped over the stony field, calloused from a young lifetime of playing, working and living without shoes.

My sheep seemed to be growing out of the ground, their feet deeply rooted in the dirt. 

“The Lord God formed life from the dust of the ground,” teaches Scripture.

I understand.

When we returned to the top of our hill, and I laid the sheep down in the green pastures for the night, the thing that has changed my life, the thing that will change your life, the thing that will change life itself, happened.

An angel of the Lord stood before me, me a lowly shepherd, and the glory of the Lord shone around me, and I was terrified. But the angel said to me, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!”

When the angels had left me and gone into heaven, I ran to Momadu and shouted, “Did you see what I saw? Did you hear what I heard?” He did. “Let’s go now to Bethlehem,” I continued, “And see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.”  

We went quickly and found Mary and Joseph. 

The child was lying in the manger. 

Mary and Joseph looked at us. We were standing outside of the stable. Our clothes were tattered and torn, our feet were bare and dirty, and we smelled like sheep. I expected them to ask us to leave. But they surprised us. “Come here,” they whispered. They put their arms around our shoulders. “Welcome,” they whispered. 

Mary picked up the baby and put him in my arms. “This is Jesus,” she said. 

He looked up at me. His brown eyes were the same color as my eyes, his brown skin was the same color as my skin. his tattered clothes were as holey as my clothes. I sleep on the hay, too.

I held him close and felt his little heartbeat on my chest. I kissed his forehead with a gentle kiss. He smiled at me, and my life was changed forever.

“Thank you,” I said to Mary and Joseph. “You’re welcome,” they said. They kissed Momadu and I on our foreheads with gentle kisses and sent us on our way.

We told everybody about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what we told them!

But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. We returned, glorifying and praising God for all we had heard and seen, as it had been told us.

Now I’m telling it to you!

N’na and N’baba, I think I know what God is telling us. We’re the smallest and most forgotten people in the world, and God, in this little baby, has become one of us!

The world sees us as chancers and scroungers, layabouts and loungers. Us...the unseen ones. Us...the unloved ones. Us...the lonely ones. But God...God sees us. God...God loves us.  God...God is with us!

As you lay your heads down on your mats tonight, and sleep comes softly over you like a wool blanket, please know that I am

Your Bala

God’s shepherd

- Trevor Scott Barton, Advent, 2018

Mango Prayer

Dear God, 

This morning I held a mango in my hand. It came from Guatemala. It was soft like a human cheek. It was the color of sunrise. 

I thought about the person who picked the mango. 

Was it a man with two boys like me? Does he pick mangoes to help his family survive? 

Was it a little girl like the little girls in my classroom at school? Does she pick mangoes to help her family live? 

Who picked the mango? 

May our lives go to help the person who picked the mango. 

May our lives go to help all of your children, O God, especially to the ones who are the smallest and most forgotten in the world. 

May your kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven. 

Amen.

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2018

novel in progress

He looked up from the book in his lap as the Greyhound bus squeaked to a stop at the Greenville station. The old woman next to him fell asleep on the trip from Charleston and leaned her head on his shoulder. Her face was as wrinkled as the bark of an ancient magnolia tree, and was colored the same beautiful brown as it’s trunk and branches. As she breathed in, the air made a soft, whistling sound through her nose, and as she breathed out, 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 and kept right on sleeping and snoring. “Ma’am,” he said a little louder. Still only whistles and kazoos. “Ma’am,” he said a little louder still. This time he reached out and patted her weathered hand. She opened her tired, brown eyes and smiled a small smile at him. “Thanks for a lettin’ me use yo shoulda as my pilla,” she said with a gravelly voice. “First time I woked up beside a man in a long time. Hope my snorin’ didn’t bother you much,” 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 make music, too.” 

He placed his hand gently on her bony shoulder. “We could start a band called The Human Experience,” he laughed. “People would come from all over to hear us whistle, flap, snap and pop. What do you think?”

“Yep, they’d pay a bundle of money to hear that.”

He pulled on his jacket and waved to her. 

“Goodbye, my friend,” he said. “Thanks for the song.”

She waved back. 

“Thank you,” she said. “And do me a favor. Lean down here and let me tell you somethin’.”

He leaned down and was surprised. She kissed his forehead with a light, tender kiss. 

“That’s the kiss of a guardian angel,” she whispered. “Listen to life, learn from it, and do not be afraid.”

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. The headline of the day read “Governor Seeks To Keep Sanctuary Cities Out Of South Carolina.”

He walked a block toward Main Street and found a small diner that served breakfast from 5 A.M. until 10:30 A.M. and meat and three vegetable 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 love it and 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 Scotty and it’s been ten years since I’ve been to Greenville. Happy Anniversary to us!”

“Thanks and ha ha! Where you comin’ from?”

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

“Charleston, huh? I love the low country. There’s nothin’ like wakin’ up early, just before sunrise, and walkin’ on the beach. Goodness, 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.”

“Thanks.”

“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 of SC

WHAT - Gave a speech endorsing a bill that a state legislator from Greenville 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 SC

Will McCorkle, a graduate student at Clemson 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, 2017

WHERE - The Greenville 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’s speech took place on the opening day of arguments in a San Francisco courtroom where Jose Ines Garcia Zarate (an undocumented 45 year old immigrant) is accused of shooting and killing 32 year old Kate Steinle in July of 2015

The Governor endorsed the bill because he is afraid sanctuary cities will “take root in our state.” He doesn’t want any SC 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 here.” 

There was a deep kindness and thoughtfulness 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 Charleston, a migrant family picking peaches and tomatoes on the farms around Berkeley County. 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?”

“Sure thing. Have a seat.”

“They’re the Flores family. There’s an old man, Gustavo. He’s sinewy thin, and his arms and legs look like the far branches on a tall, old tree. He has a head full of gray hair, and that makes him look wise in the ways of the old ones in Latin America. He has wrinkles on his face that look like ruts in a dirt road. He has a rich voice, a storyteller’s voice, and he’s a good storyteller. Most of all he has kind eyes that are full of life, even though he’s seen a lot of hard times.

There’s Maria, Gustavo’s daughter. Her arms and legs look like the branches of a tree, too, only they’re like the branches closer to the trunk, thick and strong and able to carry heavy things. She has a head full of black hair that looks like a night sky on a moonless, starless night. Her brown eyes carry the moon and the stars, though. You can see the soft light when you look deep into them. She has wrinkles around those eyes, but they aren’t the wrinkles of age and time. They’re the wrinkles of worry that shouldn’t be on the face of someone in the first parts of her life. She has a soft, quiet voice and doesn’t talk much but says important things when she says something. You should see her hands and her feet. They’re calloused and worn, yet gentle and warm against the life she’s lived so far.

And there’s Tomás, Maria’s son and Gustavo’s grandson. He’s small in size, even for an ten year old, but he has a big heart. He has tiny ears but he’s a good listener. He looks at the person who’s speaking as if he’s drinking their words on a hot, humid day of farm work. He’s very smart, even though he goes from school to school on the migratory trail and misses ‘lots of days during the school year. There’s one part of him that worries me. He doesn’t speak. I don’t think it’s because he can’t. I think it’s because he doesn’t want to. I’m sure from the stories his abuelo tells that he’s seen some hard things on the road. I’d like to find a way to help him say what’s inside of him, if I can. That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”