Nov 9, 2025
I JUST GOT HIT WITH BACK TO BACK DRAG PATH EDITS. AND THEY WERE ABOUT THE 52 HZ WHALE AND LOST APPA. I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE OMFG.
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I JUST GOT HIT WITH BACK TO BACK DRAG PATH EDITS. AND THEY WERE ABOUT THE 52 HZ WHALE AND LOST APPA. I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE OMFG.
During this Christmas Season, especially as we make our way toward Epiphany, I’m aware that unlike the magi who come to visit the baby Jesus, I have no gold, frankincense or myrrh to give to the newborn king.
No, I’m only a humble writer.
All I have to give are poems and stories.
But I’m reminded of a quote from a poem from Muriel Rukeyzer’s book The Speed of Darkness.
“The universe is made of stories, not atoms,” she writes.
And I believe that is true.
Poems and stories are everything.
So on our road to Epiphany, I offer these stories to the baby Jesus and to you.
One is a book of poems, Left Foot Poems, that look and listen for beauty in the plain, genius in the simple, wonder in the ordinary and courage in the human.
The other is story, fragments of hilcias and Taki’s notebook, of a migrant boy from Honduras, an Iñuit girl from Alaska, and a journey to find a mysterious whale. You’ll travel from Charleston, South Carolina and Point Hope Alaska to Brownsville, Texas to find that friendship holds our hearts and the universe together.
I have 10 copies of each book left on my writing table, but I can order some more from my publisher if need be.
I’m asking $15.00 for each book.
$1.50 of each sale will go to the SC Appleseed Legal Justice Center to aid immigrants from Mexico, Central America and South America who are trying to make a better life for themselves in South Carolina and in the United States of America.
If you’d like to buy a copy of either book, please message me here on FB.
If you like like to pay by Venmo, you can send the payment to @teachandwrite.
If you like to pay by PayPal, you can send the payment to @juniperzine.
If you like to pay by check, you can request my address and I’ll gladly share it with you.
As soon as I receive your order, I’ll mail the autographed copy of your book through USPS.
Thank you so much for supporting me and for your friendship.
That means everything.
¡Gracias!
Trevor
52 Blue
There is a whale in the northern Pacific Ocean named 52 Blue.
Scientists named him this because he sings at a frequency of 52 MHz.
Other whales like him sing at frequencies between 15 and 25 MHz.
They cannot hear his song.
He has been called the loneliest whale in the world.
Normally, whales are not lonely. They are communal creatures. They live in family groups.
They migrate from warm waters, where they give birth, to cool waters, where they find food.
They follow the same migratory route year after year.
52 Blue is different.
He lives alone.
He doesn’t follow a migratory route.
He wanders the ocean.
“Not all who wander are lost,” says the old saying.
Neither are those who wonder.
The wonderers usually find what they are looking for.
Or what they are looking for finds them.
52 Blue is a wandering, wondering whale.
Here is a Fibonacci poem for 52 Blue.
whale
song
lonely
where are you?
wandering, singing
singing unheard wandering songs
can you hear me? are you there? are you? i am alone
listening, longing for songs gently sung, i hear you song in water, i’m here, i’m here
we sing at diff’rent frequencies, migrate along diff’rent routes, wandering, wondering
unheard, unknown, wandering the sea, song in water
singing unheard wondering songs
wondering, singing
who are you?
gentle
song
whale
- Trevor Scott Barton, Fibonacci Poems, 2022
(If you’d like to learn more about 52 Blue, read the amazing Leslie Jamison in long form journalism in her story “52 Blue” in The Atavist Magazine here https://magazine.atavist.com/52-blue/)
A meditation on what it means to be alone and how we seek meaning from the natural world.
If I’m a holy anything, I’m a holy listener.
My ears are the most important part of me.
Listening is sacred to me.
When I hear the word ‘immigrant,’ I close my eyes and see the face of one of my students named Hilcias, who walked into my classroom and heart from Mexico.
I look through old Life Magazines and see pictures of people putting on tattered coats, holey shoes, and red scarves; picking up battered suitcases taped around the sides to keep meager, precious things from falling out; and parting the lives they know and love in hopes of making a better life.
In the life of my student and his family, in the faces of the people in the pictures, I see human beings.
I was an immigrant once.
I was welcomed into the country of Mali in West Africa.
I made a promise then to care for and love immigrants around me just as my neighbors there cared for and loved me.
I wrote this poem to help us see the human face of immigration, feel the hearts of immigrants, and know ourselves in the lives of the immigrants around us.
Go now in the name of the immigrant, the human being, the holy stranger.
Go now to make neighbors out of strangers.
Go now with an immigrant heart.
My
Heart
Loves home
Winter snow
Spring mountain flowers
Summer salt in the deep, blue sea
Fall leaves on the colorful trees are art for my heart
With tears in eyes, my heart pulls on its brown tattered coat, black holey shoes and red wool scarf
My heart is so tired, poor, huddled, wretched, homeless and tempest-tost. It loves its memories, family, home but it is time for it to go
Too many cold, deserted eyes at checkpoints in lonely streets pointed guns at my heart; too many clouds in rainy seasons empty of rain brought pain to my heart; too many coughs from my children's chests late into night broke my heart
My heart picks up its battered suitcase, with tape all around its ends, lest it break open and spill out my father's favorite shirt, a love letter, a picture of my beautiful children, all I have in the world, onto the ground
Deep in the hull of a ship tossing on stormy seas; high on the roof of a train winding down a long, steep hill; barefoot on a dusty road
Silent, back to back, knee to knee, with poor women and little children…immigrant hearts
With each step along the way our hearts whisper, "Thank you"
With each mile we long for, "I care"
We hope for kindness
Immigrants
Moving
Our
Hearts
from trevor’s encyclopedia of lost things
Hilcias climbed the steps of the dilapidated school bus.
He pushed the metal frame around the cracked glass panels of the folding door.
This was his HOUSE for the summer.
His mamí and abuelo made it his HOME.
Have you ever thought a bus looks like a whale?
Hilcias did.
He stood inside the bus at night and thought about being in the belly of a whale.
Darkness with a hint of light.
Shapes and shadows of knapsacks holding all of their belongings in the world.
Quiet with a hint of spouting water.
Deep breaths from ship sized lungs.
Echoes of the world.
Small pieces of quiet sounds.
The end of the day of life and work of migrant workers on the Johns Island farm.
Stillness.
He felt the words rise up inside of him that his abuelo taught him to say when it was getting dark and he was a little bit afraid.
“I am salt.
I am light.
I am made from the dust.”
He sat down on the ground in the belly of his whale.
A feeling came down over him like the old blanket his abuela made for him many years and miles ago.
Gently.
“Why am I here?” he thought.
He heard a still, quiet voice in the belly of the whale.
"To be, Hilcias.
To be Hilcias.”
fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook -
Chapter 5
The old abuelo lifted the iron knocker on the oak church door and let it fall back onto it’s tarnished plate.
He did this again and again until a nun cracked open the door to the night.
The nun had worked in the inner-city for many years and had seen many things, but never had she seen the beauty and suffering she saw in the faces and the bodies at the church door that night.
Their eyes were alight with beauty, the beauty of being.
Their bodies were heavy with suffering.
They were covered with the dirt and sweat and blood of a thousand miles of migration.
Their shoulders sagged under the weight of months of homelessness.
The only homes they found during their journey were the small spaces and simple kindnesses that people gave along the way.
They were still and very quiet.
They didn’t move.
They didn’t make a sound.
The old nun wrapped her arms around them.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
“Estoy aquí.”
Our
hearts
love home.
Winter snow,
spring mountain flowers,
summer salt in the deep, wide sea
fall leaves on the colorful trees are art for our hearts.
With tears in eyes,our hearts pull on their brown tattered coats, black holey shoes and red wool scarves.
Our hearts are so tired, poor, huddled, wretched, homeless and tempest-tost. They love their memories, families, homes but it is time for them to go.
Too many cold, deserted eyes at checkpoints in lonely streets pointed guns at our hearts. Too many clouds empty of rain brought pain to our hearts. Too many coughs from our childrens’ chests late into night broke our hearts.
Our hearts pick up their battered suitcases, with tape all around their ends, lest they break open and spill out our fathers’ favorite shirts, a love letter, a picture of our beautiful children, all we have in the world, onto the ground.
Deep in the hull of a ship tossing on stormy seas; high on the roof of a train winding down a long, steep hill; barefoot on a dusty road
silent, back to back, knee to knee, with poor people and little children. Migrating hearts.
With each step along the way our hearts whisper, “We’re here.”
With each mile long to hear, “I care.”
We hope for kindness.
Migrating.
Moving
our
hearts.