Those who know the adventures of Steve Baring will understand why he began to write poems and how they got to see the light of the day.
After all, he had traveled half of Sudan and Egypt while escaping with the love of his life from her dangerous father and his minions. As they were searching for an ancient Nubian treasure, allegedly buried in the area of today’s Nile, the trouble followed them like a shadow. But the good side of those ordeals was that the inspiration was abundant. He wrote those poems pondering the purpose and harshness of life; the traits of unfair circumstances that embroiled him, and the unrequited love that happened on his exciting journey that was in fact his destiny.
Nubian Pearls
Your heart is of diamonds,
Your words are of gold.
I wonder; where’s my place
In this too fast world?
Your spiteful hair
Of countless curls
Hides the sapphire eyes;
My precious Nubian pearls.
I wonder if our souls
Have paths that join and cross
I wonder it they’ll find
The home that they have lost.
The best of all the times
Come after it’s the worst.
And what’s this life without you
But a never-ending curse?
You’re the Sun at rising,
Scarlet dawn at burst
Your kisses hot as fire
Burn as I’m immersed.
There is an endless sea,
Of waves, winds, and whirls
Inside its depth your eyes;
My precious Nubian pearls.
This Moment
It slips through our fingers
Like life through the years.
It’s carried by winds
And lost in the tears.
It breathes with the Sun
And burns into glass.
Softly, it speaks;
Like time, we shall pass.
It slips through our fingers
And turns into dust.
While telling a story
Of devotion and trust.
It takes us to places
We’d never go alone.
It teaches us lessons
We’d never learn at home.
It slips through our fingers
And falls to the ground.
It screams like a banshee
But still makes no sound.
It’s right in the middle
Of the future and past.
The moment that says;
Like time, I shall pass.
Who Can Blame The Autumn?
Who can blame the autumn
Or the leaves that fell?
I have grown accustomed
To the stories you don’t tell…
Who can blame the autumn
And the pouring rain?
Sometimes, what truly hurts
Isn’t any pain…
Who can blame the autumn
Why the nights are cold?
They will someday warm up
And we will grow too old…
Who can blame the autumn?
Mild August Rains
Mild August rains,
In this parched land,
Like diamonds, they are rare.
They’re nurturing the pavements
And the waning wildflowers
With their stellar glare.
She is there, among those shiny pearls,
Dancing and singing and calling me
To join her vibrant world.
She picks her summer colors
With an umbrella in her hands.
She takes our dreamlike memories
And turns them into plans.
Even when asleep,
She plays her favorite game.
And the last word of the day
Have the birds beneath the window,
Who proudly chirp her name.
If these poems touched you, then you would surely enjoy the remaining 57 snippets of musings and personality that Steve has shared with the world while shoulder-deep in troubles, searching for the Nubian treasure and the escape from his Sudanese archenemy;
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