Ink of Possibilities. Fragments of silence. Ink as witness. A quiet sanctuary of words and reflection—where thought moves unhurried, and meaning is allowed to breathe.
“In the grand algorithm of existence,
the world unfurls not on rivers of time or stone,
but on invisible streams of code — elegant,
relentless, and sovereign.
Those who comprehend its syntax shall inherit
the future’s golden ledgers,
where wealth is but data dancing
at the command of enlightened minds.”
A poem by S. I. Guzman
Late afternoon, the curtains were opened. The children’s playground was green; coffee beans were ready beneath the pale moon.
The magician barista there stood with eyes like an ocean of blues.
With a sweet smile as honey she brewed—for a wizard who traveled too soon, no spells were enough at this time, for he was haunted with owls at night.
For we are prisoners of enchanted thoughts; the minds are crippled by chains, forged like sharp Japanese swords.
Oh my dear, no coffee cup lids for this traveler’s brew,
the road is full of spills—without those coffee cup lids.
Worry not; this day is best, for it is the tomorrow we were so worried about, when yesterday passed—without coffee cup lids the brews can have meaning at last.
We watch the sunset each day but cannot feel the land swirling away.
Something that exists forever is vague, and empathy is the key to withhold, like grown-ups afraid of themselves—immersed in the shadows of hell.
The sun does not move at a glance—is the Earth spinning alone in a dance, for the Light is a shifting stage, while the stars remain silent like guardians of pain.
Two objects cannot occupy the same space, but two souls can immerse in themselves—dancing a tune in this gloom.
Never near, yet closer, the moon—
a cup of coffee, without lids, which is doomed.
We are drowning in a sea of things,
complexities and endless ideas—woven into the fabric of souls.
So, just play. Just be—even without coffee cup lids.
Jump in with love, swim into the verses of new whispering tunes.
What else can we do?—But to bloom.
Her shop was closing too soon,
the last cup waited to brew, and the magician barista there stood—
with offerings of kindness and blues.
“No coffee cup lids?”
“I’m sorry,” the magician barista replied, but she had a smile of joy in her eyes.
“Still—no cup lids?”
“No, sir—no coffee cup lids, you must be tuned to the spills.”
“Your name?”
“Una.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” the traveler gazed, thinking out loud.
“Thank you,” the magician replied—
“But in the end, coffee cup lids are what counts.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” the magician replied. “I will see you next time.”
As if time held any meaning at all,
like weary travelers’ souls.
It felt like a kite without strings,
a coastal town without shops,
a lighthouse without springs,
a guitar without sound.
Or worse!—like a guiding ship through the waves,
in search of a great Poet’s gaze.
On his return, two maidens there stood searching for meaning and warmth on a quiet and foggy afternoon.
Yet, still no coffee cup lids—
only laughter and joy without gloom.
Shrugging, amused, the traveler looked,
while searching for those meaningful blues.
“No coffee cup lids,” he assumed—
“No, dear, none left,” the magician barista replied.
She warned of chaos ahead, for the cups had lost their best friends.
“The lids can prevent the next spill,” she gently explained.
Woven in starlight and casting her spell—where shadows entwined and secrets of magic can dwell.
The End.
I bargained with Life for a penny,
And Life would pay no more,
However I begged at evening
When I counted my scanty store.
For Life is a just employer;
He gives you what you ask.
But once you have set the wages,
Why, you must bear the task.
I worked for a menial’s hire,
Only to learn, dismayed,
That any wage I had asked of Life
Life would have willingly paid.
The resonance of the ego
flows through the minds of men,
as a warning to a life that begins and is well lived;
the absolute thief of old age,
for it prepares them for the cold.
As the caterpillar turns into a silky cocoon,
so too does the butterfly aspire to dream;
a distant past confined within walls,
thus must mortals advance in order to return.
Though angels might return as they are;
thus, remembered thoughts shall flourish once more.
For the savant labors for the promise of eternal rest,
and the wise findeth the stone,
and the philosopher the feather and the scroll;
will nostalgic thought then find peace within Abaddon?
Shall clocks determine the time of common men?
Will the butterfly return to the dunes?
Will mortals ever hear the subtle, kind whispers of John?
Will the trees ever mourn the immortals of old?
That is the unerring ether of life.
The purpose of being, the food of the mind,
the whispers of error preserved in ink and scroll.
A poem by,
-S. I. Guzman
Parte I
El mar fue mi velero,
el galope de un noble corcel,
el sueño que viví contigo lleno
en un mundo paralelo de ayer.
El amor lo aprendí en la herida,
en la ternura de tu rostro juvenil,
allá al sur del mundo y de la vida,
donde tu recuerdo será siempre infantil.
Tras un mostrador, te observe,
la calle vacía guardaba tu hogar,
frente a frente, destino y umbral,
dos almas sin tiempo dispuestas a amar.
Estaré en tu memoria, tú en la mía,
como ecos que no saben partir;
solo el espejo revela algún día
el rostro del viaje hecho porvenir.
En un parque de luces y azar,
mi mirada aún busca la tuya al pasar;
en la flor de loto se irá a reposar,
para siempre aprendiendo a mirar.
Mas en tu sonrisa, en tu cabello ondulado,
largo, sensual, como ola al volver,
se alejan recuerdos de aquel día sagrado
detrás del mostrador del ayer.
La sonrisa se apaga, los veleros se van,
los caballos del sueño contigo estarán;
mirad, reíd, soñad sin temor,
que aquel uniforme verde selló nuestro ardor.
No te alejes jamás, busca y sentí
lo que aún no hallamos en el valle interior;
eso que los mortales llaman así:
Amor.
Parte II
Volveré en otra vida paralela a buscarte,
cuando el tiempo se rinda y el mar vuelva a llamar;
prepárate entonces, amor, a zarpar,
que mi alma sabrá encontrarte
y juntos volveremos al Parque Saval.
Desde Venus a Saturno danzan las esferas,
tejiendo melodías de lo que olvidó Edén;
mundos desvanecidos, verdades primeras,
susurran lo eterno que vuelve a nacer.
Mirad al cielo, cerrad los ojos al ver,
la juventud grabada en el corazón;
al morir el filósofo nace el saber,
y en el ocaso despierta la virtud en canción.
El artista pinta lo que no se ve,
el ingeniero persigue al genio interior,
el estudiante busca al maestro que fue,
pero el amor mueve al mundo, es su motor.
Tomad la melena del noble equino,
preparaos al canto que escondí en mi voz;
las maravillas ocultas del destino
viajan conmigo a través de Dios.
Calla y escucha el sonido del amor,
comprenderás el lenguaje del Creador.
With love to: Tamara Elena Muñoz Mariangeltts
A poem by
- S. I. Guzmán
Seek answers to everything— from the hidden realms of the universe to the silent Light of the cosmos. But tread lightly, earthbound, for two invisible forces are never meant to be sought. Love and Death; they move without bounds, as ancient as they are. These two forces are unbound by time, untouched by distance. They are drifters of realms seen and unseen; they find every soul in its destined time. Search in the stars if you must, unravel the mysteries of existence— yet remember: these two forces, wherever you are and whoever you are, will find you. A Poem by, — S. I. Guzman
We go through life
hoping to understand its meaning,
and in the end
all that remains
is hope for immortality.
The acorn becomes the oak,
and the seeds of wisdom
are cast into the ether of life
so that we may endure.
Life’s meaning
is nothing more
than the unknown shadow
of the human soul.
Take a leap of faith.
Aid those in need, as you will,
from beyond the grave,
in a perpetual state,
fulfill the duty of being human.
And come to the realization—
without erring—
that by doing so
you have helped your own self to
embrace the human soul.
With love to future generations.
A poem by
S. I. Guzman
