—
UPSTREAM
As the tides flow in and out,
the voices, withering and young, flow around.
We ride the oldest of things against the flow,
back up to a source where the stolen thing
is hidden unknown to any, unknown to all.
Forgotten forgotten, unnamed even,
taken before three days seen, even.
All these places are places and more than places,
more than time, more than ciphers, more than mystery.
Follow one thread of meaning and you will, for sure, tangle the cloth,
lose the weave, the weft and pattern.
To hold in your hand such a bright wriggling thing
and stop yourself from any grasping, from holding it steady,
from pressing the life and scintillation from it.
Mud and leaves it will turn to, where now it is dancing gold and laughing.
A pattern pressed into mud: perfect impression.
But breathe too hard, even, and it will smudge and dissolve.
That is how fine our truth is, how the names and places and tales wriggle.
Take one road but do not forget the others.
Take one small thread end and tease it out, like smoke, like water,
like the music of gnats.
Neither too big, nor too small, you must dissolve everything you are
and quietly wait, memorising the names and their genealogies.
How snow falls; how fire and promises are one;
how darkness carries its weight;
how the gods mould themselves and learn new dances;
make promises that will never break –
singing bones and feather dust in dark halls.
As soon as you are sure of something, let it go.
Do not hold on to what is not yours ( and nothing is yours).
To know what is, you must know what is not.
To know what it is not, you must know what it is.
Lose sight of this and you will fall down long centuries wondering why.
As soon as it was named, it became lost.
As soon as it became separate, it was no longer known.
Moon tides swing to the bright prison where the river bends,
the crooked one, the turning wheel, the water road.
Say the words, say the words, until the words grow wings and fly away.
The sound of their whistling pinions will diminish, diminish, diminish,
and now the wind will rise and bear you up into oceanic moonlight.
If you call me by my name, you do not know me.
If you call me by my name, how can I answer?
If you call me by my name, you have learned nothing.
simonhlilly 
Every time we’re born
we get given a new name
which begs the question
Who am I really?
Because I do exist
don’t I?
I suspect in the end
we can choose our own name
as we again forget
the memories of this life time
like we have always done
since Ragnarok
and the BIG BANG.
But the Fears
our subconscious Souls
retain.
Just in case you’re wondering
I’ve been told, you have been here 14 times
and in 14 different cultures.
Life is a many tangled thread now being unravelled.
Sibyl X
Appreciate your comment, though the ‘I’ in this poem is not me, ( nor is it often), and though it may be read as such, neither is it focused on the nature of human life, but on the delicate untangling required to extract wisdom from myth, specifically ancient Welsh literature ( which of course includes every aspect of existence, as well as our human viewpoint).
I thank you for replying to my comment.
You are the writer of what you want to convey, just like I am the reader who likes what you say.
I might have to leave you if it won’t go away
The thoughts existance seeds you with the myths of yesterday.
I’m a great fan of gleaning wisdom Simon.
Your Celtic roots aren’t dead
in your Soul, Heart or Head
said your Ancestors…instead
they Fuel your Warrior’s Spirit
inbred.
(Please forgive me writing in rhyme
It helps me focus on each thread I Divine.)
It’s so easy to lose one’s place
in this Time-warp’s Rat race.
Simon, just a like tick will do
if conversations’ accrue
more food for thoughts to review.
Sibyl X