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About dumasfils

  • Birthday 05/10/1947


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  1. If only I could wake, from this slumbered sleep. callout from inside, where deep calls to deep. Yes, the 'deep' does brag in this way, and the despair sometimes comes, but you know...you know who holds your inevitabilities, you life is never forgotten in his hands. Good flow in your poem, but I liked the well -placed creative line above especially. Good thinking.
  2. Thank you, I'm appreciative, more than I can write now. But deeply so. And I should say: this 'day', your 'day' is one of the rare few times I have connected so with the 'honor' from another writer. Additionally, I must say you already do another thing which I will present in my class: you add a dimension; good writing must, must add a dimension to things. And you did it very well in your piece. Please don't stop; it is an essential part of the prime directive.
  3. Ps. When I start my writing class, I must out of a good 'hunger' invite you. Hopefully, it will be here on this venue. One of the first things I have in mind to present is the single thought which makes a great writer is the love for making titles: if that love is gargantuan...so much more comes easier, and that 'I' pours forth its power —God underlying of course, as you write in this piece. Very accurate you are. (I apologize for the number of comments, but when every line of a poem has something great and lovely in it, I am astonied. And I should say, it doesn't happen very often that I cannot contain the thoughts a work is doing in me. Beautiful piece. He shows that He is teaching you well how to exalt the 'I' in your reader. Outstanding. Again, I have to apologize for having so much to say, but is it my fault that you have written so much? Thank God for you.)
  4. Up! Grab the work....(fervent and true to the right task at hand; more than ever we need to arise and shine. Great line. Far-ranging thought.)
  5. Superb! Superb! Outstanding and just short enough to be enough said, but what a way to say it. Wow, you show you are really impressed by our savior. Oh, that He will teach you more; allow you to write more, for to be a blessing to us who 'shine' as other facets in his jewel. Bravo! Brother. God's Speed, and please think more, write more, and live Him more. In this writing you tell He is healing lots of deep parts of you. I am happy for you, and us who have a chance to know you. Well done.
  6. Ky, So well written and your passions and realizations of what this world with it's overseeing God means to you. The blessing you have given us in this one poem will help sustain among us both those that need help in their 'unbelief' and the strong. I too love writing about these grand and powerful subjects because they exalt the I in me. Beauty= that which exalts. Well done. Very well done.
  7. I Hate My dreams: oh, who can deliver us from the dreamtime? One night I found myself in a dream. I was down town: just walking, not lost or anything, but just reviewing the shine of the city, squinting up into the builded sky, and listening to all the shafted channel-noise that reverberated upward from the motorcades as they revved away from each traffic light. Later, I met a buddy of mine from my high school days, and after languaging with him forever about all the heres and yonders of the newer city with its problem-changes, it began to get late. Out of his kindness, he loaned me a couple of dollars so that I wouldn’t have to walk the night-streets back to my home. I could see clearly the green of the linen in the two folded five-dollar bills that he placed into my hands, and I distinctly remember using almost all of it to catch three up-buses back out of the city. In the course of time, several weeks later probably, I met him in my dream again and right away he reminded me of the money. As I reached down into my cargo pocket for my wallet, I asked him how much I owed him, because for some reason I just wasn’t able to recall that from the other dream. He began whispering, looking around at the walkers-by, and then back at me, leaning close like he did back in school when he was revealing something about his then girlfriend or something private or other: you remember, he said…I gave you…. This behavior mystified me greatly, but before I could inquire further he immediately moved on up-street, talk-drifting me toward some place he wanted to show me. So we walked back and around, me following him, wallet in hand repeatedly asking him what he had given me in the other dream. Each of his theatrical answers brought me closer to aggravation, for each was just as cryptic as the previous one; each was overlaid and characterized by that same espionage whispering—again after again. What was he afraid of, I wondered? Who was he afraid of? I owed him the money, and it had been a transaction between just him and I—and within the confines of a dream. Why was he acting so paranoid? Again, as in our last Matrix exploration, it began to get dark. In the emergence of my bus arriving, I finally told him I had to go and thrust two fivers into his hand, carefully watching his face for my last try at finding a satisfying response which would assuage my fears over covering my debt to him and keeping clear my precious debtor’s name. The last expression I saw on his face instantly seemed to sag at his jowls; therein, also, was where I saw his deepest hurt. It had the appearance of broken pieces of something weird, a kind of distorted gloriole waving like a set of worms upon his skin—even like millions of bits of broken shard protruding out of and shining every which way, all over his countenance. Indeed, I could almost feel the pain in each of his pores which just had to be crying from the knife angles evident in each shard. With a vividness that only occurs in dreams, I peered into each sweat cavity on his cheeks, and they all seemed to ooze blushes of ghastly changing colors of pale. This was an altogether new expression; I had never seen this before—on anyone. To describe the meaning of it in our modern tech-changed world, it could only be related, compared, or defined by sets of words like: a montage of fractured fractals of crypto-belief; for it exactly resembled something real and valuable to mankind, but also appeared incredulous. It was a something that appeared quite there but then again, not there. It reminded me of the crypto coin anomaly, while at the same time resembling an infinite number of virtual particles—and all of these representations exuding directly at me from his face. Worst of all they pointed meanly at my character, my essential me, as if I was to be blamed. I felt like I was being hammer-smithed, folded, and then blamed and hammer-smithed again, all within the forge of a final Hell that was heated seven times hotter than usual. All the while this was hot-flashing over me, he never stopped holding the fivers motionless in his fist. And not once did he ever stop twitching his facial demons at me. That image of the fivers itself was also full of micro-expressions that brooded of disbelief as they doubled, engraved, and heated my hurt feelings regarding the whole apparition. He remained mimed like that, the money I owed was still out-held, and his face, though static, continued to laser forth cross-beams of new micro-aggressive intentions. It was like I had not even placed the bills in his hands; like he was one of those life-like historical statues frozen in the scene of another time. In trying to make sense of the whole thing, I concluded that it was, as it were, a false paradigm in which someone was attempting to expound on the historical glories of another time by comparing a reared, sculpted rider with the high maneuvers of a Maserati. By then my bus had opened its doors, so hurriedly I said: you okay…but he never answered, and anyway, I needed that non-committal macro-flub from him to finally give me expulse to yank away with relief from our mysterious development. During that moment of turning, even though I knew I was in dream, I hoped in resolve to never meetup with that face again. As the bus rattled through its stops I continued to feel full of questions regarding all of his eerie replies. I held my face to the cool of the window. The darkness of the night was on the outside but my friend’s face was on my side, superimposed onto my half-reflection. I found it impossible to avoid how my face darkened and lightened as each street light peered in and left, peered in and waned by as the bus moved into and away from each light-safehouse. No matter what I tried, I just could not forget his look of deep sour. The more I kept his face, the more I read from it. Even this far from him, I could still see no long-suffering in it, no forgetting on his part, and deep within my throat and down behind my breast bone I could feel the acid of it hurting and burning my inner man, as if I had done something foul and very wicked. All of this held worry and angst for me like I had never experienced before in a dream—my dream. This was my dream! I was the one whose brain was in matrix, and I should have been able to control everything—including his happiness. This, I guess, was what perplexed me the most. His gargoyle face was disturbing enough, but I really took hotness at the fact that somehow he had taken over my dream and turned my return of his money from honor and respect to afflicted, dead donuts. That's what made me hate that dream; made me have disgust for most of my other dreams afterward. I think the hating began because of the deep importance I attach to righteousness. I have always had an affinity toward choosing the right. So, now, after maturing in faith for so long, I found myself faced with the realization that even in my own dreamtime it was impossible to keep clear my own good standing. But even further, I found underscoring to the Spirit of Truth's saying about the mind being so deceitful and changeling; in fact the mind is so shifting that an individual cannot know it, trust it, or account for the origin of its wickedness. Even a small thinking session with this realization drives any sincere one to the cry: oh, who can deliver me from the body of all my dreamtimes?! When I woke up, I was angry again and invidiously fuming over how much I hated borrowing money in a dream. Borrowing money in a dream is at best a simple transaction, for one is just borrowing money from their own bank account. It is their dream. They know it is their dream because they were the first one to arrive in it and start wandering around. I think my anger repeats in part because, in my own dreams, I can never remember how much I owed. In their most vivid lucidness at best, my dreams are of no help to me in recalling the important detail about how much I rightly should repay. Perhaps, in future when I see myself approaching those ‘miles to go before I sleep’, I would be more successful if I promised not to do things like that anymore. But then again, if my own wakefulness has the same track record in righteousness as repeated in my dreams, does the answer to my deliverance-cry in both dimensions lie in Christ alone? We should know for certain that this is so. Addendum (thoughts for discussion in your own mind or in forum) So, it looks as if I should have given a bit more details about this piece. I'm not sure at the moment if a discussion is convenient on this platform (forum), so I'll just put all my thoughts and questions out there for the theologians and the apologists in our group to think about. I wrote this story as a display of good story writing and to practice packing lots of 'flavor' into it to inspire and engage those who contemplate a little deeper. It was written for discussion purposes mostly, but I also welcome other's questions or thoughts about my questions. At posting time, I had several discussion questions I was going to addendum but when I saw that the narrative was 'way' too long, I decided to publish it without addendum and hoped to just give some thoughts to readers for discussion in their own minds. To unpack it just a little: (some discussion thoughts I had in mind) One of the questions I have thought about for years was did Jesus dream like we dream, and what that looked like attached to his sinlessness, etc. Dreams seem to happen—night or day. But here's another question—an interesting one also—did Adam and Eve sleep before the had their worst restaurant experience, and if they did, did they dream weird ones similarly to the way we do? For sure, we can extrapolate that they probably had thousands of dreams per 'night'—before and after sin entered—owing to their more healthy, vibrant and quantity of mind. After all, we assume that our brains and minds have been diluted in liveliness and purity after so many thousands of years of gene expression, degradation by sin, etc.. In dreams we do dumb stuff we would never do in the real...It is these dreams that I am particularly highlighting in the story. Dreams are as uncontrollable as the human heart is, and just as changeable and deceitful... Indeed sometimes people, not I, are disturbed so greatly by them that their whole day that follows is affected...needlessly most of the time...we 'do' read too much into them... Oh, Oh, another thought: when one becomes converted, does the mind, should the mind thereafter produce a different quality of dream? I know there are numerous other side-wiggles about dreams that are mentioned in the bible, and other people out there, I'm sure, have questions about dreams which would be interesting to investigate. The word dream comes up some 123 times in the bible. Our dreamtimes are not controlled by laws or anything systematic. Like the human sin problem, the mind is very whimsical. If we do weird things in dreams, we can come out and be safe: wake up, but if we do weird things in daytime, then there are consequences, etc.. In our daytime we are always conscious of controlling the moments in our present, yet we still find ourselves failing to stay the 'control', but in dreamtime we have no control at all, as it were, by comparison. In daytime we rely on Christ to save us from ourselves; likewise if our dreams were to have any consequences, we would need Him even more. This subject is formidable but very relevant. And because dreams come out of the deceitful heart, and indeed, with so many nuances attached to it, perhaps there was enough detail surrounding these questions, thoughts to validate this writing. The other big, very big side-wiggle we perhaps should avoid too much discussion on, for now, is questions concerning those dreams that are given by God which are then ignored, squandered, resisted, etc. This aside is not the common experience of the most of us, therefore we can leave it in the 'outer court' and not measure it—until that time when old men begin to 'dream dreams' and tell visions on an end time fulfillment basis. Thank you, for the feedback, and a thank you to each of you who took the time to read this 'way too long' piece. (A true, and special, lover on earth is the one who in their dreams also guards the happiness of others. —Dumas fils.) —Dumas fils
  8. I was very much a teenager and deeply in love with the stars and anything--science, science fiction and space comic books. My first writings were space novels, at eleven, but I was never more in joy when I got to high school and was looking up the definition of this word you reference. Its history changed so much in me as a writer and as a maturing youth. One word when its meaning is found can do many things...and so I write now about the many other words which ever shape and augment our musical souls. I love being in word...maybe you can tell. Anyway, I enjoyed your use of the word consider. May I share what enlivened me so many years ago regarding it. (Consider: "to look at closely, observe," probably literally "to observe the stars," from assimilated form of com "with, together" (see con-) + sidus (genitive sideris) "heavenly body, star, constellation" (see sidereal) [a term we astronomy lovers use to navigate the stories about God in the heavens.] Thank you for your expressions, and the courage and maturity to advance your needs to people you don't know. So good of you.
  9. I give a sound to you A-coming from my mind, Saying, Peace, Friend, Consider well the muse I bring Until the rhythms of your own humility Resound in life's ring, and you Give a sound A-coming from your mind, Back to someone as human as you.
  10. Oh, so that's what the 'plus' sign does. Thank you. I would have not known for another month since I'm new here in these things. Thank you, yes.
  11. ps. Ky, Thoughtful, that you mentioned Shakespeare in your thought. Some years ago, I met one of his great-great, greats, and his comments to my writing--and our friendship that began--had to do with words and how they palliate (do their work of all kinds).
  12. Ky, Thank you. As this one took me two years to write, I was trying to put ten layers into it (like the ten layers/sub-layers of the skin)—without losing the reader for too long. My hope is in having the reader scan the poem and then at some point later after they have gone through more life and been deepened by that life, to then come back and see another layer in the re-reading of the poem again. I found that sort of pattern/development coming through my life as I read Gerard Manley Hopkins' poems and all. Each time I see another layer. Wonder: it is such a long lived thing. I always tell my High School Students, especially the 9th graders, "The more words you know, the more words you see with." That's what other writers do for me; I am so much the better inside because they came 'round first.
  13. The pavement was dry for once But all the way there God kept weeping over my soul: His rivers of living waters Ran down, ran down My neck to the nape As, all in all, On this traveler’s way, I knew it was deemed Undeserved, and under-appreciated. Two thousand years ago, On a day the Word had prophesied, His blood spilled down, spilled down, Dripping off his soiled feet, Seeking and sanguining a darkened earth: Until the cursings and the spear Brought His manhood to end In a hellish hanging— They too, in their brotherly madness And beneath His lamb’s moan, Still did not know Him for who He was And wanted Him gone from their sight. Life walks on, walks on. I now stand for a new ‘pied beauty’, Esteeming the weight of His love As it throbs against the thin pulse Of my ‘hunger for righteousness;’ My meek trembling threatens to flee, But His silent ear leans Toward the breath of my life And as I bend to bear my bleeding-cross, He restores my regretment of life, And covers, once more, my humanity With His divine, friendly fire— I kneel down, kneel down. In a renewed garden of Eden, As if on new earth, I weep bliss As I travel on through changed life, Wandering debt-free In His First Estate won for me. His grace must still Shed down, shed down; The Daily, He is, must still leap To the rejoicing of His joy, And the shouts of His singing Over my one ransomed soul— For even after my earth-time and grievings, And even after the darkness of Troubled Wrath, When DayStar finally breaks On that Second Great Morning, The torrent from His endless death, Like a be-stilled river’s rest, Will forever run down, run down My repentant neck to my nape, Undeserved, but humbly appreciated. —Dumas fils My similar poem: Elana: Tree Of Life https://www.faithwriters.com/article-details.php?id=202895
  14. Autumn Cry I cry when autumn lace comes in When things of life must cease and end; When air is colored with a hue Of turning yellows 'gainst the blue. And through my tears I seem to see The loveliness of every tree: How green has greened itself with rain And life respected color's pain. I scan the red, a nearer rhyme— Tho death it brings (Is this a crime?); And quest for love in stilling air, And find her in the light that's fair. Upon a hill I behold her face— This Love that's filled with nature's grace And solemnly I gather dear Her joy, her sigh, her quiet tear. Then following her wise design, I give my heart to bitter pine And cry a healthy rainbowed well As autumn comes on earth to dwell. —Dumas fils (Fall has touched me many times and many ways. There is no season that is so alone like itself. Yet so lovingly beautiful. I always pay attention to it. It is so much like people. It flushes, it dazzles, it rustles and then it winks just before the colder rains comes to spot its fallen palms with frost and snow.)
  15. Every year I trump In the down-quiet hollows In the paved parking ways And on thru rudy-ochre'd forests And yellowed quid roads To Gramma's house, To the great Book Barn In search of raw kind verdure: 'Leaves of grassy poems,' 'Bone fire for my sanity,' Hearth-Light for the cognitive dendrites Of my voluntary mind. I see their motionless fall-downs, I hear their squish-masp tearing Under my black winter shods; I feel their reaching up Through my two walking sticks —as I always do— Remote-Sensing their seasoned silent plaint That sub-roars into a too bright Indian Fall Where their flipped colors sting-chill our air, —they are here— They are here with their invominating whispers, Voices I hear from the higher world of wood Repeat and clear: ‘Come…come—and walk over all our dead bodies.’ —Dumas fils
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