When it comes to peace, how would you describe yourself?
I am a born activist
What do you believe are the 'burning issues' today?
War, Hunger, Poverty, Education, Our Planet, Violence, Human Rights, Our Shrinking Freedom, Other
So what is it?
Survival, too many people, lack of resources, division among beliefs, cultures
What must we overcome to achieve peace?
Other
More
There have only been 1.5 billion people at the most in the past living on the planet according to Saragon 11th Dimension. Many are afraid because we aren't supported economically and the planet is changing at a fast rate. However we can adapt to change by working together for the greatest good of all, by recognizing that we can be different from one another and yet join together for a safe environment, nutritional food, spiritual blessings, and acceptance for the future by making a conscious decision to do so.
Can we change the world?
Definitely
More about me
We, Gregory and Shelina are the 'Galaxy 1st Human Couple', karmonic souls, spiritual teachers, healers, channelers, artists, authors and speakers that are in the same soul family as Jesus, Mary Magdalene, Mother Mary, Ghandi, da Vinci, Qwan Yin and many others. It is our hope to empower, enlighten and entertain others through ancient soul secrets or histories, thousands, millions and even billion of years old such as the Kanarian 1st Human Creation history, memoirs from Jesus, his wife Mary Magdalene, Mother Mary and Joseph and Atlantis Records 95,000 BP. These are given to us from The Upper Soul Council, The Galactic Federation, Jesus, Mary Magdalene, Mother Mary and others. Journey To The Truest You is our first book with Saragon 11th dimension Master of Soul Science and Spirituality that includes 33 angelic soul code symbols from 553 million years ago. We look forward to connecting with others during these times of global connections, spiritual evolution and scientific life enhancing transformations.
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at the center of the dream
is circling ocean
in the center of the ocean
is turtle island
at the center of the island
is vision mountain
in the center of the mountain
is healing crystal
at the center of the crystal
is sacred light
in the center of the light
i sit dreaming
I have a dream:
i dream i am a tree
my roots spread out
beside a place of water
in sunlight
my branches turn to fire
my leaves are prayers of smoke
my heart beats like a drum
inside a stone of power
I have a dream:
my dream is at the center
of great silence
here at the center
i sit dreaming
from HEALING, A Book of Poetry by David Sparenberg
I did not do enough,
although it was in my heart.
I wanted to enjoy
the warmth of life
more than to put out
the fires of war.
I protested
but I did not sacrifice.
I marched
while the innocent and guilty alike
were burned by death from the sky.
Maybe if that child in
Vietnam
had not died of napalm,
the children of Iraq would
not now be
dying in my name?
Being an American,
I chose the ease of
what we call freedom.
I said, "No,"
but I did not make myself heard in
the power of compassionate
denouncement. I said “Yes,”
but not always to otherness
and not with the strength and
reverence of beatitude.
When I die
war will not have
left the lovely Earth and
should I come back in
the perfume of a flower, likely
the petals will be
stained with freshly fallen blood.
What child’s cheek
may yet come to paint with
pain the soft white of the lily? What
lust may yet harvest
the agony of thorns,
while crushing the ecstasy of roses?
I did not do enough,
although I had set out
to make a monument of
War No More.
There is my failure.
The teeming world of
tears that so easily tips
into fear and madness
does not need
these words alone. Rather,
a communion
where none are absent. Where
there can be anger as
an emotional bubble but
not enemies and
not crimes of hate.
It is said that
freedom is not free;
but it is
death that is made wholesale.
The axiom is propaganda. Peace
requires the greater vulnerability.
I have done some:
having spoken
when others remained silent; having
stepped up on occasion,
while others withdrew. But I have
not done enough. I know this,
so do you.
That yet another generation must
plant the seeds of healing I
have dreamed of and they,
labor for the season
I have not known.
Yet have I read, in
visions of prophecy,
that a tree will in twilight later grow
at the center of the circle of life; the
weapons of fratricide be
beaten down, the vineyards filled
with the royalty of angels. Robins
singing and butterflies,
not boy-men crying
for their mothers’ mercy.
Rather,
to dance in that round in
footprints of a loving God! To stand in prayer
blessed beneath that
earthly bough.
When?
Not everyone comes wearing
a red dress.
Many are content with
white shirts, plaid skirts, blue jeans.
The wounded are wearing
overcoats,
because for them
the world is prematurely cold.
The silly and the cleverest
are dressed as clowns.
And the angels are
naked, between the eyelashes
of our setting sun.
Not everyone comes wearing
the reminder of black,
although pain is everywhere
and loss attends us.
Those who are painted in blood
have wept in the wasting of war.
And those who are
painted with light
are here to heal us.
Friend,
even if I came to you
in the rags of weariness,
the cloak of invisibility or
dust of neglect, the
web of a spider,
would you offer me a drink of water
seeing thirst,
and help to decide
a way, at the crossroads of life?
If I look into your
hands, what will I find:
a golden thread,
the strength of beauty,
a loaf of bread?
Hello my friends Gregory and Shelina. I am feeling proud to be in the list of your friends. May God the Great give you all the happiness in this life and in the life hereafter if there is any.
The expression
of the beautiful genius
opens like a wordless
rose
and clothes us
in the fumes
of paradise.
Somehow
when we are
listening to the wings
of crows and the
tender melodies
of elfin butterflies
we feel embraced
by the breath
of angels.
Beating
so softly, so
delicate-sweet that
velvet on a virgin’s
skin
might touch us
with an offering.
Though
we are there, out
in that other place
the familiar cup
of a summer’s rose
rises
from this ground
to kiss us
with the miracle
of its pouring passions.
And
we are downed
supine
into the common
haunting symbolum
of earth’s
dense mystery.
Though
not a single
word has swollen
to the lips
like a cherry
freshly swollen,
but the heavy
buzzing
of a working bee
lost
in the ecstasies
of pollen.
And
we are spellbound
and complete.
Like fruit.
Like garden.
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MEDICINE DREAM
I have a dream:
at the center of the dream
is circling ocean
in the center of the ocean
is turtle island
at the center of the island
is vision mountain
in the center of the mountain
is healing crystal
at the center of the crystal
is sacred light
in the center of the light
i sit dreaming
I have a dream:
i dream i am a tree
my roots spread out
beside a place of water
in sunlight
my branches turn to fire
my leaves are prayers of smoke
my heart beats like a drum
inside a stone of power
I have a dream:
my dream is at the center
of great silence
here at the center
i sit dreaming
from HEALING, A Book of Poetry by David Sparenberg
at 1 and 60
I did not do enough,
although it was in my heart.
I wanted to enjoy
the warmth of life
more than to put out
the fires of war.
I protested
but I did not sacrifice.
I marched
while the innocent and guilty alike
were burned by death from the sky.
Maybe if that child in
Vietnam
had not died of napalm,
the children of Iraq would
not now be
dying in my name?
Being an American,
I chose the ease of
what we call freedom.
I said, "No,"
but I did not make myself heard in
the power of compassionate
denouncement. I said “Yes,”
but not always to otherness
and not with the strength and
reverence of beatitude.
When I die
war will not have
left the lovely Earth and
should I come back in
the perfume of a flower, likely
the petals will be
stained with freshly fallen blood.
What child’s cheek
may yet come to paint with
pain the soft white of the lily? What
lust may yet harvest
the agony of thorns,
while crushing the ecstasy of roses?
I did not do enough,
although I had set out
to make a monument of
War No More.
There is my failure.
The teeming world of
tears that so easily tips
into fear and madness
does not need
these words alone. Rather,
a communion
where none are absent. Where
there can be anger as
an emotional bubble but
not enemies and
not crimes of hate.
It is said that
freedom is not free;
but it is
death that is made wholesale.
The axiom is propaganda. Peace
requires the greater vulnerability.
I have done some:
having spoken
when others remained silent; having
stepped up on occasion,
while others withdrew. But I have
not done enough. I know this,
so do you.
That yet another generation must
plant the seeds of healing I
have dreamed of and they,
labor for the season
I have not known.
Yet have I read, in
visions of prophecy,
that a tree will in twilight later grow
at the center of the circle of life; the
weapons of fratricide be
beaten down, the vineyards filled
with the royalty of angels. Robins
singing and butterflies,
not boy-men crying
for their mothers’ mercy.
Rather,
to dance in that round in
footprints of a loving God! To stand in prayer
blessed beneath that
earthly bough.
When?
David Sparenberg
3 Feb. 2009
Not everyone comes wearing
a red dress.
Many are content with
white shirts, plaid skirts, blue jeans.
The wounded are wearing
overcoats,
because for them
the world is prematurely cold.
The silly and the cleverest
are dressed as clowns.
And the angels are
naked, between the eyelashes
of our setting sun.
Not everyone comes wearing
the reminder of black,
although pain is everywhere
and loss attends us.
Those who are painted in blood
have wept in the wasting of war.
And those who are
painted with light
are here to heal us.
Friend,
even if I came to you
in the rags of weariness,
the cloak of invisibility or
dust of neglect, the
web of a spider,
would you offer me a drink of water
seeing thirst,
and help to decide
a way, at the crossroads of life?
If I look into your
hands, what will I find:
a golden thread,
the strength of beauty,
a loaf of bread?
David Sparenberg
18 July 2009
The expression
of the beautiful genius
opens like a wordless
rose
and clothes us
in the fumes
of paradise.
Somehow
when we are
listening to the wings
of crows and the
tender melodies
of elfin butterflies
we feel embraced
by the breath
of angels.
Beating
so softly, so
delicate-sweet that
velvet on a virgin’s
skin
might touch us
with an offering.
Though
we are there, out
in that other place
the familiar cup
of a summer’s rose
rises
from this ground
to kiss us
with the miracle
of its pouring passions.
And
we are downed
supine
into the common
haunting symbolum
of earth’s
dense mystery.
Though
not a single
word has swollen
to the lips
like a cherry
freshly swollen,
but the heavy
buzzing
of a working bee
lost
in the ecstasies
of pollen.
And
we are spellbound
and complete.
Like fruit.
Like garden.
David Sparenberg
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