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Gary Lindorff

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Gary Lindorff is a poet, writer, blogger and author of five nonfiction books, three collections of poetry, "Children to the Mountain", "The Last recurrent Dream" (Two Plum Press), "Conversations with Poetry (coauthored with Tom Cowan), and a memoir, "Finding Myself in Time: Facing the Music". Lindorff calls himself an activist poet, channeling his activism through poetic voice. He also writes with other voices in other poetic styles: ecstatic, experimental and performance and a new genre, sand-blasted poems where he randomly picks sentence fragments from books drawn from his library, lists them, divides them into stanzas and looks for patterns. Sand-blasted poems are meant to be performed aloud with musical accompaniment.

He is a practicing dream worker(with a strong, Jungian background) and a shamanic practitioner. His shamanic work is continually deepening his partnership with the land. This work can assume many forms, solo and communal, among them: prayer, vision questing, ritual sweating, and sharing stories by the fire. He is a born-pacifist and attempts to walk the path of non-violence believing that no war is necessary or inevitable.


garylindorff.wordpress.com

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Raindrops, From FlickrPhotos
SHARE More Sharing        Monday, February 19, 2024
One moment in a vast story followed by a reflection Misty rain / It is the dawn / Of some world's birthday
(5 comments) SHARE More Sharing        Friday, November 8, 2019
Shadow As a post-Jungian shamanic practitioner, with enormous respect for Jung's contribution, I feel that, even when people think they are on board with (whatever you want to call it) the new "woke" culture, if they haven't done their shadow work, it's not going to be revolutionary enough or deep enough, so this is a poem from the perspective of one of many of the collective shadows of our time.
(30 comments) SHARE More Sharing        Tuesday, May 17, 2022
Are the Russians fighting their own shadow (or Putin's shadow)? In this quote is a key to why I think wars are fought at all.
From InText
SHARE More Sharing        Saturday, February 22, 2020
Escaping If this is a prison of our own making, why can't we unmake it or at least escape it, even in a poem!
(7 comments) SHARE More Sharing        Sunday, July 30, 2017
"And there once were insects" (a poem) Remembering insects. Some call them pests. This poem calls them sorely missed.
Mystical Tree, From FlickrPhotos
(2 comments) SHARE More Sharing        Friday, September 3, 2021
So, I guess we're f---ked!? Yes and no. Sometimes my vision of the future / Matches what happens. / In envisioning over the years, / I often tap into / The Dreaming of the planet
From InText
SHARE More Sharing        Friday, December 27, 2019
Ravens do not weep A poem about spontaneous remission. If it hadn't happened I would not have thought it possible.
Stairway To Heaven?, From FlickrPhotos
(2 comments) SHARE More Sharing        Friday, August 2, 2019
Back The magic of poetry is we can all get to watch the Earth-rise from the moon and occupy visionary places, but if we're honest, and I suppose this is what we discovered in the sixties, for visions to stick we can't avoid shadow-encounters along the way. We of the Western World cannot have the moon without first realizing that we are about to lose the Earth.
(1 comments) SHARE More Sharing        Saturday, February 8, 2020
Now I write Writing about writing, poems about writing have their place. There aren't enough of them. There can't be enough of them.
I Am Mother poster., From WikimediaPhotos
SHARE More Sharing        Tuesday, October 22, 2019
Reverie -- A chain of haikus Here is a dark reverie written in a chain of haikus. 5-7-5. (Spoil alert for "I am Mother".)
(2 comments) SHARE More Sharing        Sunday, June 25, 2023
Retrieving our power Breath is what keeps us alive./ But, think about it -/ She breathed my lost-soul boy / Into my crown!
SHARE More Sharing        Friday, January 30, 2026
Batman addressing the Santa Clara city council: A true hero (reposting) At first I was ready to laugh when I opened this CNN story, but as I listened to this Batman, I wasn't laughing. I realized that he was dead serious. I hope we have lots more natural-born heroes stepping up like this to confront the flat-lined wooden heads of our broken governing bodies.
(11 comments) SHARE More Sharing        Monday, March 19, 2018
The United States makes me sick When people immigrate to this country they are generally healthier than they are after they have lived here for a while.
SHARE More Sharing        Thursday, April 11, 2024
The speed demons followed by a reflection We / I feel like an ant among ants /Creeping along the vein of a leaf /Though a future-petrified swamp.
SHARE More Sharing        Monday, March 2, 2020
One Day in the Asylum This is a repost of a poem that was posted on OpEdNews in 2016, inspired by the appearance of a sparrow at a Bernie rally in Portland, Oregon.
Fall Foliage 2015_1569, From FlickrPhotos
(2 comments) SHARE More Sharing        Monday, October 17, 2022
"War was, and is, never far off"* followed by note I'm going to town today/ For no good reason/But because I am restless
Lilly of the Valley, From FlickrPhotos
SHARE More Sharing        Sunday, May 8, 2022
Two realities We couldn't bury dead people. / We tried not to watch them. / It was more important to save our minds.
Shining in the Dark [Explored October 25th 2016], From FlickrPhotos
SHARE More Sharing        Sunday, November 20, 2022
In the eye of the hurricane (tribute to a friend) followed by notes There are those in this world of ours / Who understand the rain,/ Whose presence calms the flowers
SHARE More Sharing        Sunday, January 4, 2026
Walking through the door of gender-shame I started out explaining how I am a child of the 20th century,/ Who, at a very young age,/ Snapped to a clear awareness of the dark side of my gender
From InText
(11 comments) SHARE More Sharing        Monday, May 18, 2020
My Pandemic: Epidemic Epistle VIII: A COVID-19 crisis diary This is the 8th installment of an Epidemic Epistle originally published by Thiscantbehappening.org.

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