Waldport Festival
Waldport, OR Summer of 2001



         All the usual vehicles were there, that make a small town proud.

                   Were fire trucks in the chicken-smoked parade, a windy June day,

            Pacific salt, cool, the strange, golden, North West light came through.

      All manner of crafts- lamps from driftwood

                             And bottles of multi-colored sand,

                                                Large, half-wolf dogs on proud owners’ leashes.


         Cub scouts marched, as did local ag clubs, and

         All the usual vehicles were there, paraded by in small town pride.


         They assembled furtively, at first,

                   a skirt, a swirl of plaid in the distance, behind a brass band,

                   just South of the blocked-off main street, tartans.


         Assembled, pipers, drummers, dancers, and other musicians, all

                   and only three dark faces amongst the whole town gathered,

         and me and my blond son here from far-distant Salem.

               In


                   Here, in bracing winds of the coast, the pipers tune up.

           A nucleus forms. People stand, near, attentive.


         It wants to speak, lift its now muted voice,

                   above the tragic, dehumanizing doctrines,

                             Psychic bondage - as it plays,

                             the music seems to saw the bonds

                                      and they lift from our folk.


                   A few, two with California plates,

                             A few dark faces walk by, then quickly-

                                      They do not stop to listen to the pipers-

             Near the playing all the cheeks are ruddy, eyes fair

                 and outward from the clutch of those entranced

                             becoming darker but still rapt are European.


                   The wind beats a tatoo in silence before,

                             in silence after a tune, the same awesome

                                Solitude, the coast still offers, where Capital has

                      Yet to ruin, to “privatize” sand, salt, driftwood, seals, and raptors.

         The bagpipers cease.

         The dancers are still.

         In the small moment before

                             roaring applause, there are few dry eyes.

                   Others have walked by.

                             Folk settled here.

                   Folk remain.

                   Folk shall rebuild.








The Gambanreiši Statement, printed since 1979

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www.GambanreidiStatement.com


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