Tag: poetry

A Moment to Freewrite: The Beat of Our Culture

“Our stories were never lost—just waiting to be revived. Last night, the drumbeat echoed through the Longhouse, and with it, the spirit of our people.”
— Notes by Alex

Last night, I was moved in a way that’s hard to put into words—but I’ll try.

I’m just taking a moment to freewrite, letting my thoughts flow and my fingers type as they wish. Sometimes, we need that—a space to just be and create without boundaries. Last evening, we gathered at the Longhouse as two of our local dance groups performed: People of the Rising Tide and the 4th Generation Dancers. They danced and sang for a group visiting our community, and what they shared was nothing short of beautiful.

There’s something powerful—unshakably powerful—about watching young people commit so fully to something so meaningful. You can see the dedication in their movements, feel the conviction in their voices. And then there’s the drumbeat—steady, sacred, and alive. It resonates deep in your chest, almost like your heartbeat syncing with something ancient.

Some songs bring tears to my eyes. They’re sung in our Native language—words that carry more than just meaning. They carry memory, identity, history. They carry us.

The storytelling through song and dance is incredible. And what strikes me the most is that when I was growing up here, much of this wasn’t around. These traditions had been set aside… not lost, not forgotten—but buried beneath years of silence. Now, a new generation is unearthing them. Reviving them. Living them. It’s beautiful.

It gives me hope. It gives me pride.

My prayer is that this revival continues, that the stories keep being told, that the songs keep being sung, and that our dances keep shaking the ground beneath our feet. So that generation after generation can share in this sacred gift.

Let the drums echo. Let the stories live on.

— Alex

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“The Blanket, The Dream, and the Song”

By Alex Atkinson Jr.

There are moments in life that are too exact, too timely, too profound to be coincidence. I want to share one of those moments with you—an experience that has stayed with me for years and still stirs something deep in my spirit.

I was living in California at the time. One night, before our regular home group meeting, I had a vivid dream—so vivid it woke me up and lingered in my thoughts the next morning. In the dream, a man stood before our group, speaking. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I saw him clearly. He called me forward and “protocoled” me—something I wasn’t raised with or fully understood at the time. In the dream, he draped a large wool blanket over my shoulders, one with Native designs, vibrant and heavy with meaning. As he placed it on me, he spoke of how the Creator had called me to lead our people. Then, just like that, the dream faded.

I woke up thinking, What was that?

The next morning, I arrived at the house for our meeting. People were getting the coffee and donuts ready—everything smelled like breakfast and fellowship. As I walked in, I noticed a man behind the counter. I’d never met him before. But when our eyes met, we both froze for a second.

“I know you,” he said.

“I know you too,” I replied. “You were in my dream last night.”

We both laughed, a little startled, a little amazed. His name was Reesey. We sat down, and he began sharing about his journey—how he had been learning about Native American culture, about honor, land, music, and story. And just like in my dream, he stood up, spoke to the group, called me forward, and protocoled me. He reached into his bag, pulled out a Native American wool blanket, and draped it over my shoulders.

He spoke about the calling our Creator had placed on my life, calling forth things that had been buried, dormant—things that were waiting to awaken.

I was wrecked. In the best way. It was one of those moments you don’t forget, that marks you for life.

Then Reesey shared another story—one that shook me even more.

He told us about a group of First Nations people from the Pacific Northwest who had traveled with a woman named Linda Prince to British Columbia, and then all the way to Jerusalem. They sought permission to sing and honor the land and its leaders at the Western Wall. With permission granted, they approached the wall in full regalia, singing the songs of our people—the drum echoing through the holy site.

As they sang, the rabbis came out, visibly moved.

“Why are you singing the songs of our people?” they asked.

“These are the songs of our people,” the leaders replied. “Songs buried for generations. We believe now is the time to bring them back.”

The rabbis, stunned, responded, “You don’t understand. You’re singing in ancient high Hebrew. These are songs of worship given by the Creator.”

Let that sink in.

The rabbis told them: You might be the lost tribe of Israel.

How do you explain that?

You don’t. Not with logic, anyway. Only the Creator could orchestrate something so layered, mysterious, and beautiful.

That story has stayed with me just as much as my dream about Reesey. It awakened something in me—something ancestral, something holy, something deeply tied to identity, purpose, and land.

I believe these songs, these stories, these blankets of calling are rising again. And I believe our Creator is on the move.

“The songs of our people are being awakened again.”
—Alex Atkinson Jr.

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“Fading Light, Rising Words: How the Wilderness Inspires the Page”

“How the Evening Wilderness Awakens the Writer Within”

It’s late evening now. The kind of late that’s still not quite dark, not in Southeast Alaska. The light recedes slowly here, like a shy guest at the end of a long gathering, lingering near the doorway before slipping out unnoticed. Above the forested slopes and jagged ridgelines of the Prince of Wales-Hyder region, the sky burns with soft fire—rose golds and dusky lavenders blending into a cobalt sea overhead. The sun has dipped, but its memory lingers, casting long blue shadows across the spruce trees, across the tidepools, across me.

This is the hour that often sparks something in me—the quiet ignition of an idea, a phrase, a scene I didn’t know was waiting. It’s as if the land itself is whispering: Are you ready to write now?

And it begins with sound. The world hushes in the absence of engines and voices. A raven croaks from somewhere unseen, its echo bouncing off the cliffs like an old drum. The breeze carries the faintest tremble of the ocean—distant, steady, like breath. And then there’s the intimate rustling of leaves, the kind that almost sounds like a conversation between the trees. The wind moves through alder and cedar, stirring branches like fingers running over old piano keys. Nature, at this hour, becomes composer and orchestra both.

The air—what a strange, wonderful thing it is. Sometimes in July, it holds a ghost of warmth, especially inland. But more often, as night sets in, it breathes cool across your skin, reminding you that summer here is always borrowed time. It smells like salt and sap and earth—like wet moss, like a tide gone out, like rain that hasn’t fallen yet. I close my eyes, and it feels like a sigh against my face, a promise of another morning just beyond the trees.

My boots press into a forest trail damp with dew, the ground soft but solid beneath me. I run a hand across the rough, flaking bark of a cedar tree—the kind of tree that has seen more sunsets than I’ve seen seasons. The moss at its base is thick and bright, spongy like it was made to remember the shape of your step. Stones along the trail are slick and smooth, worn down from years of storms and glacier-fed runoff. Everything out here holds history, even if it doesn’t tell it outright.

And then, there’s this one small thing.

A single wildflower—monkshood, I think—growing from the edge of a rock. Its hooded purple bloom glows like a secret in the fading light. Most would walk by without noticing. But something about it stops me. The way it leans just slightly toward the west, catching the last amber sliver of sunlight. The way it holds its space—fragile, maybe, but not weak. That’s a story, I think. Not the flower itself, maybe. But the way it stands alone, defiant and delicate, in the dying light. The way it refuses to be swallowed by shadow.

This is how inspiration works for me. It starts outside. It starts with watching and waiting and listening. It starts in the fading light.

What about you?

What places stir your thoughts into motion? What time of day helps you find your voice? Do you wait for silence, or do you write amid the noise of life?

Here in Southeast Alaska, in the stillness between the tides, I find mine.

And if you’re ever searching for yours, maybe come stand in the hush of this wilderness. The story might already be waiting for you.

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Songs of Unity: The Healing Power of Tsimpsean Melodies in Metlakatla

Honoring Our Ancestors and Building a Future of Strength and Unity

In the heart of Metlakatla, where the waves kiss the rocky shores and the ancient trees stand tall, the air is often filled with the melodies of our Tsimpsean people. These songs, handed down through generations, are more than just music—they are the heartbeat of our community, the medicine for our souls.

Each note, each rhythm carries the wisdom and strength of our ancestors. When we sing, we are not just making music; we are invoking the spirits of those who came before us. Their voices resonate through ours, reminding us of their resilience, their love, and their unbreakable bond with the land and each other.

In times of joy and sorrow, we turn to our songs. They are our comfort, our guide, and our connection to the past. When the community gathers, whether for celebration or healing, the power of these songs is palpable. It’s as if the very essence of our ancestors infuses the air, bringing clarity of vision and a profound sense of purpose.

Our ancestors understood the power of unity. They knew that together, we could overcome any obstacle. This wisdom is embedded in our songs, reminding us that we are stronger when we stand together. The harmonies we create reflect the harmony we strive for in our lives—a balance of strength, compassion, and mutual respect.

As we sing, we remember that our tribe, our people, our community, need each other. Each voice adds to the collective strength, each song a reminder that we are not alone. This interconnectedness is our foundation. It empowers us to move forward, to create a positive impact on those around us and everyone we encounter.

Our songs are more than mere melodies; they are declarations of our identity, our history, and our aspirations. They tell the stories of our struggles and triumphs, our hopes and dreams. Through these songs, we honor our past, embrace our present, and inspire our future.

In Metlakatla, the songs of the Tsimpsean people are a testament to our enduring spirit. They are the medicine that heals, the vision that guides, and the strength that sustains us. Together, as one voice, we sing of our shared journey and our unwavering belief in the power of community.

With every song, we reaffirm our commitment to each other and our resolve to move forward, hand in hand, creating a legacy of love, peace, and hope for generations to come.

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The Harp in My Heart: A Song to My Creator

Finding Comfort and Connection Through Divine Melodies

In the quiet moments of my life, music has always been a sanctuary. It’s as if there’s a harp in my heart, strings that vibrate with the melodies of my soul. But this harp, delicate and unique, is attuned to only one touch—the touch of my Creator.

Each morning, I wake to the symphony of the world. The chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of life unfolding around me. These sounds weave together, creating a tapestry of peace and serenity that wraps around my weary soul. But it’s the music that truly brings me alive, a song that my Creator plays just for me.

When the day becomes heavy with burdens and worries, I find solace in the notes that drift through my mind. They remind me that I am not alone, that my Creator’s presence is as constant as the rhythm of my heartbeat. The music lifts me from the depths of despair, carrying me to a place of hope and renewal.

In moments of joy, the harp in my heart plays a jubilant tune, resonating with the love and gratitude that overflow within me. It is in these times that I feel closest to my Creator, connected by an invisible thread of harmony that transcends the physical world.

Each evening, as the sun sets and the world quiets down, I find myself listening to the gentle lullaby that soothes my soul. It is a song of reassurance, a reminder that no matter what challenges the day has brought, my Creator is here, gently playing the harp in my heart, guiding me to rest and peace.

Music, for me, is more than just a series of notes and rhythms. It is the language through which my Creator speaks to me, a divine communication that fills me with strength, comfort, and an unwavering sense of belonging. In every note, I find my well-being restored, my spirit renewed, and my heart filled with love.

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The Song Stones Echo

The Song Stones Echo

Once upon a time, in the heart of Metlakatla, Alaska, there lived a young storyteller named Kaya. Kaya had inherited the wisdom of her Tsimshian ancestors, and her soul resonated with the rhythm of the waves crashing against the rocky shores. She believed that stories were like the wind—sometimes gentle whispers, other times tempests that swept through the forest, carrying secrets and dreams.

Kaya’s days were filled with ink-stained parchment and melodies that danced in her mind. She would sit by the fire, the flames casting shadows on the walls, and weave tales of courage, love, and resilience. Her poems flowed like the nearby river, capturing the essence of the land and its people.

One frosty morning, Kaya ventured into the ancient forest. The trees stood tall, their branches reaching for the sky, and the air smelled of pine and moss. She closed her eyes, listening to the wind rustling the leaves, and felt the heartbeat of the earth beneath her feet. It was here that she discovered the Songstone—a smooth, obsidian-like rock that held the power to transform words into melodies.

Kaya carried the Songstone with her wherever she went. When she sat by the water’s edge, she sang verses about the salmon’s journey upstream, their silver bodies shimmering in the sunlight. The waves joined in, harmonizing with her voice. When she climbed the mountains, she whispered stories to the eagles, who soared higher, their wings catching the sun’s golden rays.

But Kaya’s greatest creation was the Moonlit Lullaby. She wrote it during the darkest nights when the moon hung low, casting silvery threads across the bay. The lullaby spoke of hope, of dreams cradled in the arms of the night, and of ancestors watching over their descendants. When she sang it, the stars blinked in approval, and the auroras danced in celebration.

Word of Kaya’s gift spread beyond the village. Travelers came from distant lands, seeking her stories and songs. They brought gifts—feathers from exotic birds, shells from distant shores, and rare herbs that whispered forgotten tales. Kaya used these treasures to create new verses, each one a tribute to the interconnectedness of all life.

One day, a weary pilot named Elias arrived in Metlakatla. His plane had battled fierce winds, and he had lost his way. Kaya welcomed him with warmth, offering him a cup of spruce tea. Elias shared stories of the skies—the constellations that guided him, the storms that tested his resolve, and the sunrises that painted the horizon in hues of orange and pink.

Moved by Elias’s tales, Kaya composed the Skybound Ode. She sang of wings slicing through clouds, of sunsets melting into twilight, and of the moon cradling the stars. Elias listened, tears in his eyes, and knew he had found something precious—a connection to the land, the sky, and the human spirit.

As seasons changed, Kaya and Elias continued to exchange stories. They wove their narratives together, creating a tapestry of shared experiences. And when the time came for Elias to leave, Kaya gave him the Songstone. “Carry our stories with you,” she said. “Let them guide you home.”

And so, Elias flew across oceans, the Songstone nestled in his pocket. He wrote letters to Kaya, describing distant lands and the people he met. Kaya, in turn, composed poems inspired by his adventures. Their words circled the globe, bridging cultures and hearts.

Legend has it that on clear nights, if you listen closely, you can hear the Moonlit Lullaby echoing through the Alaskan fjords. And when the northern lights dance, it’s Kaya and Elias, their stories intertwined, painting the sky with wonder.

And so, dear reader, remember that every word you write, every tale you tell, has the power to connect souls, just like Kaya’s Songstone and Elias’s wings. 

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Embers of Memories

“Embers of Memories”

The senior center in Metlakatla stood as a beacon of warmth and camaraderie. Its wooden walls held stories etched by time, laughter, and shared cups of tea. Elderly hands had woven countless memories within those walls, and the scent of cedar lingered like a comforting embrace.

On a gray morning, the sky mirrored the heaviness in the hearts of the community. The sun, usually a loyal visitor, hid behind thick clouds. Residents shuffled in, their steps slower than usual, sensing the impending sorrow.

Mrs. Johnson, with her silver hair and twinkling eyes, arrived early. She’d spent decades volunteering at the center, knitting blankets for charity and teaching traditional Tsimshian songs. Today, she carried a basket of freshly baked bannock, a gesture of love for her friends.

As the clock neared noon, whispers spread like wildfire. Smoke billowed from the senior center’s roof. Panic surged through the crowd—a collective gasp that echoed the crackling flames. Firefighters arrived, but their hoses seemed feeble against the inferno consuming the heart of their community.

The elders stood outside, their faces etched with grief. Chief Thomas, a stoic man who’d seen generations come and go, wiped tears from his weathered cheeks. “Our stories,” he murmured, “our dances, our wisdom—all lost.”

The flames danced mercilessly, devouring the cedar beams, the hand-carved totem poles, and the cherished photo albums. Mrs. Johnson clutched her bannock basket, tears streaming down her face. “Our ancestors watch,” she whispered, “and they weep.”

Neighbors held each other, their trembling hands a testament to the bonds forged within those walls. The fire crackled, mocking their vulnerability. The elders sang a mournful song, their voices rising above the chaos. It was a lament for what was, for the irreplaceable moments that had turned to ash.

As the sun dipped low, casting an eerie glow on the charred remains, the community vowed to rebuild. They would gather new memories, weave fresh stories, and honor the legacy of the senior center. But that day—the day the flames claimed their haven—would forever be etched in their hearts.

And so, Metlakatla mourned. But from the ashes, resilience bloomed like wildflowers after a forest fire. They would rise, just as the sun did each morning, and carry the embers of memories forward.

In Metlakatla’s twilight glow, Where elders once gathered, now lost, Their spirits linger in the smoke, Guiding us through sorrow’s cost.

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The Penny’s Whisper

The Penny’s Whisper

In a bustling city, where hurried footsteps echoed against concrete, there lay a single penny—a forgotten relic of small value. It rested near a busy crosswalk, unnoticed by the throngs of people rushing to catch trains, meetings, and dreams.

The penny had seen better days. Its copper surface bore scratches and tarnish, and its edges were worn smooth by countless hands. Yet, despite its humble appearance, the penny held a secret—a whisper from the universe.

One day, a weary man named Henry stumbled upon the penny. His life had become a blur of deadlines and obligations. He barely noticed the world around him, lost in the chaos of existence. But that day, as he bent down to tie his shoelaces, he glimpsed the penny.

He picked it up, examining it with mild curiosity. “Just a penny,” he thought, about to toss it aside. But then, something changed. The penny seemed to speak—a soft, ethereal voice that echoed in his mind.

“Listen,” it said. “I am more than metal and mint. I carry wishes, memories, and hope. Every hand that touched me left a trace—a moment of connection. I’ve been dropped by children buying candy, by lovers making wishes in fountains, and by old souls tossing me into wells.”

Henry frowned. Was he losing his mind? But the penny continued:

“I’ve been a token of luck, a reminder of abundance, and a symbol of trust. People have picked me up, smiled, and whispered their dreams. And now, I’m here for you.”

Henry chuckled. “A talking penny,” he mumbled. “What do you want?”

“Not much,” the penny replied. “Just this: slow down. Look around. Life isn’t just about racing forward; it’s about noticing the small things—the dew on a leaf, the laughter of a child, the warmth of a stranger’s smile. I’ve witnessed countless stories, and now I invite you to be part of them.”

Henry stood there, the penny cradled in his palm. He felt a shift—an awakening. The city noise faded, replaced by birdsong and distant laughter. He noticed the graffiti on the nearby wall—the vibrant colors, the hidden messages. He saw faces—the tired woman selling flowers, the old man feeding pigeons.

From that day on, Henry carried the penny in his pocket. Whenever life overwhelmed him, he’d touch it, remembering the whisper. He slowed down, savored sunsets, and shared kindness. And in those moments, he felt connected—to the world, to strangers, and to the universe itself.

The penny remained silent, content. It had fulfilled its purpose—to remind one soul that even a lone coin on the ground could hold magic.

And so, the city continued its dance, but Henry danced too—a waltz of awareness, gratitude, and wonder—all sparked by a whisper from a forgotten penny.

May you find your own whispers in unexpected places.

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The Ravens Gift of Laughter

“Raven’s Gift of Laughter”

In the heart of Annette Island, where ancient cedar trees whispered secrets and the sea embraced the shore, there lived a curious Raven named Kasko. Kasko was no ordinary bird; he possessed a mischievous spirit and an insatiable appetite for adventure.

One crisp morning, Kasko soared above the village of Metlakatla, his glossy feathers catching the first rays of dawn. His beady eyes scanned the landscape, seeking something new to explore. And there it was—a gathering of elders near the totem poles, their faces etched with wisdom and laughter lines.

Kasko perched on a weathered totem, his ebony wings rustling. “Greetings, honored ones!” he cawed. “Why do your eyes twinkle like stars, and your laughter dance like salmon in the river?”

The eldest among them, Tlingit Grandma Aanika, leaned on her cane. “Ah, Kasko,” she said, her voice as soothing as cedar smoke. “We share stories—the old tales that connect us to our ancestors. Laughter keeps our spirits young.”

Kasko tilted his head. “Tell me a tale, Grandma Aanika. One that will make my feathers ruffle with delight.”

And so, Grandma Aanika began:

“The Dance of the Clamshell”

Long ago, when the world was still raw and unshaped, Raven flew across the vast ocean. His belly grumbled, and his wings grew tired. He spotted a giant clamshell floating on the water—a clamshell so immense that it could hold an entire village.

Curiosity tugged at Raven’s heart. He landed on the clamshell, and with a mighty peck, cracked it open. Inside, he found people—naked, shivering, and hungry. They blinked up at him, their eyes wide as moonstones.

“Who are you?” Raven asked, fluffing his feathers.

“We are the First Ones,” they replied. “We emerged from this shell, but we lack everything—food, warmth, and stories.”

Raven’s heart softened. He transformed into a young man with raven-black hair. “Fear not,” he said. “I’ll provide for you.”

And so, Raven danced. He summoned salmon from the depths, berries from the forest, and fire from the stars. He taught them songs and laughter, weaving joy into their lives.

But Raven was also a trickster. One day, he turned himself into a clam and hid inside the giant shell. When the people gathered, they tried to pry it open, hoping for more treasures. But the clamshell remained shut.

“Perhaps we need laughter,” Grandma Aanika said, her eyes twinkling. “Raven loved mischief. So they sang silly songs, told jokes, and danced until tears streamed down their faces.”

And lo and behold, the clamshell cracked open, revealing Raven, laughing uproariously. The people joined him, their laughter echoing across the island. From that day on, they cherished joy as much as food and fire.

Kasko listened, his black eyes wide. “And what happened to those First Ones?”

Grandma Aanika smiled. “They became our ancestors—the ones who shaped Metlakatla. And Raven?

He still dances in the wind, reminding us to find laughter even in the darkest storms.”

And so, dear friend, whenever you hear a raven’s caw or feel the warmth of shared laughter, know that Kasko’s spirit lives on, weaving magic through time and memory.

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Wings of the Alaskan Dawn

“Wings of the Alaskan Dawn”

In the heart of Southeast Alaska, where glaciers kiss the sea and ancient forests breathe, an eagle named Keta soared. Her eyes, sharp as the north wind, witnessed a world few could fathom.

Dawn’s Awakening:

  • Each morning, Keta perched atop a towering spruce. The sun, a molten gold disk, painted the fjords below. She stretched her wings, feeling the pulse of life—the heartbeat of the wilderness.

The Dance of Salmon:

  • Keta’s hunger led her to the Chilkat River. There, thousands of herring danced—a silver symphony. She spiraled down, talons outstretched, plucking fish from the water. Their oily richness sustained her.

Nest of Dreams:

  • High in the forest canopy, Keta and her mate wove a nest—a fortress of twigs and moss. They shared the labor, their love evident in every twig placed. Two eggs nestled within—a promise of tomorrow.

Guardian of the Tides:

  • Keta patrolled the coastline. She watched over sea otters, their fur like liquid amber. When danger approached—a rogue eagle or a hungry wolf—she screamed defiance, wings flaring.

The Storm’s Lament:

  • One tempestuous night, rain lashed the forest. Keta clung to her nest, feathers plastered. Lightning split the sky, and she wondered if her fragile home would survive. But it did—a testament to resilience.

The Solitude of Peaks:

  • Sometimes, Keta ascended to snow-capped summits. There, she communed with the spirits of ancestors. They whispered secrets—the ebb and flow of glaciers, the language of stars.

The Gift of Flight:

  • Keta reveled in her wingspan—7.5 feet of freedom. She rode thermals, touched the edge of heaven. She knew that flight was more than physics; it was poetry etched in air.

The Circle of Seasons:

  • As autumn painted leaves crimson, Keta’s chicks hatched. She fed them morsels of salmon, teaching them to soar. Winter came, and they huddled together, warmth in their feathers.

A Silent Goodbye:

  • One day, Keta’s mate didn’t return. She mourned, her cry echoing across fjords. Alone, she faced the bitter cold. But life flowed—a river of endings and beginnings.

Legacy in the Wind:

  • Keta’s white head gleamed against the midnight sky. She knew her time neared. She spread her wings, catching the wind. Her chicks watched, hearts heavy yet hopeful.

And so, as the Alaskan dawn painted the world anew, Keta soared—a guardian, a poet, a witness to eternity.

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