This post was recently published at the Society of Secret Poetry Appreciators to accompany the mini podcast of me sharing my poem, The Trafficker, which was, most curiously, just accepted for inclusion in the forthcoming Sea to Sky Journal. Poetry is something I enjoy consuming and also scribbling but entirely in a very clandestine fashion. It’s only through happenstance, as outlined below, that this poem ever saw the light of day. It seems to be determined to get out into the world and have its own adventures, so I bless its brave little heart-hammering socks, and the friends who say, come, come, come little poem, come on over here into the light.

My friend Dawn told me about the idea of a pocket blessing one night – you take a little sliver of paper, or a scrap, or a page, and write on it a blessing, or a love note, or a word of courage, or encouragement, a mantra, a poem… anything really. You put it in your pocket, or in the pocket of someone you love, and one day, when you/they’ve forgotten about it, and thrust hands deep into pockets, you find it, like you sometimes find loose change, or a forgotten $5 note! or some other delight that transcends used tissue… (although, that, too, can be a blessing, in certain situations.)

When the Secret Poetry Appreciators hosted our Open Mic in fall 2025, the five of us who served as the pop-up organizing committee wondered if anyone would actually accept the invitation to seize the mic. Our solution? Each of us would bring a little something – a poem, a song, in our backpockets, to offer, in case of complete silence. We also catered the event, thanks to wonderful donors (The Pemberton Valley Supermarket and the Pemberton Literacy Table) with herbal teas and kombucha and fruit platters and cookies and cheese plates, and envisaged setting up the room like a little jazz club, so people could eat and talk and socialize, and it wouldn’t be intimidating to take the stage and ask for a moment of attention. Poet and farmer Kerry McCann from Laughing Crow donated squash and flowers and Jay handled the decor, so the vibe was welcoming and cozy regardless of whether or not any entertainment actually happened. 

That was the gameplan, but we didn’t need it. We had so many RSVPS to the eventbrite that people were emailing the Museum asking how to get a ticket when the event said it was sold out, and friends emailing organizers asking if they could make an exception and let them in, and people showing up at the gate wondering if they could be squeezed in, and so we had to arrange the room with chairs in rows to cram everyone in, and the number of willing performers was outstanding.

I was happy to tuck my offering into my pocket, and make space for all those keeners, until, at some point in the evening, my heart started to slam wildly up against the bars of my chest, like a frantic prisoner. No, I said to it. This isn’t about me. Chill out, and enjoy. But my friend Melissa had told me that once, in a beautiful circle she was part of, that the teachers had said, you know it’s your turn to speak when your body starts freaking out. Everyone, in true Quaker style, could just sit in silence, in the circle she was part of. No pressure to share. And when the heart knocked around loudly, that was the signal for you. And the circle would be ready. I was so wrenched when she shared that story. It made perfect sense. But no-one had ever explained the mechanism before. Without an agenda or an emcee, how is anyone supposed to know when it’s their turn? Your body will let you know.

So I honoured it by answering. I think the utter generosity of that room and all the listeners, emboldened me. I walked to the front of the room and asked if people could see how hard I was shaking, because I was surprised by it, and they all said, oh yeah, you’re not hiding it at all, and people cheered encouragement… so I pulled up the two files I had in my backpocket and shared them.

This summer, as our little gang started getting more excited about this micropodcast and sharing poetry online, Kerry asked me to send him any poems I had. He was playing around with some sound engineering, and layering in sound, and he gave his attention and love to this one… which is, in some ways, an inside “joke” between us, and with a few other people who are very dear to me who had a tough year last year. I literally was a poem-trafficker. As much as I wish I had something more potent and effective to wield… a carefully chosen poem, sent with a huge wave of love, was what I had. Thanks to Kerry for encouraging this share.

(Event photos by the wonderful Brenda Bakker. )

The Trafficker

by Lisa Richardson

These days

I traffic in poems.

Text them, screenshot them, type them, say them,

Speak them over prone bodies on yoga mats,

Into voice memos that I cast out

Onto airwaves, into emails.

This is all I have

In the face of

Your chemotherapy, blood transfusions, double mastectomy, blood infection, climate despair, break up grief.

This is how I try to companion you in the long waiting hours,

Where minds, unaccompanied, open doors mostly walked past,

Long ignored,

Suddenly entered.

I can’t tell you, beloved,

As you lie in savasana

Or insomniacial at 1am

Or healing

Or dying, we aren’t sure,

whether you should avoid or enter that door.

What lies behind it?

Clues? Answers? Monsters? The abyss?

I cannot say if you should pull your hand back from the knob

Or tiptoe in, or grab a sword and blast on through, swinging at anything that moves.

It doesn’t matter anyway what I would say.

You’ll have to do it your way.

We all will.

But perhaps,

A poem,

Tucked into your pocket, your sword hilt, your sock,

Written on the back of your hand,

Like a memo or a phone number,

Folded up like origami

And worn as an earring paper crane

Or turned into a sigil and written on your skin in lipstick, berry dye, ash, ink…

Perhaps, if I send the RIGHT one at the right time,

Somehow intuiting what you need to hear

It will be as if an invisible hand gifted you a magical cloak

As you cross the threshold

Into that place

Where minds go when they slip through the chores and find the mystery door,

And it will drape around your shoulders

And keep you warm and strong.