My Feet Whisper of a Violent Discontent with Concrete

My Feet Whisper of a Violent Discontent with Concrete

Shannon Crossman Poetry

My feet ache for sand.

Whisper of a violent discontent with concrete.

Draw me nearer to soft yielding places.
Responsive to the depression of steps.

An organic notation of “I was here,”

carved by bare toes, heels and insteps.

Concrete does not permit such markers.
Nothing imprints upon its traversed surface.

My feet ache for sand…

for earth that takes note of
my meandering presence.


Shannon Crossman photoABOUT SHANNON CROSSMAN

Shannon Crossman learned the hard way that untapped creative energy casts a helluva shadow, so she crafts her sanity with her hands daily. Nothing excites (or frustrates) her more than a blank page, fresh ball of yarn, or pile of foodstuffs – all waiting to be transformed into bits of deliciousness. Words are, and have always been, her way back home. She is a writer, artist, technical wizard, public speaker, witch, priestess, gluten free baker, time-bender, and COO who happens to possess a degree in Transpersonal & Somatic Psychology. She’s a mama and grandma to a gaggle of wild girls who make her heart happy. When she’s out in the business world she’s figuring out how to make things faster, more efficient, and automating the hell out automating the hell out of sh*t. Shannon still believes in magic, craves the ocean like a land-locked mermaid, and dreams of a life without shoes.