When the Bridge Fell

The lights flickered first—
just a blink,
like the building held its breath.
We thought maybe a surge,
summer storm,
just another twitch in the current of death.

Then the ED pager cracked.
Sharp voices,
frantic,
codes and numbers too fast to hold.
Something was wrong.
Something was breaking
right there, in the city we thought we knew cold.

“Bridge down. 35W. Full collapse.”

Time split like concrete under weight.
And then it came—
the rush,
the flood,
of sirens and stretchers and fate.

The doors blew open—
not wind,
but people.
Dripping river,
spitting blood,
torn limbs and thousand-yard stares.

The air turned thick with copper and cries.
Scrubs soaked in sweat before the first chart was read.
A child clutched to a chest that wouldn’t rise.
A woman screaming names of the already dead.

No protocol could hold the surge.
No checklist stood a chance.
We were bodies in motion,
lungs on fire,
hearts beating past the edge of chance.

I remember one man—
soaked, shivering, silent—
but his eyes had seen it all.
Steel snap.
Cars fold.
The river rise to swallow the fall.

I held pressure on wounds
with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
And prayed silently between each task—
not for a miracle,
but just for a break in the breaking.

And through it all—
I was alone.
Just Sammy the dog waiting when I came home.
My wife, half a world away,
in the desert heat of Iraq,
dodging her own collapse
with every breath she didn’t say.

No one to hold me that night
when the screams still echoed in my head.
No voice down the hallway,
just silence,
and sheets gone cold
on one side of the bed.

I wanted to tell her—
about the blood, the eyes, the flood—
but I swallowed it whole,
knowing she had her own ghosts
to carry through sand and gun smoke.

And yet, somehow,
we stood.
Bent but unbroken.
Moved by some bond that needed no spoken word.
Doctors, nurses, pharmacists, chaplains—
all of us there
as the grief roared and blurred.

Later, the lights steadied.
The night grew quiet,
but no one really slept.
We carried it home
in our clothes,
in our skin,
in the secrets we wept.

And even now,
years gone past,
when the power blinks or sirens scream,
I’m back there—
in that wave of chaos
that ended one city’s dream—
and I’m still alone,
even when she’s home,
in the place where I never told her everything I’d seen.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved

Behind the Locked Door

She knocks once—soft, then walks away,
It’s late, the end of a long, full day.
I hear her sigh through the hallway hum,
The house gone still, the laundry done.

She thinks I’m in here wasting time,
Clicking through reels, chasing the rhyme
Of mindless noise, of YouTube scroll,
Or something darker taking toll.

Maybe she thinks it’s lust or lies,
Some lonely habit in disguise.
But I’m just here beneath the light,
Bleeding out my heart at night.

A journal open, pages worn,
With ink-stained hands and spirit torn.
I write of love and quiet ache,
Of dreams we’ve lost and vows we make.

She doesn’t know this desk holds weight—
My battlefield, my silent gate.
Not po rn, not games, not guilt or shame,
But poems too soft to give a name.

I write of her—those tired eyes,
The way she hums when bread still rises.
The curve she hides beneath old tees,
The way she sleeps, half-turning to me.

I write of us—of things unsaid,
Of years that passed, of tears we shed.
Of joy, of pain, of all we miss,
Of mornings filled with caffeine and kiss.

Someday she’ll find this shrouded spine,
And trace these lines back through the time.
Then maybe she will understand
That silence doesn’t mean unmanned.

So let her wonder what I do
Behind this door she knocks right through.
For while she doubts or walks away,
I write the words I cannot say.

The Poems I Wasn’t Meant to Read

I found the page tucked in a book,
Its fold too neat, like care it took.
A poem, simple—sharp and cold,
A story inked but never told.

“I never loved him,” the first line read,
And something in me quietly bled.
Not anger, not a bitter tone—
Just a truth that stood there, all alone.

No fire, no fight—just frozen air,
A silence shaped like no one there.
Not a trace of me inside the frame,
Not even shadow tied to name.

Elsewhere, a hidden file—other notes,
One more poem that she wrote.
A man unknown, his presence far,
Drawn in lines too bold, too clear.

A laugh, a touch, a night of stars,
A place where nothing broke or scarred.
“So much between us left unsaid,”
“Now he’s married and a dad”
That final line just rang and bled.

And it was then I felt the sting—
Not just of him, but everything.
The weight of all we never voiced,
Of moments passed, of silent choice.

The dreams we named but never chased,
The goals that time and fear erased.
The plans we whispered half-awake,
Too fragile for the light to take.

The things we needed, never asked,
Desires buried, faces masked.
The nights we held but didn’t feel,
The love we wanted to be real.

And maybe that’s the cruelest cut—
Not lies, not lust, not breaking trust—
But words we held and never freed,
And poems I was never meant to read.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Erik’s First Blades at The Depot

He was four, cheeks red and bright,
Wrapped in wonder, holding tight.
Downtown twinkled, soft and slow,
As winter wrapped The Depot’s glow.

New hockey skates, so tiny, proud,
Laced by mom as he laughed out loud.
Dad checked the fit, tugged each lace—
A quiet grin on mom’s sweet face.

The rink ahead like a frozen dream,
A glowing stage beneath the beams.
We each took one small mittened hand,
And led Erik out across the land.

His feet slid wide, unsure and wild,
But he just beamed—our fearless child.
He stumbled once, then once again,
But giggled loud through every bend.

We guided slow, step after slide,
Then let him try a solo glide.
He moved like light, a little blur,
All bundled up in coats and fur.

One lap became two, then maybe four,
Each pass a memory we’d adore.
He turned to wave, all full of pride—
Our hearts could barely hold the tide.

Beneath the dome, with music sweet,
Tiny blades danced on clumsy feet.
And we stood still, hands held tight,
Two proud souls in soft rink light.

That night we watched our Erik soar,
On skates that barely scraped the floor.
A little boy, with dreams so wide—
And mom and dad, right by his side.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

First Ride, Breezy Point

It was summer sun at Breezy Point,
The lake all glass, the air anoint.
Your small hands wrapped the grips just right,
On your yellow PK Ripper, shining bright.

I’d just come back, dust on my face,
From Cuyuna’s climb, that wild place—
Legs still humming from red rock miles,
But none of it matched your nervous smile.

“Ready, Dad?” you asked so low,
Helmet crooked, eyes aglow.
I steadied the seat with calloused hand,
You wobbled like a colt that tries to stand.

Pedals turned and hearts held tight,
I jogged beside you, step for flight.
You didn’t know, but I let go—
And there you soared, all gold and glow.

Wind in your hair, a sudden shout,
“I’m doing it, Dad!”—no trace of doubt.
Across the lot, past pine and dock,
The moment cracked like a ticking clock.

You rode alone, and I just stood,
Swallowed up in fatherhood.
The yellow frame, the courage earned,
The way the world forever turned.

Later that night, we sat by the fire,
Your cheeks still red, your joy entire.
And I thought of trails and how they bend,
But this one here? It just began, my son.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

After Dave in Ames

We drove through dusk on I-35,
Chasing a sound that made us feel alive.
Ames ahead, with your bare feet on the dash,
Dave on the speakers, hearts beating fast.

The air was thick with corn and flame,
And every mile just fed the flame.
We reached the crowd as the sun went low,
Wrapped in rhythm, swaying slow.

“Crush” lit sparks beneath your skin,
You mouthed the words with that secret grin.
And when “One Sweet World” filled the sky,
Your hand found mine—we nearly cried.

After the show, the night still young,
We ordered pizza just for fun.
“Late Night Special, Room 203”—
But you pulled me in, wild and free.

Clothes in piles, your laugh in the air,
Dave still echoing everywhere.
The knock at the door—we didn’t hear,
Too wrapped in love, too lost, too near.

Later, breathless, a little dazed,
You stretched and smiled in a post-show haze.
“I think the pizza came and went…”
The scent in the hallway gave the hint.

Down the hall, a box was gone—
Room 205 with the TV on.
They scored the pie meant for our bed,
But we had something else instead.

Because dough gets cold and cheese can wait,
But passion never hesitates.
In Ames that night, we missed the slice—
But da mn, the love… that tasted right.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

One Sweet Song

The road rolled out like a soft refrain,
Through fields and sky and summer rain.
You tapped the dash in perfect time,
Barefoot joy and rolling hills climb.

We chased the hum of strings and soul,
To Alpine Valley, heart and goal.
A roadtrip wrapped in songs we knew,
Just me, and love, and growing you.

The air was thick with dust and heat,
The kind of night that makes you weak.
We found our place beneath the stars,
The crowd like echoes from afar.

And then it played—our favorite one,
“One Sweet World” beneath the sun.
Your hand flew fast across your dress,
Your eyes lit up, your lips confessed:

“He moved—he kicked, he’s dancing too.”
I swear, the sky turned deeper blue.
A tiny foot, a beat, a flame,
In that moment, everything changed.

The music swelled, the lights went wide,
But all I saw was you inside—
Your glowing face, your breath held tight,
Our son alive beneath that night.

We stood still in that sacred swell,
Where love and sound and future dwell.
Dave sang on, the world felt small,
But inside us, it held it all.

One sweet world, one perfect start,
A song, a kick, a bursting heart.
That night will live where dreams begin—
The first time we heard him dance within.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.