The divorce is final.
Signed.
Stamped.
Closed.
But nothing about it feels settled.
The paperwork is done—
but my heart’s still
asking questions
no one can answer.

Could we have saved it?
Did she pull away too soon?
Did I put too much on her shoulders?
Was it the trauma,
the ghosts in my sleep,
the version of me
that couldn’t let her in?

Or were we already drowning
before either of us knew how to swim?

Some days, I replay it
like an old tape
on loop.
What if I had reached for her hand
instead of shutting the door?
Broken down my wall of pain?
What if she had stayed
one more night?
One more try?

What if I asked for help earlier?

Could we have saved, with guidance, a life most dream of?

But I can’t live in the what-ifs.

Because even before the marriage ended—
I was unraveling. Subconsciously begging for help.

Before the ring,
before the vows,
there was fire.

Guatemala.
Orders.
Blood.
Thoughts that don’t leave
even after the mission ends.

I carried things home
you can’t pack in a duffel.
But I tried. For decades.

I came back with a silence
that didn’t fully allow for love.
And a guilt
Trauma that made me flinch
when my son cried too loud.

Then came the scrubs. And another deployment.
Hospitals. Sand. The bridge. COVID.
Dead bodies stacked on tired ones.
Loss after loss. Screams. Blood.
you weren’t allowed to cry about.
I showed up every day,
but somewhere along the line,
I stopped feeling like I was there.

PTSD doesn’t care what role you play.
It waits in the corners,
feeds on the quiet,
and it doesn’t stop
just because you want to be strong.

I tried to handle it.
Tried to muscle through.
But it was the VA
that finally sat me down and said:
“You don’t have to do this alone.”

Paperwork.
Waitlists.
More paperwork.
Therapy.
Tears.
Emotions.
And still—
hope.

Not perfect,
not pretty,
but real.
And real was something
I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Now—
I’m just a man.
Not a soldier.
Not a husband.
Not a savior.
Just…
a father.
A soul trying to rebuild
with trembling hands.

And still—
I want to share this life
with someone.
Someone close,
but not yet known.
Someone who sees the scars
and doesn’t flinch.

Someone who hears me say:
“This is me.
Still wondering if love
could’ve lived
if I’d been whole.

Still becoming
someone better.
For my son.
For myself.
Maybe even…
for you.

Would you want
to know me too?”

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Target Date

It was Sunday, soft and slow,
Clouds like cotton, time on low.
She smiled and said, “Our date today,”
Just Target runs, not cabernet.

I laughed it off, “A date? Come on,”
But deep inside, I felt that song—
The one that plays when we’re alone,
No phones, no noise, just time we own.

A cart between us, aisles wide,
Debating meat and snacks and Tide.
But my hand grasped her *** near aisle three,
And suddenly, it was just we.

She lit up over cereal boxes,
And I just watched her, sly and foxish.
Not dressed up fine, no lipstick, no lace—
Just sweats and hat across her face.

I wanted more—just one more lap,
Not for deals, or gifts to wrap.
But for that feeling, calm and bright,
That somehow, here, the world feels right.

I played it cool, I stayed on task,
But in my heart, I longed to ask:
“Can this date stretch a little long?
With you, even errands feel like song.”

We left with bags and fizzy sodas,
And hearts still warm like sunlit quotas—
From one small trip, so unrefined,
But full of love and quiet time.

So now I wait for Sundays slow,
For her small smile, that secret glow.
And next time when she calls it fate,
I’ll say it loud: “Yeah, I’m ready for our date.”

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

The Drive to Iowa

It wasn’t my role—it never is,
To chase a thread through miles like this.
But the man was fading, breath by thread,
And hope was barely hanging, spread.

The doctors said, “There’s nothing left,”
The family wept, the room felt cleft.
But I had read, and something sparked—
A drug out there, obscure, unmarked.

No courier, no time to ship,
Just urgency and tightening grip.
So I took the keys, and hit the road,
With silent prayers my only code.

Through rain and cornfields, silent miles,
I chased the hope behind faint smiles.
To Iowa, through rain and fog,
To fight the clock and cheat the dog.

The warehouse stood quiet, bare,
But someone waited, knowing care.
They handed over life in glass,
A fragile chance, a fleeting pass.

Back I flew with hands so tight,
Through Iowa dark and Minnesota night.
They dosed him fast, we watched, we stayed—
And still… the shadows didn’t fade.

He passed with hands held, soft and slow,
No miracle, no final glow.
But someone tried beyond the chart,
And maybe that still touched his heart.

I couldn’t save him—wasn’t mine—
But I gave all, crossed every line.
For love of life, for sacred try,
I drove through silence just to cry.

So here’s to all who fight like flame,
For one more hour, one more name.
Even when the end won’t bend,
We drive for hope… right to the end.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Bertram Grace

The sun was high, the trail was steep,
With roots that tangled, rocks that leap.
You took the seat, unsure, but game—
For love, for us, you rode just the same.

Not your sport, not your thing, not your call,
But you pedaled with us, gave it your all.
A novice, yes—but strong and proud,
Pushing forward through the shifting crowd.

Then that moment—sharp and fast,
A sudden slip, the ground rushed past.
Dirt and sand, skin laid bare,
A wound that whispered sharp despair.

But you stood up with a quiet grin,
Brushed it off, tucked pain within.
“Just a scratch,” you laughed, half-true—
But I saw the crimson breaking through.

I played it cool, I didn’t show
How much I wanted you not to go.
To rest, to stop, to let it heal,
But you rode on—steel over steel.

And in that grit, that fierce disguise,
I saw new strength behind your eyes.
Not just the mother, wife, or friend—
But a fighter, stubborn to the end.

I’ve loved your smile, your voice, your mind,
But in that crash, I saw the kind
Of woman who would bleed and ride
And never once let pain decide.

I wish I’d said how proud I was,
How much that moment made me pause—
To see you not just strong, but free,
And feel your fire burning next to me.

So here’s my truth, still riding through—
I saw the badass deep in you.
And though I kept it tucked inside,
That day, my love, you soared with pride.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Only Hers

The nights were long, the house too still,
Her boots in sand, my heart to fill.
She served where danger carved the skies,
While I stayed home with aching ties.

My hockey team said, “Come, forget awhile,”
A bar, a laugh, a drink, a smile.
I went, half-empty, half-just-there,
Wearing the weight of distant care.

The music hummed, the lights hung low,
And time moved slow like melting snow.
She came—bold eyes, a stranger’s grin,
A whispered line, a hand, a sin.

For one brief beat, the world stood wide,
And something stirred I could not hide.
The kind of hunger born of space—
Of missing voice and touch and face.

But then—I conjure our video play,
Our secret gift while far away.
Your laugh, your skin, your sultry tease,
A whispered moan, a promise, please.

It burned the loneliness from bone,
Reminded me I’m not alone.
And in that moment, I stood fast,
With love too strong, too deep, to pass.

I saw your face in every light,
And knew I’d wait through every night.
No pleasure’s worth what we have grown,
No stranger’s touch could match our own.

So I walked out, into the cold,
Still longing, still alone, but bold.
Because love’s not tested when it’s near—
But when it’s far, and still sincere.

This heart is yours, come storm or flame—
No need, no flesh, could shake that claim.
And when you’re back in my embrace,
I’ll show you just how much I stayed.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Autumn Blaze

We dug the hole one quiet fall,
The leaves around us red and small.
A sapling slight, with roots still bare,
We gave it space, we gave it care.

Autumn Blaze, its name be true,
A fire that someday might break through.
We watched it lean, then helped its stand,
As winds moved strongly across our land.

Now look—it towers, bold and wide,
Its branches stretching toward the sky.
While others stall or wither in place,
Ours climbed with calm and patient grace.

It wasn’t just the sun and rain,
But hands that worked through joy and strain.
Like marriage, like a love once bright,
It rose because we did it right.

But love’s not just what’s built and grown—
It’s what you keep, and nurture, and own.
And somewhere in the in-between,
We lost the roots once so serene.

The tree still thrives, tall as a prayer,
While silence lingers in the air.
And I can’t help but see the cost—
Of something strong that still was lost.

We could have trimmed, we could have healed,
We could’ve fought, we could’ve kneeled.
Like tending bark or guarding flame,
Love asks for more than just a name.

So now that tree, it holds my gaze—
A monument to better days.
To what can grow and still be gone—
A blaze that burned, and then moved on.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved

Gale Woods Farm Ride

We started in Wayzata, wheels to the ground,
The hum of our tires, a soft, steady sound.
Just the three of us, the sky painted blue,
A summer-day promise, pure and true.

The trail stretched quiet, the trees leaned in,
And laughter bounced off bark and wind.
We pedaled to Gail Woods, calm and wide,
Where fields rolled soft and time just sighed.

Our son pointed out every cow and tree,
His joy as bright as the sky was free.
We stayed a while, then turned around,
Back to the trail, toward hometown ground.

An ice cream stop—sweet, cold, and loud,
With sticky fingers and hearts unbowed.
Then thunder rolled from far away,
The sky let go its silver spray.

But we didn’t run, we didn’t race,
We smiled through rain on every face.
Wet shirts clung close, the path turned slick,
But magic held us—strong and quick.

Because some days don’t need to shine,
To etch their place in heart and mind.
Just wheels, and wind, and love that stays—
We’ll always have that rainy day.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved