The Secret Miles
2024 Lutsen 29er, for those who know….

We started beneath skies pretending to shine,
Wheels spinning forward, all feeling fine—
But the woods had a different tale to tell,
One of mud, of water, of slipping through hell.

Thirty long miles, deep in the trees,
Water so high it soaked past our knees,
Chain grindin’, brakes cryin’, grit in our teeth,
And still more climbin’ just waitin’ beneath.

There’s a silence in suffering no crowd can hear,
No cowbell cheers echo back here,
Just you, your bike, and the voice in your head,
Asking, “Why?” while you pedal instead.

We laughed through the muck, ’cause crying felt cheap,
We pushed when the trail got too cruelly steep,
We found strange joy in the cold and the grime—
A bond born quiet, outside of time.

The finish line glistened—clean, serene—
Set on Superior Golf Course, trimmed and green,
People clapped, handed out drinks with pride,
But they didn’t know what we left back inside.

They didn’t see the falls, the spats,
The jokes we cracked soaked through like rats,
They didn’t feel the weight we hauled,
Or how the forest, for hours, stalled.

But you knew. And I knew. And that was enough—
The trail tried to break us, but we stayed tough.
And in that shared silence, beyond the cheer,
We carried a truth no one else could hear.

It’s not in the medals, not in the time—
It’s in every unspoken, mud-covered climb.
And that, my son, is the real reward:
A secret pact, forever stored.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved

The Space Between Sand and Skin

You kissed me in camo beneath morning light,
Orders in hand, boots laced up tight—
New ring still warm on your finger’s grace,
Gone too soon, with fire on your face.

You left for a land of endless dust,
While I stayed back with memory’s rust.
The house is haunted not by ghosts,
But echoes of what I feared the most.

Your scent on sheets, your laugh in rooms,
Wake the war drums, old perfume—
I tried to bury all that hell,
But love like yours became the shell.

Nights drag slow through sleepless fights,
Flashbacks lit by bathroom lights.
I count each breath, I grip the floor,
Then whisper your name like a whispered war.

But God—when you’re back for those fleeting weeks,
No words, just skin, no need to speak.
You crash into me like the ocean’s roar,
I drown in you, beg, and ask for more.

Your body—battle-hardened, bold—
Takes me places I used to hold.
In that heat, we shed the weight,
Of every bomb, every twist of fate.

Then gone again—you disappear—
And I’m left clutching what feels like fear.
But this time love is my parade,
And in its arms, I’m less afraid.

Come back to me, my fire, my flame—
Each day I wait, I whisper your name.
You wear the uniform, I wear the scars,
But we still meet beneath the stars.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

The Weight I Carry (And What It Costs)

The past is not behind me—
It walks beside me still.
It speaks in quiet moments
And bends me to its will.

It lingers in the sterile light,
It echoes in the hum
Of monitors and whispered prayers
When hope is all but gone.

The present isn’t softer—
It pulses through the pain
Of patients breaking in my hands,
Of lives I can’t sustain.

But I know how to sit with fear,
I’ve breathed through it for years.
I’ve felt the dark press on my chest
And fought back drowning tears.

PTSD has marked my soul,
But made me sharp and kind.
I see the wounds behind the words
That others never find.

In scrubs, I’m strong, I speak with calm,
I know just what to do.
At work, I give what’s left of me
To help someone pull through.

But when I cross the threshold home,
The weight becomes too loud.
The walls expect a gentler me
Than what I’m still allowed.

The stress I never fully name,
It follows me inside.
And suddenly, the smallest things
Feel like a wave, a tide.

I’m not as soft, I’m not as still,
I shut down when you speak.
I’ve run dry from giving all day—
There’s nothing left to leak.

And though I love with all I am,
Some nights, I disappear.
Not into war zones far away,
But right beside you here.

So if I seem a world away,
Or cold when I come home—
Know it’s not you I push against,
Just the silence I’ve outgrown.

The past still lives inside my bones,
The present takes its toll.
But loving you and healing too—
It’s both my wound and goal.

And all I ask is that you see
The fight behind the face.
I’m learning how to carry less,
And come back to this place.

So hold me when the light runs low,
Remind me love is near—
That even when I give too much,
There’s still room to be here.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Third Place Glory

This winter was rough, to put it plain,
Loss after loss, the same refrain.
Our squirt B2 team, hearts full, legs slow—
A bench of grit, with not much show.

Jake and I, we stood in doubt,
Should we take the Fargo route?
The team was tired, the record bleak,
We feared defeat would steal their streak.

“Maybe we just say it’s canned,”
We whispered low, not what we planned.
Not out of fear, but of the toll—
Protecting hearts was our shared goal.

But something sparked—we changed our mind.
We packed the bags, left doubt behind.
A ragtag crew with nothing owed,
Chasing hope down frozen roads.

In Fargo’s chill, they hit the ice,
With something fierce, something precise.
They passed, they fought, they found their speed,
And every kid played past their need.

Game by game, they rose, they burned,
With every shift, the tide had turned.
No longer just a team who tried—
They played with fire, they played with pride.

Then came the win for third place gold,
A trophy clutched by hands so bold.
We almost robbed them of this climb—
This memory etched in frozen time.

Jake and I just stood and grinned,
Proud of the boys, of where they’d been.
Not for the win or goals they scored,
But how they fought when we ignored.

Sometimes the heart knows more than stats,
More than boards and wins and hats.
And now we know what doubt can miss—
The joy of almost never is.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

This Blessed Sip of Life

“Hello, how are you doing today
I hope I find you feeling healthy”—
your smile broke like spring after too long a winter.
We met by chance,
but it felt like gravity had drawn us in.

“Could I love you? Could you love me?”
The world held its breath.
Your laugh said yes before your mouth ever did.

“Say, my love, I came to you with best intention
You laid down to give to me just what I’m seeking.”
And you did.
So I asked,
“Kiss me, won’t you kiss me now?”
Because I wanted to give you everything and asked for nothing in return. Other than joy.

We stitched our lives together with whispered promises.
“Hold my hands, your hands—
So much we have dreamed.”
Your hand in mine,
the future felt like a secret only we understood.

“Oh, please, lover, lay down
Spend this time with me.”
And we did,
under stars that blinked in approval.

Children came.
And laughter.
And little hockey skates by the door.
“Celebrate we will
Because life is short but sweet for certain.”

We were a painting in motion,
“Our love is so right—
Forget the clouds that rain down on you.”
Two of us. Anything felt possible.
“Two of us together, we could do anything, baby.”

But time speaks in silence.
One day, I noticed the pause between our words.
“You could look inside and see what’s on my mind
I let you down, oh, forgive me.”

I did try.
You did too.
But something between us shifted.
The PTSD became too much and we didn’t know how to navigate.

“You crush me, with the things you do,
and I do, for you, anything too.”
That balance turned to burden.
If only we had worked on our mental fitness rather than turning on each other.

“I fall so hard inside the idea of you,”
not you—
not anymore.

“Wanna stay but I think I’m gettin’ outta here.”
And you did. And so have I.

“Everybody asks me how she’s doing
Since she went away
I said I couldn’t tell you
I’m OK, I’m OK.”
But I wasn’t.

I replay the good days
like old home videos.
“Ride my bike down the old dirt hill
First time without my training wheels.
First time I kissed you I lost my legs—
Bring that beat back to me again.”

“I know I’ll miss her later
Wish I could bend my love to hate her.”
But I never could.

“This blessed sip of life, is it not enough?”
Some days, it feels like it is.
Other days, I drink it down bitterly.

“And we were so much younger
Hard to explain that we are stronger.”
But we are.
Just not together anymore.

“Stay, beautiful baby
I hope you stay, American baby.”
You didn’t.
But I hope you found whatever you were looking for….
So many words unsaid.

“And if I don’t see you
I’m afraid we’ve lost the way.”
Maybe we have.

But still,
“I shall miss these things.”
The laughter in your eyes.
The weight of your head on my shoulder.
The silence between our words.

“Lovely lady, I am at your feet, oh God I want you so badly.
And I wonder—this: could tomorrow be so wondrous as you there sleeping?”
It once was.

And though
“I let you down—
How could I be such a fool like me?”
I carry no bitterness.
Only love.
Faded, but still honest.

“But I do know one thing—
And that’s where you are, is where I belong.”
Was.

And maybe
that’s enough.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Three Floyds and a Queen

We rolled into Chicago with stars in our eyes,
A city alive under golden skies.
I planned it all—each perfect beat,
A quaint, little room on a quiet street.

Across the street, a twee place to sip and dine,
Where your hand found steady warmth in mine.
But it wasn’t the food, or the hotel light—
It was the way you looked that night.

We laughed like we were barely grown,
Like the world was ours, and ours alone.
And in that room, again, again,
We danced like fire beneath the linen.

Then south to Munster, where hops ran free,
Three Floyds pouring wild alchemy.
A fest of brews, of joy, of sound—
Our hearts got drunk just being around.

You spun in circles, smiling wide,
I held you close with pride inside.
Because love like that can’t be rehearsed—
It grows in kisses, in jokes, in thirst.

That trip still lives in quiet ways,
In weekday yawns and busy days.
But I hold it close, I always will—
A weekend high I’m chasing still.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved

Tracks That Night

It was late, the world drawn tight,
The house held still in soft dim light.
You took the dog out, routine, small,
Just moonlight spilling down the hall.

Then back inside—unnoticed trail,
Dog po op tracks, a quiet fail.
But something deep inside me snapped,
A thousand weights the moment tapped.

I raised my voice, too sharp, too loud,
Anger dressed in shameful shroud.
And all the while, behind one door,
Our son was sleeping on the floor.

His room aglow with soft night sounds,
While I let darkness do its rounds.
Not at you—but at the world,
At every scar my mind still hurled.

The bodies seen in crowded halls,
Cold eyes beneath fluorescent calls.
The screams that echoed, sharp and raw,
When steel gave way on 35W’s maw.

All of it, like smoke, unseen—
But thick and choking in between
The cracks of life, the calm we fake,
Until the soul begins to break.

You didn’t cause the flood that came—
You just stood still and took the blame.
Your hands had only tried to care,
But I threw anger into the air.

And now, regret—too wide to name,
I ache with guilt, I burn with shame.
I’d give up years to fix that night,
To hold you close, not choose the fight.

He slept through all, our little one,
While I forgot who I’d become.
But I remember now—I swear—
The love that built this home with care.

Forgive me, if you can, someday,
Though I can’t look myself that way.
But I’ll keep trying, step by step—
For you, for him, while the world slept.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Two Wheels, One Heart (Almost)

I dreamed of roads not walked but wheeled,
Of gravel paths and tires sealed,
Of sunlit mornings side by side,
You, and me, on a morning bike ride.

I’d speak in tones both sweet and bold,
Of frames in purple and gears of gold,
“A bike that’s built with you in mind—
Se xy, safe, fast…a rare design.”

I pictured trips with maps unrolled,
Family tours through fields and corn,
Picnics packed and tires spinning,
Memories made, the whole clan grinning.

But your eyes never matched my pace,
No spark, no thrill lit up your face.
You’d gently smile—or just say no,
And let the hope fall soft as snow.

You turned me down, again, again,
My offers met with cool refrain.
My Hail Mary: “A gym?” I asked. “Yoga?”
You shook your head, just told me no.

I bargained dreams, I begged, I tried,
But saw the truth you couldn’t hide.
This wasn’t yours—it’s mine alone,
No shared pursuit, just me, wind-blown.

So I let go the tandem view,
Strapped on my shoes, chased skies of blue.
With friends I ride, with legs set free,
But still, I’d wished you’d ride with me.

Some passions bloom, some seeds don’t grow—
Love makes space to let that show.
And though you’re not beside my wheel,
I ride on strong. I ride and heal.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

When She Comes

I am young, with restless fire,
A heart that hums with soft desire.
Not for games or passing thrills,
But for the one who quiets chills.

I walk through nights with open eyes,
Beneath the stars, beneath the skies.
Watching, waiting, soul in bloom,
For her to step into the room.

Not just beauty, though I dream
Of eyes that hold a secret gleam—
But grace, and laughter rich and free,
A voice that sings in sync with me.

I’ve seen the echoes, danced with ghosts,
Loved too fast and lost the most.
But I believe—no need to chase,
She’ll find me in the perfect place.

I’ll know her not by just her face,
But by the calm she brings to space.
A presence warm, a touch sincere,
The kind that pulls your future near.

She’ll ask for truth, not clever lines,
She’ll match the rhythm in my signs.
And when she speaks, the world will dim—
The noise will fade, the light will swim.

I’ll give her all, without a fight—
My morning thoughts, my dreams at night.
And in her eyes, I’ll finally see
The love I saved was meant to be.

So I wait—not lost, but sure—
That love that’s real will still endure.
And when she comes, I will not run—
For I’ll have known she was the one.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

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

You Wanted This

You wanted this.
Not the tears, not the silence—
but the ending.
The open door.
The echo of footsteps leaving.
And for a while,
I stayed standing in the ruins,
still setting a place for you at a table
you’d already abandoned.

I begged the past to answer.
I folded memories like laundry,
hoping they’d still fit.
But love doesn’t live in a house
where one person’s already gone.

I didn’t utterly break us.
You just stopped building.
Stopped reaching.
And I wore the weight of it,
thinking if I loved hard enough,
you might feel it again.
You didn’t.

And that’s okay now.
Because I finally see it—
freedom wearing my own name,
a sunrise that doesn’t ask a teacher’s permission to rise.

You wanted this.
And now,
so do I.

Not because I stopped loving,
but because I started living
without waiting
for you to come back.

You can keep the deafening silence.
I’ll take the joyful freedom.
You can have the past—
I’m making room
for someone that stays and builds.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.