In the Eyes of God

She brought me here with love so wide,
To stand with her, to be my guide.
But first—these pews, this sacred place,
Where I must reckon, seek some grace.

RCIA on Thursday nights,
Learning saints and candle lights.
I followed faith I didn’t know,
Just to be hers, to let love grow.

One evening, quiet in his room,
I met the priest—no fire, no gloom.
Father Lybarger, calm and still,
He asked me gently, “What you will?”

I said, “There’s something I still bear—
A weight too deep for just a prayer.
I wore the flag, I did my part…
But I’ve killed a man. And it scars my heart.”

His silence wasn’t cold or long,
But measured, like a sacred song.
“You served,” he said. “You carried flame.
But war, my son, is not your shame.”

“It was duty,” I said. “Orders, battle—
But still I see his face, and more.
Can I stand before the Lord,
And vow a love I once ignored?”

He breathed, then nodded, soft and grave,
“God knows the burdens soldiers brave.
He sees the soul beneath the fight,
And walks with you through every night.

You didn’t choose to k ill in hate—
You served the world, you bore its weight.
Confess not guilt, but give your pain,
Let mercy wash you clean again.”

I left with tears that didn’t fall,
But sat behind my every wall.
And when she looked at me that night,
She saw me whole, and not the fight.

She asked me why I stayed behind,
What I had needed there to find.
I gave a smile, I made it small—
Said, “Just a talk, that’s all, that’s all.”

She searched my face, but didn’t press,
Just held my silence, nothing less.
She knew that something lived inside,
But let it wait—she let me hide.

For love like hers and grace like this,
Are forged through pain, not only bliss.
And when I say “I do” that day,
I’ll know what sacrifice can weigh.

I gave a life I can’t reclaim,
But God still whispers through my shame:
“You are not broken—just made new,
And worthy of the love in view.”

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

After conscription to endure
                              One outing
I’ve no heart or smile for a new
                                  Bon voyage

You have no heart or smile
                                           Came a reply

Is this truly what you think
Is this what I have become
A person sober and grey
Without appetite
                            For life
Perhaps Iv'e forgotten it's taste
Perhaps I am anorexic
Perhaps your right

                         Perhaps I’m tarnished
                         Perhaps I never forget
Perhaps the poppies will cease to whisper

Guatemala

I was young,
Military Police with clean new boots
And a chest full of pride,
Still thinking service was about salutes,
Not shadows on the other side.

They said, “Guatemala—it won’t be bad.”
Jungle duty, heat and aid.
We packed like boys chasing purpose,
Not knowing what price would be paid.

The border near El Salvador—
Soldier hesitant tourists turned.
A mission blurred into ambush light,
And suddenly, everything burned.

The first shot cracked like thunder,
Then chaos danced through every tree.
My rifle rose before I could think,
Like it already knew what I’d need to be.

And there he was.

Not a ghost. Not some faceless foe.
A man, breathing, crouched in the brush—
Too real, too human, too close.

No flak vest on me. Just sweat and breath.
And I saw him—God, I saw him—
His eyes locked with mine
In that final second between life and death.

His collar had red-threaded logos,
Symbols I’d never seen before.
But they’re seared in me now,
Just like the way he hit the jungle floor.

I don’t remember pulling the trigger—
Only the sound,
And how silence came after,
Like the jungle held its breath all around.

I stared at his body like it might move,
Like maybe I’d made some mistake.
But war doesn’t offer rewinds
Or give back the things it takes.

Later, the others spoke in code:
Rules of engagement, mission clear.
But all I could see were his eyes,
Still there in my mind, year after year.

They never teach you
How a single second can break a man—
How you carry a stranger’s final breath
Long after your tour ends and the years expand.

I went there thinking I’d find meaning,
Some noble fire in uniform thread.
But in Guatemala, I met a man—
And left with part of myself dead.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

From Afar, But Never Away

I can’t sit beside you in the dark,
Can’t pass a flask or light the spark.
But I hear the tremble in your voice—
The silence thick beneath your choice.

Miles stretch like old campaign roads,
But I carry part of all your loads.
You text at two—I always read,
A lifeline born of shared old need.

You don’t have to say what haunts your nights,
I’ve seen the same uneven fights.
The kind that follow you home in dreams,
Where nothing’s ever what it seems.

From a distance, I steady your hand,
No medals, just a promise that I’ll stand.
Across the states, through static lines,
I send my words like warning signs.

“You’re not alone,” isn’t just a phrase,
It’s something we prove through foggy days.
Through calls, through chats, through every cry,
We fight the urge to say goodbye.

Because you matter—still, today.
Even if the war won’t go away.
And if I can’t be in your space,
Know this: I’m with you, just in place.

So if your weight gets too much to bear,
Text me. Call me. I’ll be there.
From afar, but never gone—
Brother, sister, we march on.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

After the War, the Work

You came home not to silence—
but to sirens in your sleep.
Not to parades or picnics,
but to nights too dark, too deep.

The fourth of July felt like mortar rounds—
I held you as you hit the ground.
Neighbors smiled, lit fuses bright,
but I saw the panic flood your sight.

No one told them the war comes home.
That heroes flinch when fireworks groan.
That strength sometimes means shaking hands,
and needing help just to stand.

You tried to teach again—
chalk instead of chains,
kids’ laughter instead of drills,
but they sent you packing all the same.

Said “contract’s done,”
like your worth could expire.
But I’ve seen you walk through fire.
You don’t fold—you rise higher.

We fought back, side by side—
me, your shadow, your anchor, your guide.
Letters, calls, protests made—
we turned quiet pain into loud crusade.

And you stood there—tired, proud,
in front of that cold, gray crowd.
Not with rage, but steady breath,
proof that healing isn’t death.

I hold you close when sleep won’t come,
when thunder rolls and hearts go numb.
You were a soldier, still are to me—
in classrooms, in courtrooms,
in therapy.

The war is over, they like to say,
but I see it in you every day.
And still—you teach, you fight, you try.
My warrior in the softest light.

© 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.

More Alike Than We Knew

We once burned like wildfire caught,
No hesitation, second thought.
We built a world in gasps and skin,
A sacred place we both fit in.

Before the war, before the grief,
Before the silence stole belief—
We lived like nothing could divide
The way your soul once moved with mine.

But then the war pulled you away,
And I stood still while skies turned gray.
When you came back, you weren’t the same—
And neither was I, if I’m being plain.

I wore a uniform too long,
And braved the frontlines, stayed strong.
But still, the dust stayed in my chest,
Long after I was told to rest.

Then came the bridge, the twisted steel,
The weight of death I couldn’t heal.
The sirens, smoke, the eerie screams—
They still show up inside my dreams.

And COVID took the last of me—
The halls of death, the constant plea.
Masked and moving, heart on fire,
Another loss, another pyre.

You had your ghosts—I had mine too,
But we both thought we had no clue.
We passed like strangers in one space,
Each hiding panic in our face.

I thought you’d shut the door on me.
You thought I needed to be free.
But truth is, love—we both withdrew,
And we were more alike than we ever knew.

I swallowed pain, you turned away.
Both thinking, “They don’t want to stay.”
But every time we didn’t speak,
We built the wall another week.

We made love soft, then not at all.
You blamed the world. I blamed the wall.
But deep beneath the days we lost,
We never stopped. We just paid the cost.

We could have fixed it, if we dared—
To say we broke, to say we cared.
To hold each other past the pride,
And cry for what we kept inside.

But trauma doesn’t knock or ask,
It buries truth behind a mask.
And though we both were bleeding through,
We never said, “I see you too.”

Still, I remember how you burned,
And how my hands to you returned.
And somewhere deep, I know it’s true:
I was more like you…
And you were more like me too.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.