Be grateful. Be grateful
We say in situations of valor and tragedy
At dinner tables and kneeling rails
At hospital bedsides and parent teacher conferences
It could be worse
Or it might be great
Be grateful they all say
For the sun keeping us here
Here long enough to witness life
And death and violence with injustice and not fair
But grateful for the stars and for nights and winter seasons drenched in rain and icicles
When everything is frozen dangerously
Be grateful when things don’t work out—it could always be worse
At least it’s not raining, hailing, fire storming, apocalypse
They all say to be grateful for your friends
The ones you love, but also the pains and heartaches they cause
And the same for family, which causes so much hell in an already swirling environment
Be grateful for this protection by arms
But what about the cause?
Results not causes are what count in this time
And we never think of why, but only the surface
Be grateful for all you have
All? Including heartache and grief with stress and sin and chores topped with lies
Grateful
Is it knowing I am human?
I get to the point I’m saying thank you and don’t know why
But It could always be worse.

i raised her
with a violent birth
my vocal cords tangled
like a drunk couple
making love
with her name.

she emerged from
the slit in men's throats,
a grown woman,
her sister followed,
from suffocated coughs,
glowing like streetlamps
from mouth to mouth,
never happy,
never settled.

girls like her,
they don't enter this
world easy,
they leave it in a mess,
exit it like a highway,
move on to the
next place.

there's a stain they
always leave,
yellow on the teeth,
marks on bed-sheets,
empty rings on
bedsides with last
nights drink
gone cold just like
their feelings.

just a girl they say,
harmless,
girls have endless love
in their hearts,
and endless hate.

sandstone hits glass
she wants to talk about our past
the knives,the guns,the pills fill my head
her words ring in my ears like a lost melody
the things i would do to her,
the things i would do for her

she wields her sword and raises her shield,
ready to fight
our enemy is not the one waiting at the city gates
but the one messing with her heads.

we have the same enemies, her and i
they are born in our heads,
they thrive on our thoughts,
they keep us awake at 3 AM with a bottle of wine by our bedsides
because our eyes are too tired to shut themselves,
they make us love ourselves sometimes
only to rip us apart and wear our skin as cloaks.
our enemies are peculiar
they lift the corners of our mouth to form a smile
they make us swallow pills and snort drugs to feel alive.
we don't fight them
we let them win
we let them aim their guns at us
we let them destroy our will to live
we let them follow us to family gatherings and night-outs
we watch them rip our insides out with a smile
we can never get them out of our heads.
you see, we once built a palace inside our heads
we adorned the walls with our favourite pictures and stories
we hung fairy lights by our bedsides
because all the light we couldn't see was fading away.
the demons crawled out from under our beds and got into our heads.

darkness loomed over our palace.
the fairy lights were broken
the pictures shattered
the stories reduced to scribbles
we sharpened our knives,
got guns for hands,
bombs at the entrance
and changed the lamps to grenades
but they didn't die.
they grew stronger.

we tried to burn down our palace,
run away to our haven
but they got us in the end
and no matter how high our swords and shields are raised
they will stay with us
until the very end

Flowers on rooftops. Sold by stalks or bunches or barrels.
Rooftops, where beginning see new light.
Sunsets are given a second chance.
Sun rises sweep you off your feet.

Until you are tumbling towards oblivion.
Falling for someone or no one,
Someone will still catch you,
For no one is truly absent on a rooftop.

Rooftops are shelters.
Covering our small material lives,
That reflect poorly our selves.
No living room can represent a person’s soul.
Our drive, our motivation our passion.
What we believe we are underneath.

Without rooftops snow would drift against our bedsides.
Without rooftops stars would tell the stories of our dreams.
They would burn away the acid that disappoints us.
That keeps us from laughing.
We’d be filled with starlight, snowflakes, flowers.

Flowers are sold on rooftops because,
Perspective is shifted up there.
Ground is still down but farther down.
We are as tall as skyscrapers.
Gravity makes our knees tremble.
Tempting that leap of faith.

Flowers deserve a second perspective –chance.
How many times have you counted the petals on a dandelion?
Or asked a lily if he loves you?
Why send a rose when you have orchids?

Rooftops are surreal.
Ordinary cannot but attained that close to the clouds.
The balance between flight,
And gravity’s relentless pull keeps a mind awake, -alive.

Rooftops are where flowers should be sold.
No cars, cement or money.
No stereotype, or donuts or guns.

Anyone buying flowers  
Is looking for a second chance.
Is hoping for magic.
Waiting for lightening to strike him,
In the same place twice.

If I die before I am a bride,
bury me with these words in my mouth,
as an I-told-you-so for the creator.

If I go clutching my maiden name
in arthritic hands like beads of a rosary,
tell about it at my funeral.

There must be a hymn to sing,
something like:
I kept every vow I ever made.

Put me in the ground in ****** white.
As if that'll erase the one-nights, love's malformations,
the way that matrimony might have,
in simpler times.

If I die with vacant bedsides, I instruct you:
take me to autopsy
remove my heart and check for scars,
then instruct the mortician to place it in my hands.

Like a bouquet.

To have and to hold.

lately, lately, lately,
I’ve learned life is too
short, even for the most
invincible of us.

we live in hospitals we construct
for ourselves, shelves stocked high
with anxieties, and
finances, and
pills for every kind of high
or low.

and we live this way–
chained to our bedsides,
keys in our pockets, crying
out for doctors
and saviors.

and we die this way–
holding onto something that we
thought, we constructed to look
like hope.

except we know it is just
a scribbled picture, just a
crayon creation of a
gruesome monster, a thing waiting

to grab us, with fierce
blue claws, and pull us
under by our
fluorescently lit halos.

falling out of love was easy.
all you had to do was make a call,
break a heart,
find someone new.
i guess that’s only if you fall out at all. i guess i'm still waiting for that.
i've been waiting for a while.
longer than it feels and shorter than I tell myself
i have a fear that i’ll be waiting to fall out of love with you when i have canyons in my face from age and broken legs from climbing up this mountain.

you can't tell people that your heart isn't the only thing broken.
bedsides from just being damaged goods, they've heard all your songs before. they're tired of it. "move on, change the station please, this melody is making me carsick. you've had your time to mourn."
everyone had their fair share of breaking. nobody cares.

and no one cares about poetry. no one cares that a poet cries when they think about daffodils or that they feel physical pain in their chest when they think about what wasn't meant to be but it happened anyway.
a poet writes for themselves, and how selfish is that? they consider others only when their chest stops hurting and expectations boil in their brain.

Panoramic one click,
portrait?
buy before it's too late
film not included.

How quaint it ain't.

Hollywood ***** the shine from the stars
and spits them out in cheap bars to
sit and romance the idea that once they
were great.

But it was always the sidewalk and the way
that the boys stood and spit while they
talked their big deeds.

Joe in the milk bar built the underground railway
to spirit the stars from the studio lot, but he never
made sergeant in the US marine corp
because he was too fond of the growing
and the smoking of ***.

And we all took those colour Polaroids
to sit by our bedsides and remind us
how easy this life had become.

Panorama,
the one click sick serialized drama,
a portrait of us as
we were.

i asked him where my medicine was
“it’s on your side of the bed"
and suddenly i remembered you
after i had tried so hard
and let in hard
and played hard
and played hard
all i could do
was think about your comforter
and the comfort your words offered
how they comfort her still
when she’s weak and she lets you in
and hard that's softened leaves
even in your absence
imagine…  

the power of your presence to me then

she says she's sorry for my loss
though i’m sorry and i'm not
simultaneously
that she seems not to know
that what i lost was her
but she didn't leave me…
not forever at least…
at least that’s what i hear
my inner monologue speak
when i feel feeble and
i dread waking because it means
i'll have to keep my head above sea
and my true thoughts at bay
and i'll have to swim against the wave
because instinctively i don't give in
and as much as i would **** for you
i won't die because i let them drench me,
till i let the tide consume me
when i ensure that you're
the last image i see
follow me closely,
my tailgating tears

after you, i went to the doctor’s
i thought they were supposed to help
but they had me sat in that waiting room
for too, too long. almost as though they knew
of the last time you sat in the seat
i’m now writing these words on
penned poetry, just like me
you’re not here
and i'm feeling
sad and nostalgic
boxing out
fist fighting
violently resisting
even the slightest semblance of hope
my cruel mind tries to grant entrance

because i’ve been there before
and though they draw comparisons
between my knack of gathering information
that’s not mine to have and felines,
this is the exception
everything has one
and i'm cashing in
ignorance is bliss
it's never made more sense

i felt relieved as i sank at the shrink’s love seat

though i could also feel
the heart you’d enlarged
shrink in me
i couldn’t tell you anything about
our talk if i tried
for the life of me
i was too busy thanking time
for getting me away
from the waiting room
before i slipped away
and got it away from me

i started seeing people like this
you know them,
i was fathered by one who somewhat resembled them
the ones with a bunch of acronyms
listed next to the names their parents
gifted them. it’s saddening.
they’re all the same, robots
rinse
repeat
rinse
repeat
you’d have agreed with me

i guess i’m a hypocrite, though
i always knew little brother was right all along
i always denied the fact that a word that simple
could arouse defenses so complex
so as to divert my attentiveness
from the major setback at hand
aim, grimace, and flick metal at
the innocent fawn whose only wrong
was looking at me for long
enough so for me to see my reflection in
his ******* eyes
but i admit now, yes, i am.
a hypocrite.
because here i am,
collaborating
and manipulating the manipulators
to try to bring her back
because she was so happy
and ever since she left
you fled the negativity
and i don't blame you
that's why i use them
since they'll do me the same
regardless, as it’s a two-way street
i know they know what they're doing
when they hand me pills
in childproof bottles
my naïve questions
are enough "indicators" for them

and i play along
because that's what children do
and i make it seems as though i’ve just learned something new

like walking
and taking deep breaths
and loving sunny days
and life vests
and you

sometimes i get answers but never a handshake
not until we’ve zero'd it all out
by exchanging
pluses in bank accounts with negative NA motifs
at least i know, it’s all a game
and i like those a lot, you know.
you're the only one who really saw the child in me
she's been hiding for years.
shy...but instead of mocking nature
you made her feel how any little girl should feel.
so i win, because it’s all
about winning—my flaw, i know
acting like i know it all too
when i feel like i do
because i don’t claim
to retain
information
i never cultivate.

i drove home—or wherever the hell  
take it as a figure of speech
i’ve never really had that
not in my heart, at least
except with you
and thats all that matters most

like you said to me on the balcony
mama told me all that matters
is her sun
his heart
his soul
and the one
he chooses to sleep
next to each night
faithfully
her sun
his heart
his soul.
not wallet
nor abode
just.
those.

so here i am
sat, placid
apathetic
pathetic

reading him long before
he knew what he
was fixing to do
and i thought of you
so i walked to the room
sinking steeply
thinking deeply
sprinting wouldn't be
fast enough if it could be
that i could outrun
thoughts of a memory
because if that was you
and i’d seen your intentions
long before your own self
the influx of dopamine that would
flood my head
would’ve never driven me
to waiting rooms
in the doctor’s office
but reality is reality
as philosophers would agree

and i am me

though i’m unsure
as to what they’d say here

on my way to "my" side of the bed
right before I swallowed it
one more day out of thirty
pieces of her heart
that somehow
ended up in this
little
orange
bottle
she left for me
all i could fixate on
was the fact
that we had no fixed rules
or obligations or tasks
how we could fall asleep
and wake as we pleased
how you'd rise early
to move my car for me
to save me the officer's money
that i now use to sit in this crook's office
for this orange bottle

remember how we had
dinner for breakfast
true conversations without
no need
to divert attention from any
awkwardness at hand
by stroking our hands
on each other instead
and no curfew
or house laws needless?

do you remember my favorite?
when laughed as if we
were best friends sat by one another
in the classroom
struggling and breathless
because we weren’t allowed
to laugh that’s exactly what
made us red—what we can’t have

remember when we talked about assigned bedsides
the silliness of the notion because, besides,
once the electric shock seizes us and we fall
asleep in each others arms and hearts
left and right would merely do right
side by side just like
how our hearts and
words and bodies and brains
and all that makes us human
did

pure perfection.

you used to move me to the core
when you'd pull me in more
with those strong arms of yours
every time you sensed how on edge i am
and what i wouldn't give now
for that set side of the bed, left, right
that we had mocked as silliness

you’re the only thing
i wouldn’t give, if even
for the edge of your bed.

created and man-made, holding lives in the hands and dictates sorrows and joys. Slow and steady, never-ending, eternal, but never enough. capturing moments on squares smeared with ink. the hands never letting go.
grandfathers stand tall and watch as the owl makes her best. she sings lullaby's to her children, as they lay to rest. restful days and restless nights. blankets covering who rest peacefully. the hands place bouquets by their bedsides.
standing on a log amongst the swallowing waters, the hands beckon to cross the cavern. the owl and her children soaring high above the waters. with lifeless lungs and barely a grasp reaching for the hands and they stretch across. standing tall and looking grandfather in the face. the hands wrapping around with an unbreakable grasp.

He jokes that we'd argue over bedsides
We'd live in hipsterville &
I'd bike everywhere &
douse myself in patchouli each morning

He giggles at the thought of us
Dancing in our white-walled apt &
the wine spilling over our glasses &
the dog ******* in the tub

What a crazy thought--Us
Sanding our own dining table &
reading the headlines &
taking pills before breakfast

He laughs at these things
These things I've already thought

Buried under sheets alone
in wonderment
of what we could be

--
c

By my Softness you shall know me
Soft
Quieting
Voice
Throat removed
Given the the Flame
Torch
Ire
Chamber music High
A Woman
For whom this Lamp Burns Well
And whose Braun
Is the **** snake Goddess
Come into a mind of Teachings
Touch me Well family.. Smile  Vloser
Sweet Bow of Infamy
Quietly gathering Smile
Draws you Ever Closer
Closer
Until
Yours
Is the Very Gate Upon the Earth
See
Feel
Emery
Escxene part of Me
Gathered for her Herbs and Forest
And Drawn from the well of HerBlood
I Drink Thee
Our Pleasure
Holy Symphony
Your death
My Bedsides companion
Each
Falling
Instance
Greatly Golden
In our Non Forgetting
Desire
Unleashed
Heavens
Curtain
Made on the Presence
Of Your Flesh
Ring Bearer

I must apologize. I'm sorry, man.
Let me go out on a limb here, Jack.
On behalf of all Senators,
Republican and Democrat;
On behalf of every congressional rep,
Every government worker,
Whatever the jurisdiction,
For every student council,
For the clerk stamping the seal,
For every department...
I apologize on your behalf
For the slanders hurled
And flung like dung
At the men and women who weeped
At the bedsides of the lonely and dying.
Oh the shame.
I apologize for him,
Who will never apologize.
I apologize to the medical profession,
And to all First Responders and Essentials.
Oh the horror... the horror...
Believe me,
We don't believe him.

a red moon crusts on a right

hand--pulled from blankets

that shift into folds.

spread cleaner than the Face

of these.

all the matter kept, a

tutelage of flocking

black birds closing their

schoolbook.

a soundless penmanship

of two withheld bodies.

words are very difficult

when they come alive in

proximity.

serpents trade bedsides

in deep sleep.

their waking eight coincides with

the slowest fathom--dousing the

legend of a heart.

it's so strange when it follows you

around.

april, lilac-breathed
settles like balm
onto freshly broken skin

wounds left by happiness
as she swallowed like a forgotten flower
into the tongue of the night.

moonsets at bedsides
voluptuous bodies
of uninvited clouds
locking skies within their lips.

fields of forgotten flowers.

my, the suffering we endure for the truths we tell and the lies we don't.

Forgive reality for being what it is
it forgets what it does with its stories
of memories and artifacts of time.,
gifted us by evening fires and bedsides, barstools and TV’s.  
They echo in each with tears and laughter, anger and dismay
regifted to those close to us.
Lest we forget.

these hands shave countless faces
these hearts unconditionally care
these eyes cry tears for strangers
these brave souls are still there
through these frightening times.

they cannot stay at home
they are the essential pillars of society
underequipped and undervalued
and they're on the frontline
fighting an awful virus.

they are begging for facemasks
they are begging for gowns
why should they beg for the protection
necessary to stop the spread of infection?
they are being let down

they are the ones who stand at bedsides
the nurses monitoring vital signs
the carers providing essential care
all of them safeguarding lives
while their own are being put at risk

so while you applaud
remember to never again say the words
"just a carer" or "just a nurse"
because blessed are the keyworkers
who risk their lives to help others.

J.Walker April 2020

I'm finding it hard these days
To watch loved one's fade
Once strong and vibrant spirits
Looking for a way to escape

Leaving behind the mark
That runs forever deep
It's just a fact when there's little left
All that you have are the memories

I tend to find I'm not far behind
Before long, I'll follow suit
Where it'll be me that's has the need
In bed instead of those I knew

As life goes round in circles
Not caring who it claims
Puts no thought into most it all
Then turns and takes none of the blame

That's why I find it difficult
As we gather by bedsides
Waiting for the last exhale
Being the final attempt at goodbye

See you on the other side...

The Quiet Work of Love

The alarm rings early, and I rise,
not for myself, but for a boy
who waits on frozen ice,
for wheels that spin on mountain trails,
for talks that stitch together
the quiet fabric of his growing years.

I lace my days with yardwork,
laundry folded into small monuments,
meals stirred with weary hands,
floors swept of dust but never of love.
This is not martyrdom—
this is the quiet work of love,
done without scoreboard or applause.

Two hours of highway each day,
time I cannot keep for myself,
yet I give it anyway,
trading silence and solitude
for a roof, for stability, for him.
Even as another close,
instead of seeing the cost,
found fault where there should be thanks,
complaints where there should be quiet respect.

My mind bears the shadows
of serving a flag,
tasks unspoken,
memories locked behind the ribs,
yet I return to serve again—
in hospitals, at bedsides,
for a quarter-century of need.

The cost is high:
free time surrendered,
health strained,
a self worn thin like old denim.
But if you ask why I give,
the answer is simple—
because love does not keep score,
does not call itself a sacrifice.

It is a father’s way:
to hold the weight of the world,
even when another refuses to see it,
so his son may carry only his dreams.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.