Just Us, Again

The sitter came, the bags were packed,
Our son in grandma’s care, relaxed.
We stepped away from daily grind,
To find what time can never blind.

Dinner buzzed with old delight,
Drinks and touches, candlelight.
Your laugh—a sound I’d chase for years,
Still soft, still cutting through my fears.

Back at the room, your look was fire,
Not rushed, but slow with deep desire.
You disappeared behind the door—
Then reappeared, and I stared.

Lace hugged every curve just right,
A quiet storm in dim hotel light.
Black silk, bare skin, and steady eyes,
You were art beneath moonlit skies.

No words—just hands, just breath, just you,
Familiar, yes, but wholly new.
We moved like people who had lived,
And knew how much the moment gives.

Not frantic youth, not wild and fast,
But something built, something that lasts.
A rhythm slow, a pulse in tune,
A sacred song beneath the moon.

Later, tangled, skin to skin,
You whisper, “Let’s do it again.”
And I know—no matter how days bend,
We’re lovers first, until the end.

One night away from all the noise,
Just us, no toys, no cries, no chores—
Just lace and heat, and love well-worn,
Still blazing hot, still being born.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Summer Cut

The sun hangs low, a golden sigh,
As dusk rolls in across the sky.
We’re side by side in evening’s hum,
The mower growls, the constant drum.

You push the line with steady grace,
Sweat like diamonds on your face.
That tank top clings in all the right ways—
I pause my task, caught in a daze.

Your hips, the sway, the strength, the fire—
Even in work, you spark desire.
Each pass you make, each blade you bend,
Turns labor into sweet pretend.

I watch from far, heart in a race,
Wanting more than just this space.
Your body glows in fading light—
You, the heat, this perfect night.

We finish slow, the yard laid bare,
Your fingers pulling loose your hair.
You glance at me with that old spark—
And just like that, I lose the dark.

The hose runs cold, but the shower waits—
Steam will rise, as passion wakes.
Hands will find familiar skin,
And what we start out here, begins within.

The grass is done, the stars climb high—
But darling, it’s your moan, not the sky,
That I’ll replay when day is through—
You, the night, and all we do.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved

Miles of Grit

Before the dawn, I rise and ride,
Legs like stone, lungs stretched wide.
Gravel roads become my prayer,
Spinning through pain, gasping air.

Unbound waits—one hundred miles,
Through Kansas dust and brutal trials.
Each climb I face, each breath I take,
Is built on choices others break.

I’ve trained through storms, through aching bone,
Pushed past the doubt when I felt alone.
Skipped birthdays, dinners, bedtime songs—
Chasing this dream for far too long.

But guilt, it rides my back some days,
When pedals steal the time that stays.
My family waits while I chase more,
Yet still they meet me at the door.

And then—the race.
Heat and grit beneath the sky,
Mile after mile, I wonder why.
Cramped legs scream, the wind cuts deep,
I think of every night I lost sleep.

But near the end—I see them there,
My son,  my love, their arms in air.
Cheering loud with muddy pride,
As tears break loose I’ve tried to hide.

This isn’t just about the ride.
It’s every moment I almost cried.
It’s every hill, each stubborn scar,
And all the hearts who brought me far.

The finish line—just gravel and paint,
But it holds the weight of what I ain’t:
A quitter. A shadow. A halfway flame—
No. I burned through every claim.

Proud not just of what I did,
But of the ones who let me live
This wild, relentless, grinding dream—
Together strong. A human team.

© 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.

Ole, the Goodest Boy”

We brought you home in a blur of gold,
A ball of fluff with eyes so bold.
You tumbled in, all paws and grace,
And filled the quiet with your pace.

We named you Ole, soft and sweet,
With clumsy steps and dancing feet.
A leash, some treats, a training plan—
We shaped your world with gentle hands.

Together we learned sit and stay,
And how to chase the fear away.
We wiped your paws, you stole our socks,
And greeted dawn with barks and walks.

The kids would cheer, you’d wag so proud,
Your ears a-flop, your bark so loud.
You weren’t just ours—you quickly knew,
You had a bigger job to do.

Through months of work, we watched you grow,
With vests and tests and healing slow.
You learned to listen, calm, and wait,
To walk through every heavy gate.

And when you passed that final test,
We cried and laughed—we knew the rest:
You’d be a light for those in pain,
A soft reminder through the rain.

Now Ole walks with heart so wide,
A gentle soul right by our side.
A doodle dog with purpose clear,
Bringing hope and wiping tears.

So proud are we, this family three,
To see what love and work can be.
A golden heart, a friend so true—
Dear Ole, we believe in you.

© 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.