The Foundation We Build

Beneath new beams and fresh-cut pine,
In the hush of evening’s slowing time,
We shape a space with care-worn hands—
A daughter’s dream, a life’s new plan.

My son-in-law, with steady grace,
Beside me in that shadowed place.
We lift and frame, we brace and bend,
Not just a room—but means to end.

My father’s voice, still calm, still wise,
Echoes through sawdust-scented skies.
Three generations, hearts as one,
Driving nails until it’s done.

There’s laughter echoing off the studs,
And plans sketched out in drywall dust.
Each hammer’s swing, each nail we drive,
Another way we keep love alive.

And yet, amid the joy and sweat,
There lies a quiet, soft regret.
A space beside me not yet filled,
A longing that won’t quite be stilled.

I wish my son could see this too,
And feel the pride in what we do.
To pass this torch, to share this bond,
To build a life he’s proud beyond.

And someone else—I feel the lack,
A presence missed, a voice held back.
To share the dusk, the ride, the road,
To lighten up this blessed load.

For family’s more than blood or name,
It’s showing up through joy and strain.
It’s knowing love in tired hands,
And finding peace in shared demands.

And when the stars begin to show,
And quiet calls me home to go,
The country roads stretch soft and wide,
With sunset bleeding on each side.

My body aches, my spirit soars—
For in these nights and through these chores,
I’ve come to see what matters most:
Not walls, not tools, but who we host.

A future built with sweat and care,
With love poured out in each repair.
And in that basement, warm and bright,
Lives not just shelter—but their light.

To give, to build, to stand beside,
To share the load, to swell with pride—
I know now what family means:
It’s not the house, but all the scenes

Of working late and driving slow,
Of quiet peace when day lets go.
Of building futures, hand in hand—
On sacred, sawdust-covered land.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Braces for His Kids

I signed the line with a shaking hand,
One more check to meet demand.
The lawyer smiled, a practiced grace—
I visualized my kid’s crooked smile in place.

The gavel dropped, the papers signed,
A chapter closed, a life repealed.
The cost? Not just the fee they charge,
But dreams postponed, and wounds still large.

My teenager—fouteen, brave and kind—
Hides his teeth, tries not to mind.
“Maybe next year…or never” I softly say,
But even next year feels so far away.

The lawyer’s office: marble halls,
Family portraits on the walls.
Two children grin with perfect teeth,
Their braces gone, relief beneath.

And I—I paid for every wire,
Each monthly visit they require.
While mine just shrugs and bites his tongue,
In silence where his hope once clung.

Total price $19,565.
It could have cost us $375.
And with the same legal outcome.
And even a future sweet ride for our son.

He was the true loser in this sad battle.

I want to rage, to howl, to curse
This bitter trade, this skewed reverse.
But I just nod, and drive on home,
Past every ad for perfect bone.

Still, love remains—though funds are few—
And in his eyes, I see what’s true:
No bracketed smile could better shine
Then knowing, through the storm, he’s mine.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Awakening

I built my walls from quiet pain,
Stone by stone, through fire and rain—
A soldier first, but still a man,
Holding weight no heart could stand.

In jungle hush and shadowed glen,
I watched the worst of what we can.
Guatemala carved its name
In places I could never name.

I carried blame like sacred fire,
As if I’d lit the funeral pyre.
Though orders rang and chaos reigned,
I wore the guilt, I claimed the stain.

I feared the monster in my skin,
Not from without—but deep within.
To guard the ones I loved the most,
I made myself a haunted ghost.

But time—unyielding, slow, and kind—
Kept whispering that I might find
That wounds once again buried in the sand
Could one day bloom if touched by hand.

And so I cracked, I let it break,
The dam I built to stop the ache.
And in the flood, I found a spark—
Not all I am is forged in dark.

The world grew new beneath my gaze,
A softer truth, a warmer blaze.
I saw the child beneath the gun,
The man who longed to feel the sun.

The blood was never mine to claim,
The acts, though witnessed, weren’t my name.
And though the past can never fade,
It doesn’t own the life I’ve made.

Now I emerge, no longer small,
Beyond the shelter of my wall.
I show the world, I show me too,
The soul I always somehow knew.

Not just a soldier with regret,
But someone rising stronger yet—
Not perfect, but at last, set free,
To live, to love, and finally be.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

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.