Bless Me Lord

Bless Me Lord


Bless me Lord

For I have sinned

I followed my heart

And defiled myself again


I freed the thing

You placed in me

That struggled within

Demanding to be free


Bless me Lord

To not be weak

To stand up to those

Who despise and call me freak


Bless me Lord

I have not sinned

I know my own heart

Is not the devil’s den


Bless them Lord

For they don’t know

What it is they do

Free them Lord from hate’s hold




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Alone – For Those on the Road



Alone, so utterly empty and cold

His family a thousand miles away

Both husband and dad

Feeling tattered and old


Ahead, the wandering, snaking gray road

His destiny ahead ruled the day

Now tired eyes and sad

Feels less brazen and bold


No tears, the provider, carries his load

His duties are clear, bill to pay

Things aren’t so bad

Time to rise, do as you’re told


Tim Keen



Please check out my collection of short stories on Amazon.




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Our Love

Our Love



The power of our love is intense


 Though its meaning is not quite known


But when done, our passions are well spent


We linger in our tryst


Our husbands and wives left all alone


And turn again to us, their feelings we dismiss


If our love cannot be set a sea

To rise and fall against the waves

Then our hungering must be set free

It is ours to dismiss

And husbands and wives asleep at home

We turn again to us and revel in this bliss


Tim Keen









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Our Turn

Our Turn


So tomorrow’s the day we all will cry

We must go on so now we’ll try

To celebrate the moments of your life

While we console your grieving wife

Too many times we follow the trend

And turn in pain to our friends

And cry together, our arms entwined

While we wait for our turn to die


Rest in Peace, Larry


Tim Keen


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I can’t walk another step

In these shoes I adorn

In them, I am faded, used up

Afraid I’m a bit worn


I’ve spent too many a day

Just glorifying myself

They waited, prayed for me, didn’t give up

While I hid within my wealth


Their calls I did not heed

And go against my will

I didn’t change for anything

And now I feel the chill


For there is no more time

No more rising suns

Though I ask one more chance

Afraid my time is done


Tim Keen





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The Burn

The Burn


            So much of writing is…well…not as inspired as it could be. Those of you who spent your time spinning words into tales of love, adventure, and suspense know what I mean. You have the story in your head, you know where you want to go with it, know exactly how it is going to end. You understand when to make the pressure within the story build and just when to make that final climatic scene. It is all there inside your head, mapped out and ready to go. It is perfect.

            It is also something else. Work! Yeah, I said it. We all write and, for those of us who haven’t yet made it, we have one thing in mind. I don’t want to work. I want to write for a living. That euphoria wears off pretty quickly when it is finally drilled into your thick skull that writing is work. Writing twenty to a hundred thousand words is really not all that hard. But writing that many good words is very difficult even when you have the story mapped out in your head. It can be a struggle to make what you know in your head translate to the pages in front of you. Then, when you finally get there, then you have to go back and edit. As every writer knows, editing is no more exciting though every bit as essential as weeding a garden. If you don’t pluck the weeds from your manuscript, it will never be a story.

            Now, that being said, I know I make it sound as if there is no reward in writing. It is, of course, not true. Bringing a good story home is awesome and well worth the effort despite all the hard work. It is very gratifying.

            But it is not the best part. There is another part, the early part, the part when the story is new, still developing in your head, well before it is “mapped” out that is the most exciting time of the writing process. While working on my latest writing project, I wrote this in my notes:

New update 2-2-13. This fucking thing is taking shape, coming to life inside of me.


            It’s the burn of a new story, a new idea, and, for a writer, more exhilarating than anything imaginable. It is like chasing after you first ever love and that feeling you get when you know that what you want is just around the corner.

            I write some things and never get The Burn, but when I do, oh man I wish I still smoked. It is just that good.  

            Do your stories make you burn?


Tim Keen


Happy Birthday, Gran.

Rest In Peace




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A Little Something to Think About


This is no indictment. There is no judgment. I just have to wonder….



Our Role



            “Look, why are busting my balls over this?” Thomas was leaned back in his chair staring up as his wife. “What would have me to do? Change who I am because of some wacko nutcase?”

            “I don’t know,” Nicole said.

She thumbed her way through her husband’s latest manuscript. He wrote them, she proofread them, and they both lived happily ever after with more than enough money to do whatever they wanted to do whenever they wanted to do it. It had worked for twenty-two novels and three collections of short stories.

            “I mean, this is some really twisted stuff here,” she said. “My god, the teen-ager kills his entire family then slips through the night killing people while they sleep.”

            “I know,” Thomas said. “I think it is some of my best work. I really like the part where he injects the next-door neighbor with black widow venom he has been collecting. I am really proud of that one. I did a lot of research for that. Did you know that black widow venom if 15 times more potent than rattlesnake poison?”

            “Did you know that some little freak could read this and decide to try it?” Nicole said. “I mean, you have this boy made out to be a hero because he killed twenty people. Twenty people, Thomas! That’s how many people get killed in your latest book.”

            “So?” Thomas said. “They’re paper people. They’re not real. It is just a story. No one really dies, Nicole.”

            “No one really dies until someone with a twisted mind gets in his head that this is a good thing,” Nicole said. “And I repeat, you made him a hero! He killed twenty people and you made him a hero.”

            “It is a story about a kid who gets revenge against a town that is torturing him,” Thomas said. “Of course he is a hero. He is being tortured and he finally says enough! What in the hell is the matter with that?”

            “I didn’t say anything was wrong with it, Thomas,” Nicole said. “Not necessarily. I don’t know. I just look at what I read in books, not just your books, either, and I look at the movies I watch and hell, even the games our kids play, and I wonder just a little if we don’t bear some responsibility to the craziness we see in the news. All the shootings and such.”

            “Are you out of your mind, Nicole?” Thomas said. “Do you seriously think that I could write a story that could somehow make someone do something like kill dozens of kids?”

            “Words are powerful, Thomas,” Nicole said. “Have you ever heard of the bible? You think those words haven’t caused a few real life reactions in people?”

            “But that’s the bible,” he said. “That is a religion. I write fiction. It says so right there on the first page. It is purely a work of fiction, made up in my head. Any sane person who picks up my book knows that it is just for entertainment purposes. Any sane person knows that you can’t just go out and kill a bunch of people.”

            “Of course any sane person knows that,” Nicole agreed. “But what about the insane person? What about the person who picks up that book and lets it become their religion? What about the boy who reads it and decides to kill his parents because he didn’t get the birthday present he wanted. Or the little girl who decides the community is making fun of her because she is a little overweight? What about that person?”

            Thomas pushed his computer aside and leaned up on his elbows to look seriously at his wife.

            “You know all those cruises, the scuba diving, all that shit you really doing, comes from these little stories, right?” he asked. “I mean, I didn’t hear you getting all high and mighty when we touched down in Hawaii last summer. What has gotten into all of sudden?”

            “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I just listen to all the talk on television after these tragedies and all anyone can talk about are the guns. We have to stop all these crazy people from getting guns. Then I turn on television to watch a show and eighty percent of them are shows that somehow involve guns. I grew up watching westerns and then cop shows. Someone got shot and killed almost every night in front of my eyes. And I didn’t think anything about it. I called it entertainment.”

            “I still do,” Thomas said. “Because it is. I ain’t changing what I do for a living, how I entertain people because of some insane person can’t take a story for what it is.”

            “You mean you wouldn’t give up your stories and movies or at least change them to keep innocent people from getting killed?” Nicole asked.

            “I refuse to let a few crazy people dictate how the rest of us sane people live,” he said.  “I have a right to my free speech. It is in the constitution and that is good enough for me.”

            “You have the right to keep and bear arms as well,” Nicole said. “That is in the constitution as well. It is number two, right behind the right to free speech. How come that one doesn’t get you fired up? It is your right. Shouldn’t you want to protect it as well?”

            “Nicole,” he said. “That’s different!”


            “It’s guns! Guns were made to kill. You make a gun for just that reason. Just to kill. I don’t write stories to kill people. I write stories to entertain. That’s all. I refuse to give up my constitutional rights because of a few crazy bastards. We got to find a way to stop the crazy bastards so the rest of us law-abiding citizens can live in peace.”

            “That’s funny,” Nicole said. “That’s just what the gun people say. That is their exact argument.”

            “That’s different,” Thomas said. “They’re gun people.”

            “Thomas,” she said. “I love you and you are a great writer, but that doesn’t even make any sense.”

            “Did you come down here to ruin my day or do you have a more noble cause in mind?” he asked.

            “You’ve been down here all day,” she said. “So you haven’t seen the latest news.”

            “No,” he said, a slight irritation in his voice. “That’s why I come down here in the first place. No distractions. No internet, telephone or television. Just me and my thoughts.”

            “A kid slit a teacher’s throat today,” she said. “She had a copy of your poem with her. You know the one. Revenge!  A Little Girl’s Way Out. She told the police that the poem inspired her to act, to get her own revenge.”

            “Revenge is about a little girl who is being molested by her teachers,” he said. “I say good for her. She was finally able to get that bastard to stop, then good for her.”

            Nicole leaned forward.

            “She didn’t even know the teacher,” she said. “She couldn’t have. She was home schooled.”

            “But then why did she slit a teacher’s throat?” he asked.

            Nicole put the manuscript aside and placed a copy of the poem on her husband’s desk.

            “She had this,” Nicole said.

            “So…” he looked at his wife, a new search for meaning, understanding clouding his eyes. “…what?…I mean…just because of a damned poem? Honey, I was half drunk when I wrote that. It didn’t mean anything.”

            “Apparently now it does,” she said.

            He looked at the poem the way he had always looked at guns, with contempt.

            “Shit,” he said. “They are just words. I can’t stop writing just because some head case decides to go crazy.”

            “But you want the law-abiding gun people to give up shooting just because some head case decides to go crazy,” she said. “I did, too, until I turned on the news this morning.”

            He couldn’t take his eyes off the poem.

            “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

            “None of us do,” she said. “That’s why we keep talking about it.”


Tim Keen







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