NVMM Poetry Corner

The NVMM Poetry Corner shares poems written by Veterans with the goal of bridging the gap between the Veteran experience and civilian understanding. Poetry is a form of storytelling that Veterans and civilians alike can use to process life experiences and navigate the way ahead.

Below is a selection of poetry from authors of the Veteran owned and operated publishing company Dead Reckoning Collective. DRC’s mission encourages literacy as a component of a positive lifestyle. Although DRC only publishes the written work of military veterans, the intention of closing the divide between civilians and veterans is held in the highest regard.

Read the poems or listen to the author read with their own emotions and reflect upon the meaning of their words.

Like what you hear? Many of these books and others are available for purchase through ShopNVMM or DRC’s website.

Please note: Topics covered in these poems may be triggering. Click here for a list of resources for Veterans, or dial 988, then plus 1, for the Veteran Crisis Hotline.

“More than Our War”

By Leo Jenkins, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “In Love… &War: The Anthology of Poet Warriors, Volume 1”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2023

More than Our War

I still remember when
we stood together then
boys becoming men
seeds becoming trees
becoming corpses, walking.
I still remember when
we learned to hold our own
amid the smell
of innocence burning
becoming brothers,
I still remember when.
 
The ones returned still burned
this time, from the inside
night after sleepless night
begging to feel less alive.
The ones returned unknowingly earned
the undeserved honor
and burden born of medals worn
and countless brothers now to mourn.
 
The weight of each a stone
to fill the pack upon our back
until the load snaps bone
testing our apt to atone.
Now to pull the stone
from the pack upon our back
and save the snap of bone.
 
I learned we are worse alone
came together again
brothers reborn
and with that stubborn stone
built a towering throne
where now we sit and see
through burden bore,
a forever endeavor to be
(BUT LET’S BE NOW)
more than our war.
 

_

By Leo Jenkins, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally Published in “In Love… &War: The Anthology of Poet Warriors, Volume 1”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2023

“3495 Bailey Avenue”

© Keith Walter Dow, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Karmic Purgatory”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2021

3495 Bailey Avenue

Every step, a set of ribbons stitched on a hat
Reminds you of where they’ve been
And where you’re at
Wedged in a chair, relating to peeling linoleum
Narcotics more present than the fiends holding them
We are the resolve and we are the end result
We are the hammers, the scalpels and the old salts
We are more though and moreover
We are walking, talking textbooks when the war’s over
As rattled as we wanna be
As broken as we all believe
When they read our story
What will they take away?
Will they know of the triumphs?
Or will they pity our decay?

© Keith Walter Dow, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Karmic Purgatory”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2021

“THE RIVER DID NOT WEEP”

By Matt Smythe, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Revision of a Man”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2022

THE RIVER DID NOT WEEP

Imagine the Chattahoochee River.
Meandering minor Mississippi with the same amount of mud.
The stretch that borders Ft. Benning in Georgia is bound by black willow, cypress, cottonwood, pawpaw, kudzu, beaver, heron, cottonmouth, chiggers and cicada heat.

I was there when the Rangers loaded the C-130 for night-jump training.
I was there when the plane took off and flew a five-mile circle before approaching the drop zone nap-of-the-earth.
I was there when they stood up, hooked up to the static line and waited on the green light.
I was there when the last seven were rushed by their First Sergeant out the door and into the night after the jump window had passed.
The First Sergeant followed on the heels of the last Ranger.
The last seven dropped silently except for the soft whip-billow of their parachutes,
into the tangle of undergrowth at the treeline,
into the riverside trees,
into the night-black Chattahoochee.

All but the First Sergeant were found alive and when taps was played for the fallen Ranger
the river did not weep.
 

_

By Matt Smythe, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Revision of a Man”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2022

“Existential Snacks”

By Leo Jenkins, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “A Word Like God”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2023

Existential Snacks

I am 40 years old. Existential dread is a playful companion.
The comradery from foreign wars has spread thin.
Listen, my brothers live in different tax codes
and raise children whose names I do not know.
They pay mortgage to banks, keep heads a float,
to sip whiskey when their children’s eyes are closed.
They buy new clothes,
shirts with slogans and monikers
reminding them of who they were.
Some of them found Christ,
he was hiding in plain sight.
And despite my disbelief,
Their plight has seen relief.
Still I tease these seasoned
men who preach of certainties,
with no way to disprove their findings.
 
Sleep is a tease. Even when it works it’s a second hand courtesy.
Nothing like the real thing, a dirt nap, perhaps, could ease this suffering.
I keep seeing these people preaching a cosmic awakening –
drinking ayahuasca – eating peyote –
seeking out meaning, but finding only poetry.
Writing lines disguised like landmines in a mind constantly questioning if this path will lead to a place worth going, or to another tourniquet that keeps life from flowing.
I take pity on the healthy. A disease is an enemy worth fighting. A person in their 30’s or 40’s with no war is withering. And I have friends worth remembering who gave their last breath that prosperity would envelop me. They gave, in their 20’s, a gift so great the weight is unrelenting. I carry it with me to family dinners, and social gatherings – through airports, from overseas.
It used to be crushing,
but now it makes me happy,
knowing they’ll never leave.
My daughter’s answer to everything
is, “peanut butter and jelly, please.”
If you don’t see how that fits into an existential dilemma, keep reading…
 
Simplicity makes certainty a possibility.
And even when it’s raining
The sun is shining.
Climbing mountains
Is a waste of time.
Joy finds folly
In both sobriety
And wine.
A broad
Perigdime
Is a crime
Worth
Committing.
Even when it leads to diatribes no one finds compelling.
And the answer to everything
Is still, “peanut butter and jelly.”
 
A broken clock’s tick tock makes time a triviality
Spirituality, in the wrong hands,
Has never killed a man.
Religion, on the other hand.
 
But let’s pretend
Every point has a beginning
And an end
As all things are supposed to,
Like a sandwich,
The universe,
And the breath in you.
Let’s pretend
This isn’t something,
We’re all living through –
Searching to find a way to calm our mind,
And please our belly.
My three year old figured it out before me. The meaning of existence is…
 

_

By Leo Jenkins, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “A Word Like God”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2023

“Pandemic Childhood”

By Cokie, U.S. Marine Corps and Army National Guard Veteran

Pandemic Childhood

In barbarian fields with barbarian ways,
contained the domain where barbarians played,
but fanciful plagues with fancy new laws
laughed at the riff-raff, demanding their awe.
In white picket fences the white brittle moms
tried managing savages breaking the calm,
and weak, tired dads with bleak, tired lies
led rabble to Babel to sever their ties.
We’ll bury the hilt with nary the guilt
required for the fire to condemn what we’ve built.
Yet still children play, and still children grow –
they’ll romp and they’ll stomp and hopefully show us
to lead the young seedlings to break status quo.

_

By Cokie, U.S. Marine Corps and Army National Guard Veteran

“STILL, MADMAN”

By Matt Smythe, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Revision of a Man”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2022

STILL, MADMAN

I know how to speak
to the living and the dead.
A lost language
that falls from my lips
like the second nature of a child
reaching for a flame.
Dangerous conversations

exposing the nature of hopelessness.
A need to feel something,
like hands in the belly
of a body in a hospital morgue
exposing inertia’s last call.
It’s a wonder we exist at all.

The living should be able to handle themselves.
The dead look nothing like I was taught.
 

_

By Matt Smythe, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Revision of a Man”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2022

“Elephant in the Tomb”

© Keith Walter Dow, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Karmic Purgatory”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2021

Elephant in the Tomb

If a man shoots himself alone in his house
(Just after Thanksgiving when no one’s around)
Does it make a sound when he slides off the couch?
Rather;
If a man’s mouth meets the barrel of a gun
Does anyone give a shit before the deed’s done?
Sorry;
What rings out louder? (“Rah!”)
The bullet or the body? (“Probably.”)

They may clean the house and sell it
They may sort through his possessions
But those walls will remember him
The happy home will end with this

We might think we’ve found something like it
But, none of us will ever know this loneliness
That drove a man from that to this
To tell it “no,” just to be driven back to it

A row of rifles blast
A bugle plays taps
A wife cries into a flag
A child lies on her lap
A box goes below the grass
A soul sleeps in peace at last



© Keith Walter Dow, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Karmic Purgatory”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2021

“Share What You Can”

By Leo Jenkins, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “war{n}pieces”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2020

Share What You Can

“I drew a scene of a cat tap dancing.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean? It’s a cat tap dancing. His shoes are ruby red with specks of green.”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, I didn’t know how to draw six men standing tall,
Before the blast, before the fall,
Of two fathers, six sons, a newborn ghost.
I can live those things in lucid dreams,
Second squad’s alpha and bravo teams, disappearing-
The displaced head of a man, mostly intact,
But I can’t share all that, so here’s a cat, tap dancing,
His shoes are red and green.”
 

_

By Leo Jenkins, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “war{n}pieces”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2020

“The Duel”

By Cokie, U.S. Marine Corps and Army National Guard Veteran

The Duel

My king and lord, we’ve been at lines
for days and days on end.
Our swords feel rust for lack of use,
and patience starts to bend.
The fields and flowers, grass and roots,
grow weary of our tents.
With soil and rain, they call for blood
and long for nourishment!
The men sing songs of going home
before they’ve drawn their steel,
some showing truth of fearful hearts
that waiting has revealed.
Upon my oath, these men of ours,
they seek the peace of slaves
while drums of Gauls on distant plain
turn brave to timid knaves!
 
But hark, my Lord, to battlefield! 
Some mischief is at play!
From foe-men’s line rides forth a man 
who longs to fight today!
At last! The scoundrels sent their man, 
their champion of war, 
who calls for us to send our own 
to try upon his sword!
Let me cross swords with such as he, 
I beg my Lord and king!
My shield hand burns! My blood, it yearns!
My blade, it longs to ring!
 
Oh bliss that I might clash and strive!
In gratitude I ride
that I might hazard Fortune’s hand
to risk my head and pride!
And as for thee, my enemy, 
defiance shall be met!
For each alike to kings, we owe 
this debt of blood and sweat!
I’ll take thy head, I’ll burn thy standard 
here for all to see
I’ll drive this blade into thy heart
as thou would’st do to me!
A laugh, my fearless Frankish foe?
as thou dismounts thy horse?
I hate thy blood, yet love thy joy
through worthy veins so coursed!
That one should die so all might live 
like Christ upon His cross,
that roaring lions die for mice, 
that gold might burn for dross!
To men like us, a noble death 
shall be its own reward,
so come, my sudden, newest friend – 
we dance the dance of swords!
And should we die, both thee and I,
and each one slay the other,
oh find me in our heaven’s gates,
embrace me as a brother!

_

By Cokie, U.S. Marine Corps and Army National Guard Veteran

“Deal”

By Matt Smythe, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Revision of a Man”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2022

Deal

When I was 4 or 5, I watched my mother carrying me into the hospital.
From above, like the blackbirds floating against blue, heads cocked, I watched.
Fading into and out of the dark.
The sun is barely over Bare Hill. Certain thoughts should not be given this much light.
Summer is over at the speed I’m driving.
This road heads south.

At the end of this backbone will be the promised land, I’m sure.
Signs in truck stop windows
tell me on the way in, cleanest rooms.
On the way out, please come again!
I can’t say I won’t.
I’ve been here before.

Oh to reach that promised land.
Oh to drive until daylight’s gone.
Oh to drive all night.
Oh to find cheap gas.
Oh why the hell am I leaving?
Oh road (you’d better be worth it).

12:38 am somewhere between Beckley and the Appalachians.
The waitress smokes between tables.
Seven truckers use payphones.
Two elderly couples are having eggs toast and sausage.
My coffee is half gone. The waitress slides over with a refill, winks. She never brought the bill.
I left $2 and an empty mug.

Dreams come. Almost always they involve great heights.
Rooftops, cliffs, mountain tops, bridges.
I’m always surrounded by people I know but do not recognize.
There’s always a woman. Always a woman there.
I wake as she allows me to touch her. It is never daylight.
This time I’m parked at an abandoned gas station.

Columbus, Georgia.
The old bar hasn’t changed except for the employees.
It’s been 10 years. A beer for old-time’s sake.
A second for the emptiness.
It’s an off night. Stale and overwhelmingly quiet.
I wanted the place to be packed like it was when I left.

Once I saw a gator snatch a deer by the head and drag it flailing into a small lake near here.

We were fishing for bass in a 15-foot john-boat along a weed bed 50 yards from the explosion.

The deer was quietly sipping at the shore.
We left the water ringing with the growing concentric silence
and blackbirds lighting out from the trees.
Years later blackbirds still remind me.

I don’t drive through Fort Benning to my old barracks.
I don’t stop for cheap gas
or to buy an air assault sticker from US Cavalry.
I do make a couple phone calls
to answering machines.
I forgot everything just across the bridge in Phenix City (Alabama).

I was used to forgetting in these parts. I had been this way with Eric (road trip, Memphis).
Graceland would set us free and his Honda Civic would get us there.
He hadn’t changed the oil in almost 10,000 miles.
It was dead Elvis week. We forgot about the Army.
We drank all the way. We mocked the King.
We stumbled down Beale Street.

Beale street at night. It hadn’t moved, but something in me did. Everything did.
I sat down on the curb. I was 100 years old right then.
Left over and full of nothing. That night I made a deal with myself over the toilet.
I had made this deal before with whiskey and beer.
There’s something empowering about making a deal.
The finality is settling

When sleep came, it was like I was dead.
Blackbird-black and real quiet.
I’d like to believe that. When you die nothing comes and gets you.
Nothing snatches you away screaming to the fire and pain.
When I die, I’ll just slip back into the dark
like a bass returned to its shadows.
 

_

By Matt Smythe, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Revision of a Man”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2022

“Who Did I Kill?”

By Cokie, U.S. Marine Corps and Army National Guard Veteran

Who Did I Kill?

Who did I kill with glee in my heart?
A farmer? A father? A son taking part
in defense of his village? To whom was imparted
those small copper rounds with evil black arts?
 
I hope they were vile; devils from hell,
rapists and thieves deserving expelling
or rotting hot death while their corpses would swell
(but if you were wond’ring – yes, they died well).
 
We trampled their bodies, on their blood we did trod,
and not even once did we wonder it odd
that we laughed as we shot at the image of God
who, compared to our sins were perhaps not so flawed.
 
I’ve heard it was said, “Lions don’t cry
over prey in their jaws.” Perhaps that is why
questions abound for lambs such as I
who made these brave men stumble and die.
 
_

By Cokie, U.S. Marine Corps and Army National Guard Veteran

“The Assessment”

© Keith Walter Dow, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Karmic Purgatory”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2021

The Assessment

“Where do we go from here?”
“Well, where have we been?
When the media’s making America believe we’ve got demons within
Heathens who sin but we’re the reason we win
We’ve been the reason that you’ve been relieved of those sins.”

“What have you become?”
“Well, what did we start as?
Built in the image of the way my son drew me in art class
But I have trouble living up to the same level of good his heart has
Built in the image of a setting sun but son, it’s getting dark fast
If we speak of the easy route, I’m stupid so I go hard and take a hard pass
If we’re being honest, I haven’t kept up with much but my guard has.”

“When did you start feeling this way?”
“Well, when did I feel different?
I’ve been bending this way and that, but time doesn’t heal decisions
We ignore texts and calls, all the while following up with Jameson and Guinness
We wallow in our losses until the instant it’s clear that we’re finished
Still just trying to define something by listing everything it isn’t
Still just steady babbling until we’re artifacts in a museum exhibit.”

Burning peepholes into flag draped caskets, feeling that black aluminum strap
Drunk confessions, second guessing if it would have been you if you didn’t act
IT’S A TRAP
The moment passed and you’ve been home and back
If you want you can take it to your headstone with a note attached
To whom it may concern; it doesn’t
Sincerely; the dress blue jacket who’s become unbuttoned.



© Keith Walter Dow, U.S. Army Veteran
Originally published in “Karmic Purgatory”
Dead Reckoning Collective, 2021

WEDS-SUN 10 A.M. - 5 P.M.
Tickets
background image background image

The NVMM is Open on MLK Day!

$1 Admission on Jan. 16 in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Be the first to hear about our latest events, exhibitions and programs.