Submission Policy





Mel BrakE Press acquires first serial rights to all work published. Mel BrakE Press also reserves the right to electronically archive any content published.




All other rights revert to author upon publication.



Mel BrakE Press has a liberal submission policy, and will accept poetry manuscripts (not books) for its next publication cycle, the Fall of 2014.



We do not charge a reading fee. We DO NOT PAY TO PUBLISH YOUR WORK.



We only accept submissions via email for collection of poems. Please send no more than 5-10 pages of poetry as an email attachment using standard MS format. We do not accept epic manuscripts:10 pages or more will be rejected.



Please note in subject line: "Submission".

Manuscripts that do not follow our guidelines
will be subject to rejection. We do not publish books.



Direct submissions or questions to:

Mbrake1@msn.com



Thank you











Monday, February 3, 2014

THE POETRY OF BRUCE MCRAE

The Poetry of Bruce McRae
BIO:

Originally from Niagara Falls Ontario, Pushcart-nominee Bruce McRae is
a musician who has spent much of his life in London and British Columbia.
He has been published in hundreds of periodicals and anthologies. His first
book, ‘The So-Called Sonnets’ is available from the Silenced Press website
or via Amazon books. To hear his music and view more poems visit his
website: www.bpmcrae.com.


Cometh The Hour


Can’t you sense it, son of a bitch?
Something is coming over the fields.
Something approaches us on its stomach.
Some say it’s winter, or an army of snow.
Some suggest a muted messenger.
Everyone nods when death is mentioned.

It’s marching out of the seventh level,
dragging a chain, a bad foot, a giant’s head.
It flies from out the valleys of reason,
my sweetest demons prattling in their beds,
all my soft monsters despairing,
the sun blighted, the air scoured.

But it’s only the rain, an optimist declares.
Schools darken, our churches condemned.
It’s only the plague of our indifference.


The Spider Says


I’m familiar with apprehension,
aware of doubt, sympathetic to terror.
Consider me a patient knot in a thread,
a little stone calling to the dark of the world,
the multi-eyed beast in her sullen quarter;
she who is tethered to a latch or a hair.

The spider says Sweet fly, sweetmeat,
think me the wraith to your gummy end,
my door invitingly ajar, the table always set.
And these are my babies, my thousands,
so curious, so ravenous, nimble copies
of copies, sentient pebbles fleeing hunger’s edge.
It is they, era-perfect, who scurry.
I set them loose upon the edible earth.


Eventide


One of those evenings the dog slips its leash.
Tree branches scarring a yellow moon.
The saucy stars conspiring.

One of those evenings peace officers loathe.
The mad resigned to their fate.
A drunkard lost in his bedroom.
Civilization’s smoke rising over the rooftops,
as if gravity had given up on us
and our slow blue world.

A page turns in a family bible.
In the harbour is a sloop named Solitude.
And the black bat, resuming its lifelong journey —
a traveler come to the country of night.
As if such things were worthy of a mention.





THE POETRY OF PIJUSH KANTI DEB

The Poetry of Pijush Kanti Deb
BIO:

Achievement- 66 poems and haiku are accepted or published by Indian and international publishers since June 2013,.they are, Tajmahal review, Camel Saloon Blog Spot, E-pao.Net, Dead Snake Blog Spot, Down in the Dirt, Poetic Monthly Magazine, Poems and Poetry Blog Spot, Poetry 24 Blog Spot, Long Story Short , Gean Tree Haiku Journal, My Word Wizard, and A Handful of Stones , Kalkion, ,Verse Engine and The Apple Tree.



An instance of divinity
Divinity –an unanswered inquisitiveness-
makes a theist mad in quest of a little hint
or an instance of extra-ordinary feature,
capable of resolving the mystery of existence
of a power- supernatural and super-normal,
building a faith to surrender everything-
pains and gains, to His safe-custody.
Indeed, cuckoo sings always in the flock of crows
and the record of common incidences may be added
and embellished by a celestial incident
as the amazing incident of a Vietnamese citizen,
compelling the atheists to stand in front of mirror.

A poor Vietnamese citizen---
a victim of self devastative civil war,
an ill-lucky witness of the merciless killing
of his own beautiful wife and affectionate sons,
sneaked to the depth of the nearest jungle
along with his one year old baby son
and disappeared therein mysteriously .
The stony world remained busy
in moving towards selfish destination
and the tragedy of the Vietnamese citizen
and the others were simply forgotten.

Nevertheless, fantastic was the God’s wish,
as the Vietnamese was rescued along with his son alive
after passing of long forty years, wherein
human- surviving, indeed, seemed to be impossible,
yet they were found safe and sound,
as a miraculous power guarded and saved their lives.
Soul-blooming incidence it is for mankind,
quite influential and inspirational miracle-
as an atheist witnesses, perceives and realises
the presence of divinity- a super power and the roll -
it plays in each and every moment of our lives
and bows down to his super-natural power.
It is just another coating of paint,
embellishing the universal belief of a God fearing
‘’Never be killed who is saved by God
And never be saved who is killed by God’’.

 
Go To Hell
The shameless face of yours
ought not to face that of mine
as irritating it is now to my open eyes,
scaring to my broken heart
and disturbing to my weak soul.
Let your lips be refrained from
uttering the common words to me,
‘’I love you’’,
as just before entering the Hell,
I perceive the injurious destination
of your tom boy’s game of love.
Indeed, a fucking machine you are-
nothing more than that
except an owner of animal- instincts.
Your lustful scanning eyes are monotonous
to my juicy lips and eyes,
senseless to my tits and curves
and worthless to my pussy and so on.
But unmindful you are to my
melodious tune- reverberated inside my lips,
a colourful dreamland-
built beneath my blue eyes,
an emotional young heart
beneath my bashful breasts
and soft and sweet offspring of tomorrow
beneath my pussy.
Ought not to blow hot air in my ear
and expect lascivious expansion
of my limbs favourable to you
in meeting your lustful passion,
In the name of
and for the sake of so-called love.
Now I am quite cautious and contracted too
to your desirous longing for swimming
on my sacred lake of love,
well recognized you are-
an Imp- a disciple of the Devil,
hence, leave me alone and go to Hell.


My Girl Friend
Tumultuous was the last evening,
my vital life was cheerful in obtaining
seventeen candles only to put off,
A bunch of hilarious hearts to add to
the garland of my sweet memory
and a silent and surprising
beckon of an enchanting pair of eyes-
belonged to my girl friend –Pamela,
my best friend , not more than that.

A babbler she has been in general
but mysteriously mum she was in that evening
as something wrong in the ongoing party.
Hence my obligation was instant
to take her in a lonely and dark corner,
circumscribed her affectionately with
some formal questions relating to her
unprecedented role in the party,
but my inquisitiveness was unanswered.

A tiny smile appeared on her lips
and made me happy to push her to the hall
where all were quite blissful in dancing.
‘’W-a-i-t’’ her lips trembled but uttered,
she took my hand in her shivering hand
and looked at the floor
where she was engraving an unknown picture
on the tiles with her pointed shoe.
My second round of inquisitiveness
rushed to her,
made her lips quivering
and at last opened these up to pronounce
three most popular words
‘’I love You’’ by embracing me.
Surprised I was to her unexpected change,
amazed at wave of her pleasant emotion-
that had been bubbling up from her heart to lips,
made her different throughout the evening
and gifted me a beautiful tomorrow too.
Ensnared I was finally to admit her love
with a passionate kiss on her juicy lips.






THE POETRY OF JASON CONSTANTINE FORD

The Poetry of Jason Constantine Ford
BIO:

Jason Constantine Ford is from Perth in Australia. He works as an employee at a book shop. He has over fifteen years of experience in studying various styles of poetry. The major influences on his style of poetry are William Blake, Edgar Alan Poe and Gerard Manley Hopkins. Blake’s ability to address the social issues of his time through poetry and painting has had a lasting impact upon Jason’s early years. For correspondence, contact Jason at jasonconstantineford@gmail.com


Death in the Woods

The taste of many brittle years already spread
Across paddocks without a drop of rain
Is bitterness profound as Death begins to tread
Upon the graves of names which still remain.
Death is slowly passing through the woods alone
With many kinds of trees becoming prone
To loss of grip among the aging leaves
Succumbing to the might which Death receives.
The air surrounding Death becomes so strong
As winds impose a sense of might upon each tree.
The branches shaking left and right, belong
To the dance of Death declaring how all things should be.
The curse which came upon the ones who died
With wounds inflicted by the sword of pride
Is kept beneath the ground until the day
Death decides to spread to other forms of prey.
 
Thoughts Following a Storm

After the raging storm has calmed unto a state
Where I am standing safe, secure, away from harm,
The waves are tamed with gentleness which I equate
With soothing scent of nard and feel of healing balm.

Although the waves no longer crash against the shore
With power that exceeds the strength of many hands,
Fragments of intellect of mine remain unsure
Concerning matters that I fail to understand.

Shall raging storm return as coming back to life
And spread a trail of fear among a people blind?
Am I a dreamer who attempts to think of strife
Which only seems to breath inside my mind?


 A Path into the Raging Water


Despite the depths of raging sea
And troubles vast, a man embarks
Upon a quest without the company
Of tools which ward away the sharks.
He starts his quest with tool of steel
Inside a loincloth that prepares to deal
With countless waves arising high
Above the height of watchful eye.

With only loincloth and a simple blade,
The man of strength is diving straight
Into the depths of dangers now displayed
As raging waters that cannot abate.
Although he swims the depths as one alone
With tender muscle that surrounds each bone,
The dangers that confront his chosen goal
Cannot remove his lasting strength of soul.


Eclipse at the Gates

Denial walks from place to place
Without a sense of grave disgrace
From keeping lips which never talk.

The men renowned for hiding face
With veils denying any trace
Of what is real, begin to walk.

A book of lies is being carried
Upon the backs of men married
To form of creed which oscillates.

Shadows are passing through the street
With steps which now complete
The final stage of reaching gates.


THE POETRY OF CHRIS ROZIK

The Poetry of Chris Rozik

Highway Safety



To the cracks in the floorboard:
The silence in the air,
My rooms shrine to alcohol,
And the stale beer stench,
Stop.



To the loose lipped, ship sinking, chatty Cathys,
That spew judgment as if they learned tolerance
On the side of a cereal box, and, half asleep, forgot it.
Hoping that by talking, no one will talk about them.
Stop.



To the sister I never had;
Leave D.C. and cocaine
Your potential blows mine out of the water,
And it can't just be that you just wanted a big splash.
Stop.



I would love to know the word stop.
Because there are some times,
Where I have the mind running at 100 miles per hour.
Radio blaring,
Windows up,
Eyes fixed straight ahead.
Fellow drivers beware:
There are times I can't see anything except the road ahead.

There are times I don't know when to stop.



Sleepwalking



I play music because I love stagelight sweat.
I do it for your hips.
Because after a week of sitting in front of computer,
or whatever you sit in front,
you deserve a chiropractor.
Unfortunately for you,
My hands are a lot louder than a doctors.
But I can tell you,
that I spend just as much time trying to perfect an art.
Perfect and art however,
do not belong in the same sentence.



I play guitar and yell into PA's late at night,
while my parents sleep.
They know it,
and thank god it helps them sleep.




Dirty Socks



Regardless of the amount of socks I buy,
I'll only ever see roughly five pairs.
And if losing little black socks were a job,
I'd be the CEO over there.



They get lost under papers I never read,
Winter jackets I didn't pack away,
A shoe rack I don't use,
And a couch you don't want to sit on.



Socks, like life lessons and love songs,
Have a tendency of getting lost from time to time.




Stormy Young Men



I haven't had the luxury of an umbrella since the good old days.
My folks seem to remember things like that.



When I bought it,
the old old lady who hangs around told me
she offered a young man,
so soaking wet,
her umbrella,
but he couldn't hear her.



I wanted to tell her
When a young man is in a storm,
Without an umbrella,
the last thing he's listening for is a sweet old lady.




Noisy Sundays



Heaven,
Seems too bright for me.
The white clouds, the angels, the trumpets,
Seems a bit much to wake up to.
Especially, on a Sunday.
And if St.Peter is God's bouncer,
For eternity,
By now he's the patron saint of judgmental tough guys.



Heaven,
God's big mansion,
Six star suite in the sky,
I get it,
It's the best.
But when I die,
Please,
just let me rest.







POETRY OF KORI CHEEK


The poetry of Kori Cheek:
Bio: 
Kori Cheek have been writing since i was 16 with a special love toward poetry.  I found poetry a good way to vent during those awkward teenage years and am still writing to this day.  I have written just over 2,500 poems in my life and plan to keep writing until i run out of things to say.  I write to encourage, inspire and make people think.  We change the world one person at a time and I feel like that if someone comes out a better person for having read my work than that's what it's all about. 

(Editor's note): The poems published are but a sample from Kori Cheek collection called "Give Peace a Chance".




For Me

Beg for me – plead for me
Grieve for me- scream for me
Reach for me- believe for me
Cry for me – breathe for me
Try for me – pray for me
Laugh for me – love for me
Speak for me - be for me
Live for me - die for me
Be everything that that I’ll ever need
And when you’ve done that you can have all of me
 
Revolution

A revolution is stirring in the world today
People are gathering and beginning to pray
The blood of the martyrs has come before God
Killing the prophets is mankind’s song
Those that are sent are mistreated and abused
The exploitation of them is all over the news
The priests and the monks weep bitter tears
And our Lady of Lourdes is shackled with fears
The earth begins to tremble at the sounding of the noise
Violence erupts and suddenly is heard the voice
Of one who is crying alone in the dark
Neglected and abandoned – simply humanity’s heart
The Savior breaks through with the sounding of a blast
The war has finally ended and so peace has come at last


 Nnocence

There exists in the mind of a child
The hope and innocence lost in surviving
The maddening streets where people conform
To hate and greed – adulthood is born
New to this world the child only laughs
Darkness and pain are not known to them yet
They bring only sunshine and light unto all
The world that they know until the corruption of walls
Are built around their heart – now they know masks
Covering up heartache – painting faces that will last
Until they learn to regress to that state
Of sublime understanding…new life that awaits

Worthwhile

Eagerly awaiting a day of peace
To fall upon the earth and all of humanity
I sit and pretend that it’s already here
My make-believe world is visually clear
I see it all around me in the flowers and the trees
I see it in the wind that whispers through the leaves
I see it in the eyes of a stranger passing by
And I see it in the innocence of a fluttering butterfly
I see it in the birds and the sun that shines bright
I see it in the clouds hanging in the blue sky
I see it in the little puppies that play
Casually romping and wasting days away
I see it in the moon when it comes out at night
And I see it in the stars as they sparkle - shedding light
I see it in the face of a smiling little child
And so I will wait for when it come’s it will be worthwhile

It Can’t Wait

Rage is hidden by a mask that is painted with smiles and love
Laughter blocks out what I’m after – mainly the understanding of
Upper class parents who don’t even bother to notice the fact that I’m down
Left to wallow in my own self-pity – I come home to an empty house
I need to talk just to get it all out but they tell me to wait till tomorrow
They tell me that they don’t have the time – the truth is their chasing the “dollar”
They are too busy chasing the “American Dream” with all its wealth and power
To give a care-less that I am depressed and perhaps don’t have a “tomorrow”

 Segregated Earth

Separation begins with the color of skin
At least that’s what society says time and again
The media stirs up racial dissension
In place of unification there’s nothing but tension
If we were united we would rule undivided
But that can never happen for we are all still buying
The garbage and trash that infiltrates our brains
Brings nothing but division where love and harmony should reign
Someday the truth will cut through the lies
And when that day comes we will all be color blind
But until then we will continue to search
For a way to keep peace on a segregated earth










Thursday, August 1, 2013

Poetry Collection of Bruce McRae


Grass In My Hair

I was arguing
with the scarecrow.
His voice
was like a wall
of sand coming
closer and closer.
He had corn
on his breath
but no mouth
to speak of.
His mind
was a straw stalk
in the wind,
all the colours
of a golden
rainbow, there,
but not there,
even his pinstripes
soil-scented.
And I was saying
to the scarecrow,
We end,
we begin.”
I was telling him
the true names
of all the dead.
I was asking
a stupid question:
Where’s the crow
inside my head?”
Which he thought
quite funny,
a perpetual grin
on his dried lips,
his eyes seeing
into the far distance,
a tear forming
in the new silence
that summer, and he
impeccably dressed.


Auspicious


The weather promises to change
from man to animal.
Today’s forecast is absence,
with a chance of longing.
In the east, flying horses
and a scattering of flowers.
From the west, incursions,
barbarous hordes, black ice.
The weather changes its mind,
abandons its principles,
is forced to choose between
darkness and light.
They’re predicting tons
of tons and long cold showers.
They say it might break,
but we’re in for hard spell.
Today’s weather is being
brought to you by sponsors
who’d rather you didn’t
put their names around.
Listener, the sea is rising
up out of its empty shell.
For all its talk of courage,
the wind is turning.


Fragile

The quiet, being taken apart
for easy handling and shipping,
the movers tip-toeing, their breaths
measured, working swiftly, yet
cautious. The quiet being sent
away, moved to another part of
town, in sound-proofed boxes, in
padded crates, in rubber cartons
marked 'Handle With Care'. You
can almost hear it, the way its
weight shifts, the dust being
disturbed, the absurd lengths
that the movers go to not to say
a word, their dark eyes rolling.


This Word Has No Word For It


This word is unpronounceable.
Translated roughly,
it means a bluster of breath.
Spell it as you wish.
This is the first word in words.
It means love
in any language.
And rhymes with nothing.
This is a dirty word.
Nobody knows what it means.
Class, linguistics
is not an exact science.
The word for blood
actually tastes like blood,
a real jaw-breaker
better left unsaid.
And this word will get you killed.
You spit it at your enemies.
Repeat after me:
This is the word for silence.


Cracked Dawn


The day morning failed to arrive,
our chickens listless, the clocks confused,
daisies stunned into silence.
When night was two nights long
by two nights wide by two nights high.
The baker sleeping in.
Padre dreaming of another sun rising
in a mystical realm
of half-dreams and home-baked cookies.
Pa looking for a wooden match
to light ma’s fire.
Dawn, but one blacker than coffee,
yours truly wavering over the sink
while recalling yellow and red.
Remembering what it was like
to see into the far distance.
Light drawing on light.
Daybreak broken.


Evictee

You mean the house inside the house.
You mean the mythmaker’s lodgings,
with its many doors and million windows.
Which is the sea under the mountains
or a thirteen billion year old light ray.
Which is everywhere, like ancient snow.
Oh, but why didn’t you say so?
You mean the house next door to the nothingness,
across the road from the flaming hospital,
by the exploding dancehall.
Where the carbon blobs happily dwell
and midnight barks like a dog.
Where the spectral sailors are knocking.
The house made of bones being broken.
The house of minds snapping.
The house where the World used to live,
until Tragedy stopped by for a while,
until Time spat out its toothpick.
I remember the blinds in the kitchen
coming down hard.
Like a fist on a table
or satellite crashing.
I remember there were walls in the cellar
and an angry lightbulb on all night.
With vast continents
hidden under its floorboards,
Mr. and Mrs. Chemical, long dead now,
rearranging the grassblades,
old toys still in the yard,
bejeweled in the glistening rain,
the roadway passing
filled with the children’s lost voices:
like a skip-rope-rhyme
in my feverish mind.


Into A Bar


A man walks into a bar.
In his head are visions of amber.
A nail is hammered into his hair.
His hat is in splinters.
A man walks into a bar
and the planets change courses.
Slush and slurry head for the exits.
Gravity tugs on his nethers
while he washes his footsteps in beer.
And like the moon, he tips heavily.
A man walks into a bar.
Which isn’t a bar; it’s a temple
to the goddess of work and worry.
His coins are negatively charged.
His heels are sinking.
Then the waitress climbs from her sleeve.
In her eyes is the great outdoors.
In her heart is an alpine avalanche.
The man stares into his beer,
ignoring her curves and entrances,
his thoughts the size of Australia,
his mouth in drought.
In the time that it takes
to open his hand, nothing happens.
Over and over again, nothing happens.
Somewhere, wind in a meadow,
but the man is riddled with blank,
addled by light’s perspectives.
You can hear his life fading in and out.
He’s slowly coming to his senses.


Death Cannot Be Proved


It’s midnight in the janitor’s closet.
February waits at the end of the hall.
Ghost-mice are performing a danse macabre.
Here, at the institution, everything closes.
We never mention the room inside this room,
the dust-defying gravity, the soul of the moon.
We don’t talk about the inevitable silences
or darkness pooling under a door.
We say little or nothing . . .
Established in the year Zed, the institution
is as dull as a morgue or a meeting.
The air scarcely shifts, the files unmoved.
Our business is zero.
Now it’s 4 a.m., and the roaches hold rule:
tiny tyrants throwing terrible tantrums.
Whom the ancients regarded as very old souls.
Whom the gods embraced in their ruin.


The County Fair


My father traveled to the far solitudes.
My father ate religion.
My father was a monkey riding thoroughbreds.
He’d come home years later.
He had a jezebel at every gas station.
He had a fist like a bus.
Often my mother’d leave out cookies and cream.
She’d bundle us under her apron.
She exhausted her plenitudes and riches.
Oh daddy, like an imaginary friend.
Like a candle puffed out at both ends.
Like Cro-Magnon man counting up to ten.
So then mum buried herself.
She took to the high wires and two fridges.
She petted the boarder.
Not much fun for we thirteen kids.
Not much cop with these ciphers and struggling.
And a hell of an example for the wee bairns.
I remember the Xmas tree on fire
and something thrown from a bridge.
I remember the act of forgetting.
That there were questions we could never put to him.
The Cadillac shimmer.
His long black coat and his wicked glare.
And poor ma, with her head out the window.
Poor ma, embroiled with the children,
and her spirit broken.


Chickadee Thinking


In the mind of the chickadee
is a ball of sparks,
a knot of entrails,
the planet’s littlest vacuum.
The chickadee’s mind whistles,
colour fusing to colour.
It smells like beetles’ fears.
It tastes of summer.
Actually, phantoms there
stroll between atoms of moonlight
and lordly Titans gambol
over the seemingly endless vistas.
There are great thoughts,
and these crackle like spruce tinder.
Like soda bubbles, but they weigh tons
and feel barbed to the touch.
Like wind over a hilltop.
Like lines intersecting wires.
Like smoking campfires of the Mongols,
as seen from a blood-red sky.