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 Spring of 2018.

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 3-5 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 We do not publish books.

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Thank you

Thursday, June 30, 2011


Mel BrakE Press is pleased to welcome back Poet Jerome Brooke who was published in our Winter 2010 Edition. This time Jerome has submitted his chapbook,
"Astarte The Queen".


The poet (Jerome Brooke) was born in Evansville, Indiana. He now

lives in the Kingdom of Siam. He has written Our

Lady of Silk and many other books.

His work has recently been published in a number of journals, including Indigo -
Mel BraKe Press - First Literary Review - Penny Ante - Conceit – Pink Mouse – Inquisition - and Mirror Dance.

Astarte The Queen

Lady in Mail
Come, lady in mail, use your nails, so cruel,
Do you fear my lance?
Queen of Desire, use your fangs, like a tigress,
Forget all shame, dance the wild dance.
You stalk the shadows of the night, silent and deadly.
            I fear you not.
Leap at me, you will soon cry out, and fall back,
            Content with your lot.
Who is the hunter, who the helpless prey?
            You cannot hide.
Your face now wet, your cries rise, like a tiger,
            Fallen to its side.

Death of the God

Baal, Lord of the city, carried his great spear of gold, and traded blow for blow,

Gainst his foe, the prince, favorite of our Lady fair.

Armed by his lover, Astarte the Immortal, with sword of silver, and mail of gold,

Fell blows did strike the hero, consort and lord.

Forged in the fires, flames of the underworld, quenched in the waters of the Styx,

Baal could not match the blade, sword of our prince.

Baal was cast down by the hero, lord of battle and rapine, with his sword of might,

Fallen was Baal into the dust below.

Nevermore to rise, he did clutch at the arrow of gold, loosed by bow of silver,

Bow of Astarte, the fair.

Great flames did Astarte command, from wood of oak, gathered by her command,

Baal was cast into the fire, his soul to consume.


Chariot Regiment

Chariots gleamed in silver and gold, racing on,

Two by two, bright in gold.

Astarte, Empress of the lands, in silver mail was clad,

Leader of the warriors bold.

Arrows did rain down, javelins flew;

Battle on the dunes, near the sea.

Panic spread, the craven foe wavered,

Then did flee.

Fleet horses sped, wild charge, into the morn;

As warriors fought.

Their reckless dance, in the wild advance,

Victory sought.


Battle of the Myst

Astarte the Queen, Immortal Lady, did call her mighty father,

God of Light.

From the north, the gale did answer, dark clouds the sky did fill,

Torn by thunderbolts bright.

Myst did rise, and covered the ground, cold and damp, like unto the shroud,

Her foes did cower.

Astarte thrust high her sword, glowing bright in storm fire,

Sign of power.

Her craven foes, in ranks did waver, the cowards did flee,

Her chariots bright, forward did race.

Her legions brave, did take the field, and the foemen scattered,

With steel sword, and cruel mace.


Save Yourself

Broken swords, chariots upended, sad wreckage,

Still bodies, did cover the field.

For their lives, did flee, the craven foe;

Spared were they that did yield.

Woe to vanquished, slowed by wounds,

Enemy of our land.

War cries sounded, moans did rise,

Red, blood red the sand.

Great victory; all hail our leader,

Warrior queen.

Long life, and victory, such was the shouts,

To our queen, in triumph seen.


Days Lost

City of empire, seat of the ruler,
Burning, doomed to fall.
Fallen are the towers, once high;
Now mere ruble, ruins all.
Citadel high, abode of the prince,
Lost now is the son.
Stray dogs do roam, where warriors once walked,
Home of none.
From stone tower hung the body,
Hung on high.
Last of the dynasty, proud and unbending,
Doomed to die.



  Fall of Tyre
How fairs noble Tyre , stranger, centre of  royal power?
                        Do her banners stream?
Have her legions marched to victory, and droven all before them?
                        Why do your tears now fall?
Fallen, fallen is the city, proud Tyre , her towers toppled.
                        Hear the wails of her women.
Scattered are her children, bound with chains,
                        On the day of shame.

Bards will sing of her fall, the plunder of her gold,

Conquered by the foe.

Slaves, mere slaves are her sons, and concubines,

Harlots her daughters.


Sad Stories of the Death of Kings
Tyre has fallen, her treasures plundered, her women slaves.
            Woe to the vanquished.
Her king dead, his own blade covered in blood,
            His death thus secured.
All her glory saved, saved only by songs, songs of her bards,
            Names of her kings,
Graven on lost pillars in the desolate waste, in forgotten runes.
            How the mighty are humbled.
Where is the gold, treasure of the hoards, the ransom of  kings?
            Did her lords seek to buy their lives?
How did the Sea People smile, smile at the offer of half, half the kingdom.
            Foolish hope of doomed men.


Rose high the Fire

Flames rose above the towers, searing and cruel,

Fate most dire.

Screams shattered the night, people filled the way,

Some covered in fire.

Lost children cried for succor, standing by still bodies,

Alone, and without aid.

Foemen, minions of our prince, slashed at the last of the guard,

Red blood ran.

Girls without robes, despoiled by savages, wandered,

Slavery their fate.

Proud city, bastion of empire, fallen this day,

Glory to the dark prince.


Fall of Ninevah

Hope was abandoned by the people gathered,

            Filling the marble temple of Ashur.

By the altar of alabaster stood the High Priestess,

            In robes of white.

With sword red with blood of the temple guard,

            Strode the conqueror.

All fell to their knees, hoping to be spared,

            To bear the chain of the slave.

Bowing, the high lady advanced, and fell to her knees,

            Before the warrior.

He drew her to her feet, ripping open her robe,

            Well pleased with her charms.

Her life was spared, her fate that of the concubine.

            Better than that of her sisters,

To be used as whores by the common horde,

            Dishonored, filled with woe.


Lost City

Far in the desert, trapped in a mirage, lay the lost city,

By time lost, by all forgot.

Her towers lay toppled, her walls had crumbled,

Such, truly, was her lot.

Gold and silver were strewn in the ruined palace still, with emeralds bright,

Of her lost glory, they did sing.

Helms and mail, near the gate did lie, among scattered bones of men,

Faithful to the king.

Lions now roamed thru royal halls, of the palace decayed,

Final masters of the land,

Here once walked the lords of the earth, names now forgot,

Written, traced in sand.


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