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 We do not publish books.

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Wednesday, December 14, 2011


We are esteemed to present the fine work of William Wright Harris


William Wright Harris poetry has appeared in such literary anthologies as Immortal Verse and Favourite Memories, through such online publications as Poet's Ink and, and literary magazines such as Write On!!! and Ascending Aspirations. He is a student of English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Tennessee- Knoxville, and have been fortunate enough to study poetry in the workshop setting from Marilyn Kallet, Arthur Smith, Jessie Janeshek and Marcel Brouwers. He has also been lucky enough to receive several awards, such as the Editor’s Choice Award from as well as be published in three countries: England, Canada, and of course my native United States of America. Some of his influences are Jack Gilbert, eecummings, William Carlos Williams, Pablo Neruda, Arthur Smith, Mina Loy, and Ezra Pound.

darkest of blues

the darkest of blues is not azure or sky the shoulders of latobius and jupiter locked over the shimmering
emerald body of earth her body undulating in palpable anticipation
the darkest of blues is not the sting of a string under the fingers of john lee hooker notes and chords being
born and dying between the small stretch of air between callous and neck

the darkest of blues is not maya or turquoise held sacred for many and costly for more even as the gods
themselves laugh at human hubris
the darkest of blues is not the ivory keys consumed by charlie spand as he sat upon his pew his piano a
deity most are too ignorant to believe in

the darkest of blues is not the Scottish flag forever draped around the corpses of its sons and daughters a
shroud of martyrs a blanket for the damned
the darkest of blues is not the pounding of johnny b gayden bringing thumb to string in such divine and
orgasmic splendor before splintering like eggshells down the bodies of others lovers
forgotten and forgiven

the darkest of blues is not ocean arms as boundless as the trident of poseidon foamy salted beards leaping
high only to crash the dreams of those souls swallowed
the darkest of blues is not the drumming of willie hall wandering down beale street to drown itself in the
welcoming waters of the mississippi river

the darkest of blues is the melancholy miles separating two hearts in the corners of tennessee

Christmas Tree

We had driven the holiday garbage a quarter of a mile
to toss in the nearby apartment complex's dumpster.
Wrapping paper, used paper plates, broken plastic silverware
sitting next to crumbled aluminum cans and Christmas cards.
There we left the plastic tree that my family had used
every Christmas for thirty-eight years.
Its trunk was a bent stick of wood, about the size of a broomstick.
The tiny green slivers of plastic that were once pine needles
had started falling off about two decades or so ago.
The tree itself would lean, not
from the weight of the ornaments, but
from the weight of so many years.
From raising two kids and being stored eleven months out of the year in a brown moving box.
From hanging tiny orbs from its branches and
from having the giant five-pointed star sits on its head for so many years;
driving more nails into an ever-widening hole.
I can remember throwing the box unceremoniously into the bin,
thinking the last person in our family to touch it should feel sympathetic,
to be sorry the tree is being abandoned.
To feel something.


I will never know you,
my brother.
I will never see my father’s eyes
burn out of your skull
or my mother’s smile
dance across your face.
What was it like,
the day you died?
Did bent seraphim wings
embrace you
as our mother’s umbilical cord
from her- a pink noose?
Did the sun shed a tear for
the memories you will never know
as you were
plunged from a womb that
couldn’t hold you?


How I miss night in Chicago.
Streetlamps humming along with
the corner jazz musicians.
The howling of cars dancing beneath trains.
Ordering Chinese food at
three twenty-eight in the morning.
Ice skating on Michigan Avenue before
losing another game of chess at Hyde Park.
I miss the streets- worn, cracked
by the love of a million feet,
veins running through the city.
Standing where Sandburg stood.
But I don't miss my first wife.


a laugh
flutters and f

dying in the wind

Ode to a Raindrop

I am a god,
or at least,
a part of one.
I spiral,
turn in the air,
a broken tear
falling from clouds
upon the tops
of umbrellas.
I can make mud,
even puddles,
cradles for toy boats
estuaries that
boots may
jump into.
I am an unborn
snowflake, a
tiny river falling
to the earth in
a single, deadly,
happy fall.

the stampede of ramses




our love
as dew
a blade of
a tiny bead
on the
life and death
creation and
in that
of a

Ode to My Guitar

Orgasms should be this pure. Your
soft maple neck, holding the same

fingers that hold you. The way light
shimmers off your glittering body

when I swing you in my arms. My
digits slide up and down your

strings, stopping at frets only long
enough to make you sing or scream.

All Kinds

Have you ever been so alone
you shouted into an abandoned well
just to hear your voice echo back?
Or held the door open for a group
of people just to feel them walk by;
just to have another person close to you?
An old woman hording cats,
trying to build friendships.
The old man feeding pigeons,
enjoying the feeling of being wanted. Needed.
Tommy Lee Jones in Coal Miner's Daughter, saying,
"There's all kinds of lonely people in the world"
into a cold telephone.


linnaea borealis
the morose miles
of separation
your petals
are not as tragic as
the stem that
bore them
into this world
destined to be torn
to pieces and scattered in
the breath of autumn

ode to corn on the cob

how i wish i could become you
pulled from
a pot of boiling water or
a chunk of aluminum foil roasting over red coals
butter smeared down my body in long gestures
pepper adorning my sides
hot sauce dripping between my kernels

teeth ripping into me in unspoken ecstasy
while gripped tightly in each hand

how i wish i could become you
at once being needed
and wanted

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