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 We do not publish books.

Direct submissions or questions to:

Thank you

Monday, February 3, 2014


The Poetry of Bruce McRae

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

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.


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.

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