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 We do not publish books.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

Sunday, October 19, 2014


 VOICES FROM EXILE, a collection of poetry on
Zimbabwe’s political situation and exile in South Africa was published
by Lapwing publications, Northern Ireland in 2010. KEYS IN THE RIVER: Notes from a
Modern Chimurenga, a novel of interlinked stories that deals with life in
modern day Zimbabwe’s soul was published by Savant books and publications, USA
2012. A book of creative non-fiction pieces, ZIMBABWE: THE BLAME GAME,
was published by Langaa RPCIG( Cameroon 2013) I
was nominated for the Pushcart twice, 2008, 2010, commended for the Dalro prize
2008, work has been translated into French and Spanish. I was nominated and
attended The Caine African writing workshop, 2012. From January- April 2014, I was a Mentor for 3 budding writers in CACE Africa Writivism. Published over  250
pieces of short stories, essays, memoirs,
poems and photographic/visual art in over 150 magazines, journals, and
anthologies in the following countries,  the USA , UK , Canada ,
South Africa, Zimbabwe, India , Mexico, Kenya, Cameroon, Italy ,
Ghana, Uganda, France , Zambia, Nigeria, Spain , Romania, Cyprus,
Australia and New Zealand. 



Aftermaths of
garbage tossed about, sewage rotting.

Dirty water, empty stomachs,
empty lives, empty beings.

This garden is
a history of
thousands of them.
Political loose canons
living in the exclusive suburbs.

But in the dusty, populated
Budiriro's streets

Crammed thoughts like bombs are
waiting to explode- 


Now the windows and doors
 are closed
  in the tea-pot shaped country.
    But the battle still rages on.
     And the frames are shadowed
        by a shell that speaks of death.

        A sort of lofty remembrance
       in my mind
      paints tiny flitting layers of
    experience diluting limitation.
   Pushing my awareness
into some sort of epiphany.

     But can I see, can I smell
   with my eye, with my nose
 the blood in those battlefields
seemingly so clean of blood?

So finely crafted
this art of suppression
is a work of art!

No outside ear can hear
 the thundering guns
  flashing knives.
   Sounds of henchmen
     championing a killing!

Could I sense their obvious pain
  their valleys of tears, their cries
    their grief-strung hearts
      their endless miseries
        the path of self destruction
          they are now set on?


This people remains downtrodden
in their hungers, the emptiness-
of their lives.
In their victim's posture!

They scrounge for food in the streets.
Their children are in the streets.
Their women have chosen
a moonlight career.

There is no retirement for this people
like a dappled spider
in the specks of its own webs.
There is no rest for this people.

calling for you
"everyday that we live
we throw pebbles into the pool
and the pebbles create ripples
someday the ripples would meet."
you say you are leaving me today.
we are sixteen, young and immature. coz in our hearts we know we have to let go. in my heart i know, i can’t let you go. in your heart you know, we never meant to be. in our hearts we know, we have to marry others
this is our safety net
that someday
i would come for you
can i glimpse the map that’s sending you away. can i feel the
price you are paying now. can’t delay you, to help me escape. our hearts touches the pure silence between us. could only think of you, on and off over the years. she left me after thirty years. i knew it was time to call for you
goggled your name on the net, the rest is history. left Phoenix Arizona for Toowoomba Australia. mailed out my love to the address of your heart. Rod Stewart says the first cut is the deepest and i believe its true, that we belong together
this is my heart's call
that today
that’s calling for you

at all times respect your heart's potential by following your path through your heart. step strongly into your eternal sunset. for a push can bring us out of our calling in a lifetime contrived by time. but the mountain is calling us to its peak again and our calling becomes another calling. another calling, and another calling...


Constantly being aware
Of the consequences of
Our beings, the souls
Of my people.

And creatures
Of that old cold hunt
Lost and concealed
Lessons lost too.

The first thirst of
Is a moat of agony?
That disturbs the mind
It is a thirst
At the edges of the sea

And all time chimes
To this call
Impaled on a thorn of
Chance or something
To experience for itself.


He wanted to believe you.
Love is this way-
Isn’t it, impossible?

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