By Mechelle Marie Gilford
for the Department of Creative Writing Spring 2025
Spool
“Spool” is a poetic exploration of the surreal potential of observation, filtered through a feminist lens and the daydreaming eye of an art teacher. These poems begin in the classroom and the studio, amidst ochre smears and frilly brushes, but quickly veer into the realm of the marvelous and unexpected. It’s a process of unveiling the hidden strangeness of the world, where the domestic sphere becomes a site of uncanny transformation: a sewing machine’s foot, freed from its functional role, dances with a subversive energy, challenging traditional notions of women’s work, and humble lentils, usually confined to the kitchen, harbor surreal anxieties about being counted and consumed. This collection seeks to capture those moments when the mind wanders from the task at hand, when a pepper grinder becomes a “galleon grand” sailing a sea of spice, and the ordinary reveals its extraordinary, often unsettling, heart. With a keen eye for detail and a willingness to embrace the absurd, “Spool” invites the reader to experience the world anew, discovering the surreal narratives that unfold within the quietest corners of our lives and imaginations.
Table of Contents:
The Pyromaniac’s Elegy………3
Tippytoe Approach………3-4
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughter………4-5
Arabesque Stretch………5
Stitching the Ephemeral………6
The Calculus of Why………6-7
Indelibility………7-8
The Pink Poodle Parade………8
Spoon Lore (Apologetics)………8-9
Fork Lore: A Suburban Twin……..9-10
The Stubborn Seamstress………10-11
The Pinch……..11.
Elbows, Yeah!………11
The Ballad of the Gumball Shrine………11-12
A Brief History of Maybe……..13.
The Horse Who Swallowed the Fridge………13
Fridge Geometry……..13-14.
The Great Teacup Metropolis………14
Rush Hour at Lascaux………14
Lentil Logic………15
From Pepper to Port (Lost at Sea in a Pepper Grinder)………15-16
Baroque………16
The Form of Air……… 16-17
Saint Smudge………17
Epiphany in a Phone Booth………18
The Art Teacher’s Apron………19
Giddy Up and Glitch………19
Poof: You………20
The Pyromaniac’s Elegy
by Mechelle Marie Gilford
He liked it—
the quick catch,
the way it licked
at things:
dry leaves,
old paper,
the splintered wood
of broken crates.
Not the big blaze,
the out of control
roaring beast,
but little starts,
small flames,
the intimate, fragile
yellow heart
of an indigo flame
that burned in him.
He’d stand there,
quiet,
almost still,
and watch it
eat the world
in tiny bites.
Tippytoe Approach
By Mechelle Gilford
Black stone, polished smooth, a perfect sphere,
held in the darkness of a silent fear.
Three holes, like eyes, that watch and wait,
for the release, the arc, the chosen fate.
The hand that grips, a moment’s fleeting grace,
then the arc, the flight, the empty space.
The crash, the thunder, the scattered pins that fall,
a symphony of echoes, answering all.
But what remains, when the noise subsides,
the stillness, the stone, where a cold energy resides?
A single ball, a monument to chance,
a small perfection, a fleeting, hollow dance.
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughter
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
The salt spray stung Elara’s face, a constant, cold caress,
As she climbed the winding stairs again, to light the lamp, no less.
Her father, Silas, weathered man, with eyes as gray as sea,
Had taught her well the keeper’s trade, her destiny to be.
They lived alone on Heron’s Rock, a lonely, windswept isle,
Where crashing waves and crying gulls stretched on for many a mile.
Each night, the lamp, a golden eye, pushed back the inky black,
A beacon bright for sailor’s lost, to guide them safely back.
But Silas coughed a ragged sound, his strength began to wane,
And fever burned within his eyes, a storm within his brain.
“The light,” he gasped, “you must maintain, though darkness may descend,”
Elara vowed, her heart in dread, her duty without end.
One night, a storm of brutal force descended on the stone,
The wind a shriek, the waves a roar, a symphony of groan.
Elara climbed, her lantern held, against the tempest’s might,
To find the lamp had flickered low, and threatened to lose its light.
A rogue wave crashed against the tower, a blow that shook the ground,
Elara stumbled, lost her grip, the lantern crashing down.
The darkness surged, a hungry beast, to swallow sea and sky,
And far below, a ship in need, was sailing swiftly by.
Young Thomas sailed upon that ship, his heart both brave and bold,
He dreamed of reaching harbor safe, a story to be told.
But then the light, their guiding star, was swallowed by the storm,
And fear gripped every sailor’s heart, in such a fearsome form.
Elara, desperate, climbed again, her hands scraped raw and sore,
She found a spark, a tiny flame, upon the tower floor.
With trembling hands and focused will, she coaxed it to a blaze,
And prayed the fragile light would pierce the storm’s chaotic haze.
The lamp ignited, weak at first, then stronger, burning bright,
A golden finger in the dark, a beacon in the night.
Thomas saw it through the storm, a lifeline in despair,
He steered his ship towards the gleam, and found his passage there.
When dawn arrived, the storm had passed, the sea began to calm,
Thomas reached the isle, his heart a grateful, humble psalm.
He found Elara, pale but strong, her father lying near,
Silas smiled, his duty done, his daughter held him dear.
Thomas stayed on Heron’s Rock, drawn to Elara’s light,
They tended to the lonely lamp, and banished every night.
And though the isle was windswept, cold, their love burned ever true,
A beacon on the darkest sea, for all the world to view.
Arabesque Stretch
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
Weight shifts.
Leg lifts.
A long, slow unfolding.
Arm extends. Eye fixes.
The body, a held breath.
Balance wavers, catches. A single, clean line drawn.
Then, release.
A return.
The moment, just so.
Stitching the Ephemeral
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
The needle gleams, a silver sliver bright,
Threading the fabric of a walking dream,
With every stitch, I weave the fading light,
And capture visions, fleeting as they seem.
The cloth, a canvas for the mind’s design,
Where threads of memory intertwine with hope,
A tapestry of thoughts, in shifting line,
Where zig-zag visions, like a migraine’s splinter,
With backstitch bold, I bind the fading scene,
Chain stitch secures where waking worlds convene,
French knots like stars, a swirling nebula’s gleam,
And blanket stitch to mend where edges burn.
The fraying edges of a fading dream,
With every stitch, a fragment finds its thread,
A stitched-up dreamscape, woven in my head.
The Calculus of Why
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
Let Y represent the state of “Why,”
A function complex, reaching to the sky.
Its domain stretches, infinite and vast,
From primal urges to futures forecast.
Consider E, the set of all events,
Each point a trigger, where inquiry vents.
And let F(e) be the force that makes us seek,
The gradient of knowing, the truth we speak.
The derivative, dY/dE, we find,
The rate at which “Why” blossoms in the mind.
A sudden shift, a novel paradigm,
A sharp increase in questions, time on time.
Integrate across the moments we perceive,
From simple wonder to reasons we believe.
The integral of F(e) dE, a sum,
The total yearning from which answers come.
Let L be logic, a framework precise,
Applying axioms to our heart’s device.
If P implies Q, and P is surely true,
Then Q emerges, a reasoned point of view.
But “Why” transcends mere logic’s steady hand,
It seeks the purpose, the grand, unfolding plan.
A vector pointing, beyond what we can see,
Towards the meaning of reality.
Perhaps “Why” trends towards a limit, Ω,
A state of knowing, where all truths hold sway.
But human minds, with finite grasp and scope,
Forever chase the edges of that hope.
So “Why” remains, a constant variable,
A seeking spirit, forever inseparable
From consciousness, a fundamental need,
The mathematical poem of the questioning seed.
Indelibility
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
A question, “But why? Why, oh why?”
Keeps looping, like π → ∞, so high.
With each ∑ of proof,
New theorems take root,
Whose answer is an Indelible i.
The Pink Poodle Parade
For my dear grandmother
By Mechelle Gilford
A sugary sigh on a papery throne,
Pink clouds unfurl, a wonder unknown.
Faster it whirls, a hypnotic display,
The Eyeball Alchemist spins poodles to play.
Dragons may dance, but for now, take flight,
A parade of pink, a sugary delight.
Fleeting they are, ‘neath the carnival light,
These cotton candy dreams, dissolving from sight.
Spoon Lore (Apologetics)
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
Lone spoon, frilly,
so slight, yet
a suburban artifact,
soldiered in the dewy grass.
A silent declension of domesticity.
And from its concave gleam, an ant. A chitinous comma in the vast, green sentence of the lawn. Posed the question. Not aloud, of course. Ants, bless their segmented souls, are not known for their elocution. But the question was there.
A pheromone of perplexity, a tiny,
existential hum.
In the lawn’s
green
delirium,
a
geometry
Of the silvered curve, a liquid eye, held sky and grass in brief reply.
Fork Lore: A Suburban Twin
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
The tined brother,
a steel silhouette,
lies tangled in clover’s
green net.
A silent disruption
of ordered repasts.
And on its polished prong,
a beetle,
a jeweled fragment
in the low, sun-drenched
fabric of the lawn.
Paused,
considering the upward
reach—
Not aloud, of course.
Beetles, bound
to earthly paths,
rarely voice such
lofty ambitions.
But the notion,
a tremor of instinct,
a tiny, upward
desire, was there.
The fork,
a fallen trident,
earth’s scepter,
briefly lent.
The Stubborn Seamstress
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
The Singer’s foot, a study in chrome— (mundane muse: sock, or loam). A dancing dream in metal, gleaming shade transforms it. It presses the fabric, thump-thump-thump, with purpose and rhythm, ever keen. to fashion and fuse where threads entwine— a steady beat, precise and clean. It hops and halts, a tireless thing, a tiny conductor with thread in its— shall we say, foot?—needle poised. spool nearby, with nary a pause, whirr! it spins and darts, unbound. Thwack! Though sometimes it snags— “Jeez Louise!” a clunk, a caw, caw, caw. Chaos descends, and order takes flight. Yet for all its small size and bossy facade, a marvel of motion, this foot lifts a little snarl, then curtsies, marking each stubborn, lovely yard.
(Reverse Stitch)
a little snarl, then curtsies, marking each stubborn, lovely yard. Yet for all its small size and bossy facade, a marvel of motion, this foot lifts Chaos descends, and order takes flight. “Jeez Louise!” a clunk, a caw, caw, caw. Thwack! Though sometimes it snags— whirr! it spins and darts, unbound. spool nearby, with nary a pause, shall we say, foot?—needle poised, a tiny conductor with thread in its— It hops and halts, a tireless thing, a steady beat, precise and clean. to fashion and fuse where threads entwine— with purpose and rhythm, ever keen, It presses the fabric, thump-thump-thump, gleaming shade transforms it. A dancing dream in metal, (mundane muse: sock, or loam). The Singer’s foot, a study in chrome—
The Pinch
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
The jar, a plump suburban matron,
stands, Labeled “Cinnamon,” with cursive, careful hands.
Inside, a bark scroll, an ember-glow’s embrace,
A pinch to plunder, where she’s always been.
Elbows, Yeah!
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
This here’s an elbow, see it gleam?
Not delicate, not a fragile dream!
It’s got some bone, it’s got some nerve,
A jutting angle, it can surely serve!
It’s got the sass to claim its space,
In crowded rooms, it sets the pace.
A little nudge, a friendly shove,
It says, “I’m here, and that’s enough!”
The Ballad of the Gumball Shrine
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
I
In realms of chrome, a candy tower,
The gumball shrine, in vibrant power.
A sentinel of sugar spheres,
Dispensing joy for cents and cheers.
II
With glass so round, a tempting view,
Of rainbow orbs, in endless queue.
A handle waits, a promise bright,
To spin and grant a sweet delight.
III
The penny pleads, a humble plea,
To join the dance, the ecstasy.
While quarters reign with clinking sound,
The gumball’s call is for all around.
IV
The wheel it turns, a clicking tune,
Beneath the glass, a plastic moon.
A spiral track, a winding way,
To where the prize awaits its day.
V
A gumball falls, a lucky sphere,
Delivered down, banishing fear.
A moment’s pause, a child’s delight,
The gumball’s gift, both pure and bright.
VI
Oh, gumball shrine, in shining state,
You stand a beacon, small and great.
A simple joy, a moment’s grace,
In every turn, in every space.
A Brief History of Maybe
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
A Norse word felt terribly long,
For “by mere slim chances,” its song.
Said England, “Good grief!
Let’s make it more brief,”
Now “perhaps” saves us being quite wrong!
The Horse Who Swallowed the Fridge
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
In the meadow’s quiet,
a sight so strange,
A horse rearranged,
its insides change.
No hay and oats,
but a well-stocked chill,
A picnic arranged with meticulous skill.
Apples and pears, a bottle uncorked,
As if nature’s bounty could thus be forked.
The horse unfazed, its gaze far and wide,
Perhaps we all hold fridges inside.
Fridge Geometry
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
My love, my dear, with focused, furrowed brow,
Engages in a ritualistic art.
No ancient runes, no mystic signs avow
The magic he performs; a nobler start.
He opens wide the cold and cavernous door,
A landscape stark of plastic, white, and chill.
Then contemplates the chaos that’s in store:
The jars, the cartons, stacked with careless will.
But fear him not! A master plan takes hold.
He shifts a carton here, a jar there,
With practiced ease, a story to be told
In condiments aligned with loving care.
A Tetris king, in realms of crisper, cold cut,
He makes a fridge a wonder to behold.
The Great Teacup Metropolis
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
In a kitchen, stark and bare,
Dishes piled up, a curious affair.
Skyscrapers rise, a floral sight,
Teacups and bowls, a whimsical height.
Out the window, the scene takes flight,
A city of dishes, bathed in soft light.
No forks or spoons, just a flower’s delight,
A kitchen dream, where dishes take flight.
Rush Hour at Lascaux
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
The cave, a prehistoric garage, where taxis queue in ochre rows, headlights beaming on the walls, illuminating ancient woes.
No hurried passengers alight, no fares collected, meters cold. Instead, a bison, painted bold, charges through the smoky gold.
A mammoth rumbles, trunk aloft, a deer with startled eyes takes flight. The drivers wait, their shift unending, in this subterranean, yellow light.
Lentil Logic
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
Do lentils fear the counting spoon,
Each one a tiny, trembling moon?
Do they huddle close, in anxious plight,
As numbers rise, and shadows bite?
Perhaps they whisper, “Don’t count us yet!
We haven’t finished our earthy duet.
We’re soaking up the flavors deep,
Preparing for a culinary leap!”
Or maybe they’re just tiny beans,
Unaware of the gourmand’s schemes.
But still, I wonder, in the night,
Do lentils tremble at the counting light?
From Pepper to Port (Lost at Sea in a Pepper Grinder)
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
A peppery squall, a salty shore,
A tiny ship that sails no more.
A galleon grand, in spice confined,
A pepper storm, a curious kind.
A knowing eye, a curious glance,
At worlds askew, a playful dance.
In gilded frame, a silent jest,
Where art and life find curious rest.
The tale’s untold, the how unclear,
The ship in spice, beyond all fear.
Perhaps a sneeze, a magic gust,
And now it’s sailing pepper crust.
A silver handle, turns with grace,
A grinder’s grip, a peppery space.
A world absurd, a whispered sigh,
Where dreams reside, and pepper flies.
Baroque
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
Gold flickers, light on all it finds,
A stillness held, in quiet minds.
No story told, no grand design,
Just objects placed, in light’s incline.
The Form of Air
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
Hisss-
a quick burst,
air.
Elastic,
thin skin,
yielding.
A twist,
not quite a flower,
more well, a pup perhaps..
The hand’s work:
a snout, a leg,
this brief life.
To watch it there—
this iridescent creature,
taut joy—
is a kind
of listening,
to the world’s breath.
Saint Smudge
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
Late into the hours by the candlelight glow
My feather quill did ebb and exuberantly flow
Prithee do not hasten, ’tis the splatter, then the smudge
The berry ink has pooled until it trudged!
The scribe, the sinner, and the saint, lest be judged
My lids did falter, just so you know,
Winking back, the embers flicker.
It is almost time for the hen to crow
Prithee do not hasten, ’tis the splatter, then the smudge
The berry ink has pooled until it trudged,
The scribe, the sinner, and the saint, lest be judged
The morn fog is here, smudged with althoughs,
Woven with Celtic knots to I thee I bestow
Prithee do not hasten, ’tis the splatter, then the smudge
The berry ink has pulled until it trudged,
The scribe, the sinner, and the saint, lest be judged.
(Inspired by Sister Dr. Annie Kaillian’s Medieval Poetry class at the Natre Dame Teachers as Scholars Program )
Epiphany in a Phone Booth
By Mechelle Gilford
The city wears its winter skin, a gray on gray refrain,
and snow falls soft as whispers on the glass of a phone booth pane.
A pigeon, plump and nonchalant, surveys the frozen scene,
perched atop a silent call, a dial tone unseen.
Inside, a fractured portrait glows, in hues of ruby, gold,
a face caught in the amber light, a story left untold.
Is it a saint, a sinner, caught in stained-glass artifice,
or just a memory flickering, a trick of winter’s kiss?
The booth, a relic of a time before the endless scroll,
when whispered words had weight and cost, and reached a waiting soul.
Now silence echoes in its shell, no ringing cuts the air,
just flakes that gather on the ledge, like moments left to spare.
The pigeon shifts, a restless hunch, then launches in the white,
leaving the booth to ponder on the nature of lost light.
A city’s hum, a muffled thrum, a lonely vigil kept,
in the ghost of a connection, where secrets lie adept.
And the stained-glass face, in fractured grace, holds steady to its line,
a silent testament to time, in shades of old design.
The phone, a cold and dormant thing, reflects the falling snow,
a dial tone’s quiet mystery, of where the stories go.
The Art Teacher’s Apron
By Mechelle Gilford
Ochre, Prussian blue, a smear—
The apron’s pocket holds no fear.
Small palettes, brushes frilly,
Stitched in strands, a history,
A touch of magic, tucked right here.
A lost button, a bird’s feather, too.
What else? A universe, perhaps? Who knew?
Analog Drift: Echoes in Static
By Mechelle Marie Giford
Neon… bloom. Fractal, frail.
Pixel clouds: patterns… a drift.
Rider’s gaze: fractured moon… a slip.
Woven hat: pathways, gone.
Hand’s gesture— algorithms, soft— bend…
Analog weeds: drifting space… silent day.
Timelines, woven thread— canyons echo.
Fluid sky: parallel paths… unsaid.
Signals fray… echoes sigh— phantom desert.
Worlds cease— ghost in foam— liberty.
(…liberty…foam…desert…sigh…sky…day…bend…gone…slip…drift…bloom…)
Poof: You.
By Mechelle Marie Gilford
Not the abrupt dismissal,
the magician’s flourish,
the smoke-and-mirrors trick.
But the slow unfurling,
the quiet arrival,
the sudden, startling fact
of your presence here.
A mystery whispered
into being,
a world that shifts
on its axis,
because now,
here,
you are.