Not Just the Snow

Not Just the Snow – © 2020 Patrick Canganelli.

I am going off to war
to a far place.
I have never been
away from my village.
well here I am.
the sun is the same
but nothing else is recognizable.
we have our orders
and we begin to ascend the hillside
we are to engage the enemy—
what enemy?
how can a foe be someone I’ve never seen?
progress is slow
trudging through this incline of rock
and newly fallen snow.
a sharp whistle
rings through the air,
I cannot breathe.
I fall without warning
my legs have left me
I turn to get up
but I cannot
I see my blood pour into the snow
sounds are faint
I am growing cold
the air is thin.
I cannot tell you
how I wish I were home
next to the hearth
while you carefully place the trivet.
I try to breathe
my chest gurgles
your beautiful hair
the smell of scones
my brothers charging all around me now
that strange whistle again
a soft thud near me
oh the fragrant tea
if it could warm me now
you’re humming old favorite aires.
why am I here
I forget
did I ever know?
how was our love
not enough?
it was for us.
I cannot keep the tears away
I am thinking of you,
after all
I am here to ‘keep
our way of life’
to shutter you from
the hate
and aggression,
but I have failed,
my day was lost
before I hit the snow
if I could but kiss your face…
instead I see the lights going out
all around me
friends are falling
how will we keep
the world safe
I hear faint crunching boots
but I am weak,
my face is pressed into the cold
at their feet.
will I see you again
my love?
my prayer is whispered
faint swirls of vapor barely escape
my lips,
a quick sip of tea
and I will gather with my fallen comrades.
so when I’m gone,
please keep me in your heart,
for not just the snow has fallen.

© 2020 Patrick Canganelli, All rights reserved.

The Greater Prize

drawing of a simple light cone
Light Cone – © 2020 Patrick Canganelli.


the packets of time
once free flowing
are compressed,
but my life
has purchased a great spoon,
and I will set about to stir
the galling packets
play mischief with
the arrow of time,
I will not obey the direction,
or take note of the outcry.
I stir the cauldron
and I am oblivious to the chaos
I will stay outside the light cone
I will inhabit
the vast elsewhere
and I shall
hear eons of music played
all at once
every note that you and I have imagined.
if you wish to run with me,
you must abandon
then pick up the spoon and give a stir—
the arrows and their muddled vectors
a great soup
of every instance,
never imagined side by side
but obscured by our
newfound hobby.
there will be a serious comeuppance
but you and I will be unavailable for
the forfeits.
we will have our eyes
on the greater prize.
turn now
walk with me
as we enter paradise.

© 2020 Patrick Canganelli, All rights reserved.

The Summit

colored pencil on Bristol board.
To Leave My Door Ajar – © 2009 Patrick Canganelli.

Still transcending
A thousand moments
My mind has sailed;
Carried off to a place or two
Where rest makes quiet
The shivering platitudes within.
Engaging my longings
With a swelling power,
The incidents passing
Without the regret
I’ve left for others,
I have stood still
Too often to count
Among the living,
So I coax
The passenger fistful
To plead my triumphs,
And bear me up
Among the pitiless;
To leave my door ajar,
By grieving only
The fleeted memories
I’ve left to encounter.

(taken from The Noumena, available at Amazon here.)

© 2012 Patrick Canganelli.

The Spark and the Chain

A Chain of People – © 2019 Patrick Canganelli.

I fell
the deep well.

I lay breathless at the bottom
how long

in my nightmare
I saw a strange spark
and the spark became
a flame
and the flame
it burned until I
could not see
but I awoke
and gripped the walls
of my oubliette.
I determined
to climb my way out.
at the top
I struggled
until my feet were on the ground.
I stood straight up
and peered into
the sky.

I looked around
and everywhere
I saw people struggling
out of the
places where they had fallen.

I determined
to meet
with everyone.

I must know what
sent us to dark places
but more importantly
I long to keep
my fellows from falling.

let’s go arm in arm together
and form
a chain –
a human chain
of caring

and if I fall
please help me out
and know
that if you fall
I will be there
attended by the human chain
we will help each other
until no one falls.

we will build our chain
of love
the rescue pod
encircles the earth.

I hear you calling
but we are right here,
lifting you up.

I saw a spark.
and it grew
into a chain
that binds us all.
and someday
with your help
no one

© 2019 Patrick Canganelli, All rights reserved.

Standing on the Cold Rock

man on rocks with sun
Standing on the rocks

Standing on the cold wet
windswept rock,
atop the outcrop
jutting out into the cold tumultuous sea
a thick fog—
but through a small patch of sky
I spot a mist-encircled setting sun.
my feet are bare
and ache from the water that
rushes up and over rocks
but I feel a part of it all—
the distant sun
lends its rays of hope
and the cold waters answer
through me
to the vast expanse
of sky
that carries infinitesimal droplets
of the sea,
and clinging to the moisture
are my hopes
and my deep states of unconsciousness.
on the surface I am the averaging of sunlight
and water’s depth
but inside
I harbor fantastic anomalies.
and I long to impart
some great waveform
that will light the sky
and earth
and mingle
with the sun cradled in the distant haze.
I wish to travel to where the arc of heaven
and bring my cold feet
and shimmering breath
to rest upon the splines
of matter,
and point my finger
to somewhere beyond
where I am and who
I have become.

© 2019 Patrick Canganelli, All rights reserved.

The Expedition

moon striations
Striations of the moon – © 2019 Patrick Canganelli.

A hidden voice whispers
an unfocused feeling,
igniting the quanta of my mind
(the children of my reflection)
which shoot out like stars
into the vastness of what may be.
They shoot up towards the sky
and rush through
its sweet gaseous amnion,
and leave the bubble burst below.
They make vectors towards
the moon
(a monument of vectors)
where asteroids
carved luminous striations
on the facets of a satellite
Together we carve our way to where
the rain never comes.
We are the rain.
We shower on the galaxy
and bring possibilities
not far removed from

© 2019 Patrick Canganelli, All rights reserved.


artwork by Patrick Canganelli.
artwork © by Patrick Canganelli.

What tender boughs we rend the
air with,
air with turbulence
enough to father seasons
in their turn.

The summer has burned by,
and the once sapping trees
now spend their coins
on bursting winds;
unseen ushers
guiding a dawning equinox.

The talk of dear cousins
becomes the hidden voice
again, retreating in hollows hard to reach,
But I know the way.
I know each trail by
branches which overlook
the paths,
which overlook me.

Where is the world I left behind?–
it is here
in the black-sphere resounding brain
rebounding again from the
closet I patched it into,
It is here where I invite
the noise,
here within the path of shadows,
where I find those creatures
which guard the reserve
of everything.

Can a moon canter?
Perhaps for me it can,
and eager to repeat
its metre,
again comes the wind,
again the bulging sea
And with the Ides of March
(forgotten to the end)
the bold, golden grasses
full of creatures
offer themselves up to me,
And I in my turn
am the point between the surface
and the welling pools below,
charging in the fathered seasons
of the wind.

-Excerpted from The Noumena book of poetry by Patrick Canganelli, available on Amazon at

© 2018, Patrick Canganelli.