Poetry by Phil

The Rev. Dr. Philip J. Bauman is the Senior Pastor at The
United Church of Christ in Medfield where he has served for 11

He has a M. Div. from Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary,
and a Ph.D. in Pastoral Psychology from Boston University.

Phil is interested in the intersection of philosophy, theology,
and psychology, its impact on culture, and how a generous
orthodoxy can address it. He loves reading and writing and
especially poetry.

Phil has attended two writing workshops conducted by poet and
playwright Jeanne Murray Walker at the 2002 Oxbridge
Conference and the 2006 C.S. Lewis Foundation Summer

Phil is married and has two daughters.
Late Arrival
Spring arrived so late we
despaired it would ever
climb out of the hole
it had fallen into.

But it peeked over the edge,
jumped out in a sudden
burst of energy—apologetic
for its long delay—ran
feverishly to catch up.

Crocus, daffodil, and hyacinth all
leapt with joy from the sun-bathed
ground, would have taken flight
had their roots not quickly gripped
the soil—their vibrant blossoms
painted the color of hope.
It was the same—yet different.
The once new house I had known
had aged well, the exterior looked
the same but the yard seemed much
older, the stick trees unrecognizable,
thick and towering overhead.

It was the same—yet different.
I remembered the streets, high school,
mall, old hangouts; but dwellings,
stores, businesses had devoured the farmland
and the asphalt rivers had overflowed
their banks and formed new tributaries.

It was the same—yet different.
The names were the same, but people
wore the passage of time differently.
Some had borne the full force of life’s
storms as cliffs endure the ocean’s rage,
while others weathered them from a cove.

A few classmates attended but most didn’t.
Some were dead.  Others had escaped
the computer’s virtual reach, while others
avoided resurrecting the past. The flashed-by
forty years had wrinkled reality
and it was different—
Summer Day
It was an ordinary summer day—
perhaps I exaggerate, for New England
has no ordinary summer day, each one
a complete surprise—as we headed
south to the rendezvous in New Haven.

The drive was uneventful.
Traffic flowed well with one minor
slowdown, and we exceeded
the speed limit with aplomb,
all lanes moving as if in a race
to reach the vanishing point.

The picnic on the hill was unremarkable,
except for the sun’s race across the sky.
The three of us ate sandwiches, nibbled
on fresh strawberries, chatted about work,
life, faith, and other things consequent
and not, as we reclined on the old blue sheet.

The return trip home was predictable.
We discussed the several hours spent
together as we drove further into the twilight,
suddenly aware that it was a most
extraordinary summer day.
More poems at

Three by D.S. Martin, whose chapbook
was recently published.

A poem by Rhett Iseman Trull, editor of
Cave Wall: A Journal of Poetry & Art.

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