The Seasons: A Poem

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Sunrise over Amazing Grasses Family Farm The mad Artist wields His brush, Painted colors rush, To life and give flush, Before the quiet autumn hush. The life seems to pour, As colors fall to the floor, To be seen no more, Outside the dark, grey door. Brightness from below, Sun upon the snow, High, cold clouds blow, Flakes and ice appear to grow. The man melts with little seen, Underneath, pale, grey green, Hides life in dark unseen, Waits for warmth and to careen. Buds on branches show, Patience starts to grow, Trickles, streams and veins flow, Bringing fruits of melted snow. Sprung to life it springs, Bees, birds, sound rings, Lush green flings, Its gift bounty brings. Green growth gives one last rush, Underneath the Painter's brush. The mad Artist wields His brush, before the quiet autumn hush. More poetry is available from James M. Hahn in  The Last Dragon and Other Poems  available now. My new book of cryptogram puzzles " Secret Messages from the Saints " is avai
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Extreme Male Award

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It finally happened! I was elected "Extreme Male" by the guys in my homebrew prayer group. The prayer group is comprised of a group of friends who get together to pray and exchange recipes, beer recipes that is. After prayer, and a few samples brew, we exchange stories about family, work, and life in general.

After some sampling of the Hahn Hoppy Red Ale there arose a contest of sorts with the gentlemen of the group working to one-up each other with our manliness. Of course the whole thing sprang from a discussion about the recent deer gun season.

Steve told us that after waiting in the driving rain all day Friday, he shot a 12-point buck. He had to drag it out of the woods by himself. This is no small potatoes and we were all impressed. However, Josh mentioned that one time he was out turkey hunting and was attacked by a wild boar that he eventually killed with a Bowie knife he was carrying. Many of us were doubtful about the truth of this story and wondered if the Hoppy wasn't just making him happy.

The discussion went on for quite some time when I decided to pull out the trump card. "I change my kid's diapers," I said in a firm voice while lighting my pipe.

Matt gave a laugh, "we've all changed diapers Jim, not a big deal tough guy."

I knew this would be the reply so I continued, "they're cloth diapers, not disposable." I blew out the match and placed in the ash tray.

Josh slowly lowered his bottle from his mouth and said, almost shuttering, "you don't mean what I think you mean, right? I mean...you...don't actually..." He was at a loss for words.

"Yes, that's right fellas," I replied as I took a slow steady puff. "I change cloth diapers. Which does mean...I..."  A smoke ring floated in front of my face.

"Don't say it Jim," pleaded Matt. "I won't believe it, I can't believe it."

I took a drink of the Hahn's Hobgoblin Pumpkin Porter and turned and looked at each one. "Yes, gentlemen, I change cloth diapers and then I sit down in front of the toilet and dunk them and clean them out. After that I squeeze them and toss them in a pail."

A gasp rose from the group as they sat staring in awe. They looked at me and then at my hands and then back at me. No one stirred. I took a long puff on the pipe and asked, "do I win?"

They began to fall all over themselves in their effort to name me the "extreme male" for the group. I suspect I'll have the title for quite some time. Actually, I can't see a chance of me loosing the title unless some one else's wife switches to cloth diapers. In that case I have a back up plan, birthing large farm animals. But until then we'll continue to meet pray, taste, and boast.

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