Poet Phoebe Chi (Puppy Doc) delivers commentary on High Blood Pressure in her human doctor’s personna

Perhaps you’ve been told you have “high blood pressure.” Or maybe you checked it yourself one day and noticed that it was 146/90. What now? Today I will discuss some ways in which you can improve your own blood pressure without taking medications. But before I do, let’s first answer an important question: What is hypertension and what’s the big deal?…

via 10 All-Natural Ways to Improve Your Blood Pressure — Musings of PuppyDoc


Bruce Jewett captures perhaps three of the best reasons for making oneself available to an early morning soft rain. And the comment I left below his haiku-senryu said so and more, but I forgot to again mentiion I just saw the cat picture in full orientation, so closely did he capture the scene at his cat nap revue (bruce jewett wordpress.com)

wakes me gently
washes cars, waters flowers
whispers of past love

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“An ‘Uncle Nick’s’ Oyster Bar Saga/Scuffle” – Tanka 424

Right shoulder deep aches

from thirty years ago “talk”

with Badass Biker


at “Nick’s” bar’s corner window –

was too big for “the open!*”


*(I was just trying to explain to him how impolite to {bartender} Li’l Jan he was, I said to three even bigger biker buds who pulled me away from that corner of the still-talked-about Liquor and Oyster Bar in what had been Jane Sinko’s Tavern on the then-outskirts of Sanford when mom and dad would take their three boys for suicide sodas – a squirt of each of the soft-drink flavors – as they had a quick small beer apiece before heading home but three blocks away.  Now it was a dive frequented by lawyers, bikers, college teachers and seafood lovers and not just a few unsavory elements buying, selling, ingesting or savoring sins and illegalities, in short the kind of place in which I felt at home.  I’ve met little old ladies out for a sip, Danes off the boat in search of Apalachicola Bay oysters with their motorcycle club regalia in full flower, nuclear submarine salts and not just a smattering of high school and college friends and a couple of old Marine buddies, favored bar tenders and their entangles and sometimes my own dad – who preferred I shuck a dozen myself into a clean mayonnaise jar – with their juices of course – to take to his house and make him forbidden-by-diet oyster stew: first saute to wilt only some green onions, whites and greens alike, reserving a few green ringlets for garniture in sweet unsalted butter, toss in oyster liquor and either full-force or half-and-half cream and then just when the edges of the pan come to a simmer with bubbles ringing the pot add the oysters until the fluttery vaginal-looking frills begin to swell and separate, add to a warm bowl and serve with some Tabasco or other hot sauce, ground black pepper and if warranted, kosher salt.  Saltines, but I prefer toasted and buttered rounds of french baguette. The contretemps began by the window into whose sill the brute shoved me, right shoulder-first: I grabbed hold of his leathers and flip-swung him into the corner,  the few patrons there – as it was generally the least-served easily-by-the-bartender area and thus had drawn his vocal and vile ire, scattered and I began my plaint: just put your empty and your cash up by the rail and she’ll be by directly, I shouted into his ear despite biting it as hard as I could while at the same time driving a knee towards his groin as he pounded my shoulder and back of my head with his free right fist and forearm.  Then, as we settled into no stalemate whatsoever, I having released his ear and trying to spread his un-pinned leg by the knee so he would join me on the bar’s floor did my buddies intervene – I saw but one pulled Bowie Knife, held unmenacingly enough by its blade, but Bradley rarely if ever used anything but the hilt – separating us both who promptly returned to our stools and our beers and nothing more was said or done.)



“Last Time I Walk There At Night”

possibly the last

golf ball found* from overnight

ruined my walk home


*(The question obtains: did I find the golf ball half-buried in the sandy-yet-grassy field through the act of stepping on it wearing thin-soled sandals, or did the golf ball find – and thus punish – me for the temerity of taking some of its siblings home to rest beside mine own nine-iron in big filled-up plastic shopping bags?)