Monthly Archives: July 2014

Viceroy Bali Hotel

“Romance and Restoration”

Pre-dawn will be our takeoff, Love, be ready to go
to Indonesia’s island Bali, few are in the know

Tropics and pamper-her topics, letting your mind run free
Carte blanche the whole weekend by Friday romance decree:

Do with me what you want and naked skin we can flaunt
medicinal stone massages await at a hidden guest haunt

A straw-hut suite with modern perks, overlooking the lush greens
Watching you bask uninhibited against the panoramic scenes

Untainted air is almost unfair as it gently cleanses the lungs
A welcome reprieve from the pressures of the money ladder rungs

Constant climbing and relentless timing of the American dream chase
can make the mind schizophrenic–I wanna slow down the pace

A little less torque while I pop the cork of your favorite tickle drink
Sipping with you and dipping with you, my angel, there is a link

Between the calm in your pulse and the healing power of my hand
A woman deserves restoration, it is incumbent upon the man

To silence her soul, so vital the goal, all anxieties to be extinguished
The battle armor she need not wear, all disharmony is relinquished

A spontaneous getaway, a wish-we-could-stay, is so good for the psyche
A weekend nurture so I can further all the reasons for you to sigh me

Oohs and aahs will be the sounds you’ll uncontrollably release
The sanctuary of my arms, woman, ends your seek for peace

You deserve this restoration, a moment to revisit the inner self
Relax your body by the stream, I’ll pull the towels from the shelf

We’ll sip and dip at a take-our-time clip, Love, it’s time to play
This is the meaning and you’re the essence of my Pamper-Her-Friday.

___________________________

***

Pamper the woman . . . like a summer’s rendezvous. -Rg2

© 2014 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

image: by lamincode

“A Summer Love Returns”

I guess I’m waxing nostalgic about the 1980s
When the cat with the biggest boombox pulled the most ladies

Reagan and Gorbachev as cold warriors–score one for the “Gipper”
Rap pioneers like L.L. on my radio, making the Hop mo’ Hipper

Bigger the box, louder the beat, and the girls would multiply
I bought mine small for that special one–You–so damn fly

Mixtapes I made, rented house studio, you were my inspiration
Sold a grip from my trunk, tours with you across the nation

On my mind, in my thoughts, you in the Gloria Vanderbilt jeans
My first pair of Jordans, the Carolina blues, so fresh and so clean

My East Coast waves and braided duck tail, with wave brush in tow
The silky pomade I’d let you apply, girl, you just had to know

I was crushin’ on you, put a little rush on you
but kept your reputation intact,
In my room writin’ lyrics in your honor
Damn right, my mack was exact

Neither Blood nor Crip; I was in my Savior’s gang
I knew criminality equaled death–legality was my thang

Our forebears died so that I wouldn’t be rope-tied and court-tried
“Treat the woman right,” pops said, “and you won’t be denied . . . .”

. . . my rightful place in the universe, my rightful place in your heart
You were mine from the beginning, I was yours from the start

That hot summer from the ’80s, I’d sneak a feel on your booty
Double-scoop cones we would share and banana splits so fruity

Ice cream sandwiches and soft-bun manwiches, laughing all the while
I’d sit you on my lap in the park, endless was your smile

We were poor and unaware in our coming-of-age innocence
But quite possibly the best of times in young love—in a sense?

College bound, books per pound, we gained some consciousness
Let my hair grow unabated, identifying with global unrest

Of the darker face of the earth crying out for humanity
Learned emancipation is expensive, freedom certainly not free

You grew even smarter, climbed the charts of corporate America
But true love never found you and I let go of Erica:

You were always there, that firm hold on my mind
Women have come and gone, but none of your kind

My ’80s summer love, damn, I just can’t shake you
We can’t go back . . . or can we? The mixtape remains true

I’ve pulled it out, dusted it off—you’re still the boom in my box
What gains a man without love? All the gold in Fort Knox

Couldn’t buy what we had those many years ago
My hand is still gentle, my touch nice and slow

Come back home, babygirl, your love lives here still
That summer of yesteryear was no temporary thrill

We’ll recapture the rapture, I’m still the boom in your box
Come play in my ‘fro while I fingerdance in your locks

No ordinary summer, the ’80s, it was no fleeting chance
Forever shall remain our summer’s romance.

__________________________

***

Romance lives. -Rg2

© 2014 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

(Rated Rg2: For the Goddess)

___________________________________________

My Sweet,

A woman cannot have it all.

Says who?

There simply aren’t enough resources–emotional, monetary, erotic, or otherwise–for a woman to have it all.

Says who?

Likely a woman it was who said such a thing to another woman. What’d you expect? If it was her man who even insinuated such a verbal faux pas, that there are limits to what a woman can have, take my word: She’s dealing with the wrong man.

With a flawed plan.

Apparently he hasn’t heard of Pamper-Her-Friday.

Let me make it clear: Greed, avarice, hegemony, egocentrism–none of these character flaws has ever adorned the truly beautiful woman. None of them wears particularly well on the goddess. Feel?

Having it all is a very subjective thing, a highly intrinsic set of wants and needs, no?

First off, are you in complete comprehension of what your having it all means? Is it still formulating? Does it meta-change with the blowing of the wind? Does it pivot on sight of the latest trend? Is it redefined at each new advertisement?

Last off, how do you know when you have it, that precise moment when your “have it all” has been attained?

Have you ever “had it all” and simply didn’t realize it?

Well, let me ease up on the emotional depth. It’s Friday and I didn’t intend to get philosophical on you, at this beautiful hour, the gateway to a lovely summer weekend.

But let me end my missive with a nugget–nonfiction: A young woman from the most privileged class of her Eastern European society messaged me recently, unsolicited, regarding a Pamper-Her-Friday post she came across on the web. She mentioned she was so intrigued by each story and letter in the series that she’s now reserving an hour every evening, a glass of wine in tow, to read and ponder each creative.

I asked her, “Which number is your favorite?” She replied: “That question is highly unfair.” I liked the woman’s spirit. She went on to summarize her privileged existence–jeweled decadence, yacht parties, at-a-whim travel et al. She ran the accoutrements off without pause.

And then I asked what of it all was most precious to her. She wrote simply, “When he breathes on me.” Both of our device keypads grew silent in the correspondence after that last reply.

She thanked me for my creative endeavors. I thanked her more. She mentioned she anticipates the book and signed off: “Write . . . and breathe on her.”

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love. After we do dinner and the show, we’ll scenic-drive to the pier. I wanna take you in my arms within view of the lighthouse in the distance.

And breathe on you.

Yours,
Rg2

_______________________________________________

***

Pamper the woman . . . . -Rg2

© 2014 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®