Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

“Summer’s First Pamper-Her-Friday”

Say, Lovely,

LeBron “King” James . . . fathering like a champion

“A Father is Crowned”

You wanna know the only thing better than being a newly crowned world champion, especially against all historical odds? . . .

Mrs. Savannah James & Her MVP: LeBron “The King” James

“Forever Her MVP: Most Valuable Pamperer”

The woman loves her some LeBron
And can you blame the lovely Savannah?
After all, an anointed king is an exclusive thing
As a pour from the heavens like manna

Mrs. Odessa Grady Clay cradled by her son, The Greatest, Muhammad Ali:  © Charles “Teenie” Harris

“Requiem for The Greatest”

Dear Heavenly Father,

I don’t have all the answers for what it is to be a man of God during this life’s journey I find myself trudging. What it is to be a purposeful man. What is the reason for my having been gifted the chance to walk this earth.

I can’t imagine a young Cassius Clay had the answers either.

But if there’s something I’m rather sure of, it’s this: When a young man loves his mother, there’s bounty in his possibility. When he truly respects and honors his mother, a young man is set upon a course laden with prospect. Who knows, greatness may even await him.

Only you, Father, know of those mortals among us who are preordained to a special calling. Predestined a rare courage summoned by a morality that somewhere lives in each of us.

A child of God cannot be owned.

Did an as-yet-evolved Muhammad Ali know this transformative declaration before his peers? I mean, did you give it to him at birth? At the Olympics? Or did you reveal it to him at that moment when someone told him the Viet Cong was his supposed mortal enemy?

I wonder if his mother, the beautiful Mrs. Clay, had something to do with his internalizing such a profound, liberating, if not dangerous-for-the-times belief.

You, Father, yes, you, sent Muhammad out into a wicked, unforgiving world with nothing more than inhuman handspeed, a wondrous jab, the sweetest footwork, a lion’s heart, a yeoman’s work ethic, an awe-inspiring poetic mind . . . and an unwavering conviction for righting wrong.

I bet his mother had something to do with it.

You, Father, yes, you, Heavenly Father, give us so seemingly little yet expect us to go forth into the world and do the humanly impossible.

I was mad at you, man. Yes, livid that you took his voice away. That beautiful, fluid, poetic voice, that had no equal, you silenced. Upset I was.

Until I realized the voice meant little next to the stance. Next to the actions a man takes at the risk of losing it all, losing everything . . . except his dignity and his foundation.

I bet Mrs. Clay had something to do with that.

I’m sorry, Father. For doubting you. For questioning your providence. You didn’t abandon Muhammad. You and Mrs. Clay lent him to us . . . to reveal to us what is humanly possible, for the betterment of humanity.

Do me a favor, would you? Give Mrs. Clay a kiss on her forehead for me and tell her thank you for the gift of her son.

And, as I bow, place your hand on my head and imbue me with an ounce, just an ounce, of that which you gave to Muhammad Ali.

I’m in need of your providence, Father, your mercy. I’ll find my way. And I’ll do all I can to not let you down.

Forever in your debt,
Rg2

_____________________

***

A stinger, a shuffler, a butterfly in flight; The sweetest scientist, the Greatest Ever, our Ali, goodnight. -Rg2

© 2016 Romance by Rg2®

“A Weekend with You”

If you’re reading this love letter while at work
Would you please do so discreetly,
No need to give coworkers whisper bait
Especially a missive written so sweetly

“No Games…Tonight”

Are you ready to come out of the act, woman . . .
Isn’t it about time you remove the mask?
Corporate executive duties have left you exhausted
Endless is the entrepreneurial multi-task

Say, Pretty Woman,

President Obama and I had a smoke the other day on the balcony of the West Wing, while you were frolicking on the sands of Cabo or was it touring the vineyards of the picturesque Napa Valley(?), or, well, whatever you were doing, it certainly wasn’t with me.

Anyway, the commander-in-chief and I were swapping how-today’s-women-treat-good-men war stories. I told him about this particular woman from Kansas with whom I’d been looking forward to sharing dinner. The president paused a presidential moment, took a puff, and said, “Kansas women are among the most intelligent, most romantic women in the country—if you can ever catch up with ’em.”

Incredulously I said, “Well, what about Lady Michelle? She’s from Chicago.”

The president took another, more exaggerated puff, exhaled coolly, and replied, “I still ain’t caught up with her, Roy.”

We both nearly tumbled off our chairs laughing.

Man, I’m gonna miss President Obama and the first lady at the center of American political life. And, ominously, the country’s gonna miss him at the helm, too.

For all the low expectations, quiet fears, phantom anxieties and purely unsubstantiated dislike for him by more than half the country, especially at the start of his term, the Obama brand has simply gotten better with time.

Did you hear or read about what he just did? Extending overtime pay eligibility to those making above the mid-twenties in salary to just under $50K may not seem like much at first glance, but it impacts millions of workers.

As you can imagine, the resistance from the other side of the aisle is thick. And big business is bristling. But the little guy and gal need an advocate too.

I give the president an A for the try. He’s going out swinging . . . actually saving some of his best work for the ninth inning.

But back to you, woman.

I guess if the president still hasn’t caught up with the beautiful Lady Michelle after these many years, my chances of your company for a simple, elegant dinner don’t look exactly promising, do they?

The president did leave me with a gem, however: “A woman, no matter how busy she is, leaves just enough room in her mind for the ‘possibility’ . . . the pampering possibility.

“As strong and independent as she is, Michelle loves to be pampered.”

With that, the president and I shook hands, exchanged a brother-man hug, and I thanked him sincerely for his invaluable time. He mentioned before I parted that he’s looking to write his memoirs and if I’d be interested in the ghostwrite.

“Absolutely,” I rushed.

“Deal,” the president replied, “But I want to hear how your dinner went with the lovely Kansas artful dodger.”

“You got it, Mr. President.”

I don’t need a presidential directive to prompt me nor to persuade you. But the “pampering possibility” has an intriguing ring to it, no?

And what do you know, it’s Pamper-Her-Friday.

What’s the possibility of your company tonight?

Ghostwriter-in-waiting,
Rg2

________________________

***

Pamper the woman . . . for possibility sake. -Pres. Obama

© 2016 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

“Summer’s A Moment Away”

Summer’s still a few sunsets away
I can’t imagine you haven’t had a forethought,
So evasive you were those two weekends ago
There’s a law of attraction you’ve apparently fought

Dear Sonia,

The irony of bumping into you after what now accounts for about half our lifetimes isn’t lost on me. To say that time has been kind to you grossly understates an obvious truth.

Chapter 3: To Thyself Be True

“. . . the woman has a dilemma—a juicy dilemma.” -Rg2

“Bev.” The uneasy voice at the other end of the line grabbed Beverly’s attention.
“Joan?” she replied in a raspy tone, lazily looking over at the glowing red digital numbers on her nightclock reading one forty-eight a.m. “Is everything okay?”
“Sorry to call so late. I hope I didn’t wake your husband.”
Beverly instinctively glanced over her shoulder only to find Stan crouched in perfect still, eyes fixedly closed and mouth partially open, his snores intensifying with each breath.
“He’s in another world. What’s the matter, hon?” she asked with a motherly concern, worried by the unusual lateness of the call.
“I need to talk to someone,” Joan let go hesitantly. “I would’ve called my mom, but she’s away, and with everything she’s going through right now, I just . . . ”
Beverly cut in, “Joan, you know you can call me anytime. Hold on a minute. I’ll change phones.” She reached for her evening gown and made her way downstairs to the study.
“What is it, Joan?”
“I saw him tonight.”
“You saw who tonight?”
“Devern.”
“Who’s Devern?”
“Devern Garrett. I met him a few weeks ago at the studio. He just came out of nowhere, Bev.”
“Go on,” Beverly replied, listening intently to not just her words, but the inflections of her voice, as if a psychiatrist.
“He’s asked me to spend Christmas with him. I told him I had plans already.”
“Roger?”
“Yes. But I wasn’t totally honest.”
“Roger’s the only man I’ve ever heard you speak of. Does Devern know about him?”
“Well, no, not really. Why does he need to know about Roger?”
“For the same reason you felt compelled to be dishonest with him about your plans for the holiday,” Beverly replied, her maternal instincts and years of relationship experience starting to come into play. Joan took a moment to let the comment sink in.
“This Devern guy, he must be quite fond of you to want to share Christmas. How do you feel about him, Joan?”
“Bev, you know how I feel about Roger.”
“I didn’t ask how you feel about Roger. I’m asking about Devern. How do you feel about him?”
As simple as the question was, Joan struggled with the answer. She really hadn’t taken the time to analyze her feelings. But sure enough, having let the cat out to Beverly, the litigator who dissects matters of the heart as well as she does legal cases, self-analysis was unavoidable.
“I think about him. And I don’t know why I do.”
“You say you’ve known him for only a few weeks?”
“Yes. We’ve had dinner and I’ve been to his place and . . . ”
“You’ve been to his place,” Beverly repeated her statement, her voice suddenly taking on a more authoritative pitch. “You, you didn’t…”
Before she could even finish the sentence, Joan interjected.
“No! Of course we didn’t, Bev. Nothing happened. He just held me,” she assured her, the cadence of her voice softening at the end.
“Hmm,” Bev released, questions beginning to creep into her mind. “I don’t know too many men who invite women to their place for just an innocent snuggling session.”
The comment made Joan a little ticked.
“I may as well be talking to my mother about this.”
Detecting the curtness in Joan’s reply, Beverly realized she was parenting instead of listening.
She eased up. Besides, she knew Joan had good taste in men.
“So how does he look?” Beverly inquired, her curiosity indicating to Joan that she was now wide awake. Delicious girl talk respected no time frames. The spontaneous question lightened the mood of the conversation instantly. Knowing Beverly as she did, Joan saw it coming.
“What does that matter?”
“Oh, come on, girl. You know the man’s gotta have something going for him physically. Is he attractive?”
Egged on by Bev’s excitable curiosity, Joan began to visualize his face . . . the ruggedly polished five o’clock and carefully carved mustache against his brownstone skin, the dark, halting eyes inset beneath thick brows, the seemingly sculpted jaw and hand-drawn lips that begged for repeated kisses. She forgot someone was on the other end.
“Well, Joan?”
“Just over six feet. Deceivingly slender. Mild spoken. Nicely dressed. He reminds me of my father.”
The last part struck a chord. A recent encounter flashed in Beverly’s mind.
“This wouldn’t be the guy that came by the office a few days ago, would it?”
The question was met with a brief pause.
“Yes, that’s Devern.”
“Umm, yum-yum,” Beverly gestured softly, careful not to speak too loudly lest Stan should walk in and question her past-midnight chatting. Joan couldn’t help but laugh, considering her friend’s weakness for attractive men. Though she was happily married, Beverly’s window shopping days were far from over.
“I see why you haven’t told Roger about him.”
“Oh, Bev, stop it,” Joan replied, attempting to defuse any notions that Devern was a threat to her relationship with the blue-eyed entrepreneur. “Roger’s my heart, you know that.”
“Uh huh,” Beverly remarked, not exactly convinced of the declaration. “So why do you think of Devern?”
Joan feigned a yawn at the appropriate moment and decided to end the conversation, declining to answer the question.
“Well, it’s late, Bev. I’ve kept you up entirely too long. Stan’s probably wondering where you are.”
“Yeah, he probably is,” Bev returned, aware that her friend really wasn’t ready to deal with what seemed to be hidden emotion. She let it go at that.
“Night, Joan.”

____________________

***

Love Letters, Poetry, Novels . . . Romance. -Rg2

© Roy Greer/Romance by Rg2®