Tons of Toys

If life in the evening is boring

(Your partner incessantly snoring),

It’s time for a holiday cheer,

More potent than whiskey or beer.

You order online from the Joy Store,

The country’s most primitive toy store

A calendar filled with surprise—

The hottest of Christmas supplies.

The need for this stuff appears dire,

For interest is spreading like fire.

A ton ain’t enough; we need four.

The shipment will soon come to shore.

The product increases attraction.

We do guarantee satisfaction

(A bonus you cannot ignore).

We trust they will be twenty-four.

© Vala Hafstað

Kynlífsleikföng rjúka út í skammdeginu fyrir jól (translation courtesy of Google)

Vala Hafstað is the author of News Muse: Humorous Poems Inspired by Strange News. She lives in Iceland, where she has worked as a journalist and managing editor, and keeps her eyes open for any inspiring news.
    

A Prayer

My father, thou who art up there,
I hope you hear my humble prayer.
My congregation is upset;
They say I’ve got to pay my debt.

I want my Heaven here on Earth;
That’s why I’ve served you since my birth.
I’ve built myself a fancy home
That doesn’t please the guy in Rome.

But think about it, dearest Dad,
There’s reason for you to be glad,
For every good and loyal son
Undoubtedly deserves some fun.

I’ve sacrificed so much for you:
A woman I may not pursue.
Since I may never have a spouse,
My compensation is this house.

So, let me keep my gilded doors,
My jewels and my chest of drawers,
My sauna, bathtub and my wine,
The table where I sit and dine.

I know they’re not the cheapest kind;
My taste is said to be refined.
IKEA simply ain’t my thing,
Your son, the bishop, nicknamed Bling.

Vatican suspends Bishop of Bling.
© Vala Hafstad
Vala Hafstad lives in Iceland.  She finds inspiration for her poems in strange news.

Sunday Review

Noel Loftus' poem 'Wedding, funeral and incidental song from an old man I met in a pub mirror last Sunday'  was Monday's poem. A poem about the the passing of time and the flood of revelations on past abuse that we are undergoing.
'A Star in the Sky' by Vala Hafstad on Tuesday gave a refreshingly biting look at some the details involved with a trip to Mars.
Mari Maxwell's 'Daddy's Legacy' is a searing look at incest. Told with compassion it treats a very hard to talk about subject with honesty and is a very hard hitting poem.
Luigi Pagano's 'NHS 111' gave an insight into the current state of UK health services which can only leave one with grave concerns. Perhaps best some up by the lines
" though more is promised/
we get less and less."
Which have a familiarity to us in New Zealand.
Philip Johnson's "2am (Universal Credit Begins)"  looked at the welfare reform programme in the UK and found it somewhat wanting as it seemed to be very hard on the most vulnerable. There is a nice bit of black humour in the lines
"with that Ian Duncan Smith stealing all the string
from my straight jacket …there may not be a cord with which to hang"
'Missing' by Carolyn Cornthwaite finished the week with a very nicely done poem that showed the irony of ordinary forgetfulness if applied to nuclear materials.

A Star in the Sky

It’s time for a new destination.
Just fill out a short application.
The prize is a trip to the stars.
You’ll land, if you’re chosen, on Mars.

No need for your rose-colored glasses.
This planet all others surpasses
In redness, as evidence shows.
La vie over there is en rose.

You may want a book in your backpack.
And maybe a super-sized snack sack.
The trip will take 200 days,
Assuming there won’t be delays.

There won’t be a guy there to greet you,
Or natives or waiters to meet you,
No cocktails or food on a tray.
You won’t find a pub or café.

We know you’re resourceful and clever
And ready for such an endeavor.
You’ll figure out how to grow food.
If not, you’re most certainly screwed.

We trust you’re adaptable, always.
You will not find fountains in hallways.
On Mars, there’s no lake and no sea.
No problem:  Recycle your pee.

The landscape is truly attractive.
The air may be radioactive,
But if you get cancer up there,
We really won’t bother or care.

Instead, we will watch as you wither.
We’ll follow you hither and thither
With interest, while sipping our tea.
You will be a star on TV.

Imagine the gold for our station,
The drama, the series’ duration!
We’ll call it “The Star in the Sky.”
It runs till the day that you die.

© Vala Hafstad

Applicants wanted for a one-way ticket to Mars

Vala Hafstad lives in Iceland. She finds inspiration for her poems in strange news.

Hot Date

I’m writing a quick SMS.
It’s faster than mail sent express.
I’m restless and sick
With love, so come quick.
My darling, I am in distress.

I’m glad I discovered this phone.
Its ratings are not overblown.
My spelling is checked
With auto-correct,
For errors it will not condone.

I do not use Facebook or tweet.
For that I am way too discreet.
I’ve seen people boast
Of dumb things and post
Obscenities they can’t delete.

Remember the postcards of old.
I used to write words that were bold
To tell of my state.
The card might come late.
I’d panic – my love uncontrolled.

I need you, my dearest, right now.
Excuses I will not allow.
My love is complete
For now I’m in heat.
Love, Bella the beautiful cow.
© Vala Hafstad

Swiss Cows Send Texts to Announce They’re in Heat

Vala Hafstad lives in Minnesota. She writes humorous poems for children and, occasionally, their parents.

A Fairy Tale

There once was a powerful lord.
There’s nothing he couldn’t afford.
His daughter was fair as can be;
On that every man did agree.

The suitors lined up at their gate.
For hours, they’d patiently wait,
But Beauty would all of them shun
And say, “Of those men I’ll have none.”

The father came up with a plan
And said, “I will promise the man
Who woos and wins over my girl
A treasure befitting an earl.

He need not be wealthy or smart,
Or skillful in music or art.
He may not be handsome or tall–
Just someone for whom she will fall.

I’ll offer him diamonds and gold
I’ve earned from the stocks I have sold.
My daughter deserves a good man.
To help her, I’ll do what I can.

The daughter said, “Give me a break.
I can’t lead a life that is fake.
There won’t be a man in my life.
I’m leaving, and so is my wife.”

And that is the end of the tale.
The daughter, no doubt, did prevail.
Her father let out a big sigh:
“I guess there are things you can’t buy.”

© Vala Hafstad

Hong Kong tycoon seeks husband for lesbian daughter

Vala Hafstad lives in Minnesota. She writes humorous poems for children and, occasionally, their parents.

Lost and Found

We search for so much in our lives:
For love and for husbands and wives,
For meaning, compassion and hope,
Or someone with whom to elope.

For deals on Italian wine,
Or gifts with a purchase online,
For diets that do not depress,
And jobs without worry or stress.

We look for a room with a view,
For passions we want to pursue,
Or hobbies that make us feel free,
And things brought ashore by the sea.

And often our mind will not rest,
For we can be truly distressed
If we cannot find what is lost–
A search for oneself can exhaust.

This happened to someone I know:
To Iceland, alone, did she go.
She walked off her bus dressed in black,
But wore something red coming back.

In red, no one knew who she was.
Apparently, it was because
In red, she looked young and so fair.
Besides, she had tied back her hair.

But where was the woman in black?
She left and she never came back.
They searched by the canyon and stream.
My friend, dressed in red, joined the team.

She crossed over glacier and ice
And covered some areas twice.
Exhausted, she came to a creek.
The water was clear–how unique!

Her face was reflected right there
And, suddenly, she was aware
The woman she thought might have drowned,
Was she–yes, herself–she was found!

© Vala Hafstad

Woman Takes Part In Search For Herself
 
Vala lives in Minnesota.  She enjoys writing humorous poems.

The Selection

We look at them all, one by one.
It gives us such pleasure and fun.
We’re women who know what we need,
And now it is time to proceed.

He’s colorful, humorous, smart,
And seems to appreciate art,
So strikingly handsome and strong,
But what do you think of the thong?

The next one is sensitive, frail,
Amazingly skinny and pale;
A poet who published this year-
Romantic, without a career.

Right next to him, someone well dressed,
Who seems a bit nervous and stressed.
An architect out of a job,
Who might be a bit of a snob.

And here is one holding a bat.
What could be the meaning of that?
Who knows what he’s planning to hit?
I know I don’t want to be it.

And this one is playing the blues.
His arms have outrageous tattoos.
He holds an expensive guitar
And looks like he might be a star.

But that one is charming as well-
Apparently went to Cornell.
His eyes are intelligent, blue.
Forgive me for liking the view.

This store, I must say, is first class.
We look at the goods through a glass.
The carts are enormous in size.
They must be:  we’re shopping for guys.

© Vala Hafstad

Shopping for Mr Right in Paris at the 'adopt-a-guy' boutique - BBC

Vala lives in Minnesota.  She enjoys writing humorous poems.

Dark Advice

You don’t need to go to the gym
Or diet to stay very slim,
But what you must do
Is easy for you:
The lights in the house you must dim.

The experts say people eat less
When lighting is not in excess.
Just turn off the light
Completely tonight.
Your weight you will quickly address.

In darkness you can’t over-eat.
A diet like this you can’t beat:
You won’t find your fork,
Potato or pork,
Your pudding, your pickle or meat.

Just hibernate – that is the thing!
Imagine what darkness can bring.
Just act like a bear,
Curl up in your lair,
And wake up quite slim in the spring.

© Vala Hafstad

Mellow setting puts fast food consumers in a mood to ... eat less

Vala Hafstad lives in Minnesota. She writes humorous poems for children and, occasionally, their parents.

The Animals´ Olympic Report

The games have begun in the city.
The fight for the medals ain´t pretty.
We heard there were spies
With government ties
Who helped win the gold ­– it’s a pity.

The humans hold games in the city.
We´re watching the races with pity.
We run faster than most.
Yet, we don’t even boast.
We cheetahs are humble and pretty.

The swimmers look slow and amusing.
They think they are flying and cruising.
Without flippers or tail,
Not a chance they’ll prevail.
To dolphins and whales they’d be losing.

We chimps don’t throw javelins ever,
But we are amazingly clever,
For a spear we can throw
With the ease of a pro –
A gold-winning, special endeavor.

It’s hard to watch men when they’re leaping.
Compared to us champions, they’re creeping.
Competition is steep
When we bush babies leap.
If matched against us, they’d be weeping.

We’re watching the games in the city.
The marketing race isn’t pretty.
It’s a fight, we are told,
For the market share gold,
Controlled by the planning committee.

As humans play games in the city,
We watch them with ever more pity,
As their national pride
Makes their champions collide.
Signed,
     Animal Expert Committee.

© Vala  Hafstad

Vala lives in Minnesota.  She enjoys writing humorous poems.

Animal Olympians: Nature's track and field stars
Long Before London Games, James Bond Tactics

Sunday Supplement... and something for the weekend

I'm not sure what to say about the first poem this week: 'Standard Model Playground,' with its electrons, muons, bosons and leptons, sounded more like something Sheldon would say in The Big Bang Theory than our regular contributor Lavinia Kumar.

Then again, there's a lot I don't understand - like how we ended up, according to Philip Challinor, on 'The Road to Serfdom' with 'snooping spooks and thieving banks', or why people maintain stubborn prejudices based on other people's sexuality, as touched on by E R Olsen in 'It's My Secret.'

We were on safer, more familiar ground with Abigail Wyatt's heartwarming tribute to Eric Sykes with 'Night, night Eric.' But all is not well in England's 'little patchwork fields' according to Wendy Nicholson. Her 'Downfall of a Dairy Farmer' arrived fresh as a Daisy just as I herd (ahem!) the story on TV.

With poems not exactly flooding in, we published a poem of mine this week, 'Underwater'. I don't mean we published it underwater, although there are plenty of places still under threat as I write this. Martin and I rarely post our own poems here, and if we do, it's a sure sign that we are still a bit low on contributions.

Have a great week

Clare (and Martin)


and finally...a little something for the weekend

The Cheetahs´ Response

Don’t tell us to mate behind bars.
Captivity leaves many scars.
The urge to have offspring is none.
No fire, no passion, no fun.

You’ve got to let all of us loose.
A partner we’ll find to seduce.
Attraction is sudden, complex.
Survival depends on wild sex.

© Vala Hafstad

Date Night at the Zoo, if Rare Species Play Along

In the Zoo

Look, here to our right is the human,
A beast most aggressive and weird.
The male is called “man,” female “woman.”
They once were respected and feared.

They built all the towns and the cities,
With factories, houses and schools.
They sat on a bunch of committees
And worked with a number of tools.

They often showed signs of aggression
And constantly seemed to wage war.
They suffered from plague and depression,
From ignorance, greed and much more.

The planet they treated quite badly:
Polluted the earth and the sky,
Ignored all the evidence, sadly,
And kissed preservation good-bye.

And that’s when we monkeys decided
That surely enough was enough.
Those humans had been so misguided.
Now we must rebel and be tough.

We started with organized mugging,
And biting, and chasing them all,
By stealing, and teasing, and bugging.
The beast felt its confidence fall.

It didn’t take long to defeat it.
The creature fled into its house.
Our regiment utterly beat it.
The beast was entrapped as a mouse.

Then most of the humans expired.
They died from pollution and flu.
Our new constitution required
We keep a few scores in the zoo.

They serve as a sorry reminder
Of fools, who so horribly failed.
How fortunate that a much kinder,
Responsible creature prevailed.

© Vala Hafstad

Indians Feed the Monkeys, Which Bite the Hand

Vala Hafstad lives in Minnesota. She writes humorous poems for children and, occasionally, their parents.

Stress Relief

It’s time for you all to acknowledge
That stress is a problem in college,
And stress takes a terrible toll.
We must get it under control.

We feared that you students might lose it,
And hired a team to reduce it.
Today we present to the press
The experts who work against stress.

Available at any hour,
An expert will use all his power
To listen and soothe every mind.
This treatment is one of a kind.

A secret he keeps without trouble:
The seal on his lips remains double.
He may not give any advice –
His presence is sure to suffice.

He may not have much education.
His language will need no translation.
His background is humble indeed;
He’s never been taught how to read.

You may take him home if you’re lonely.
I promise you, he is the only
Professional you can check out.
It’s helpful, without any doubt.

With him at your side you’ll be happy.
Your life will no longer seem crappy.
Stay close to him just for a while.
His calmness will bring you a smile.

Our experts have duties so many,
But don’t earn as much as a penny.
They do not have emails or blogs.
They’re certified therapy dogs.

© Vala Hafstad

Pooches on campus: Colleges host dog visits, create pet-friendly dorms to ease student stress

Vala Hafstad lives in Minnesota. She writes humorous poems for children and, occasionally, their parents.

Grand Canyon

I took a wrong turn in Arizona –
Drove a rental car into a one-way street.
A crowd of people,
Gathered for a music festival,
Rushed against me.
In their eyes, I was a monster
Swimming against the tide.
Waves of anger swept over the car,
A fist charged through the open window,
Shattering my nose,
Sending a gush of blood down my face.
All I wanted was to escape
This surge of madness and hysteria.
Terrified, I steered the car through.
Then I stopped, gasping for air.
The nightmare continued
With a Kafkaesque plot:
Five armed policemen surrounded me, shouting.
They found me guilty of aggravated assault
With the use of a deadly weapon.
(That’s what they call a rental car.)
I’m shackled, in solitary confinement,
Falling ever deeper into a grand canyon of despair.
It’s been seven months.
They call me “the failed mass murderer,”
Who killed no one, but broke a woman’s toe.
I’ve been sentenced to seven years in prison,
A foreigner, visiting Arizona,
Enjoying the scenery,
Until my life took a wrong turn.

© Vala Hafstad

Norwegian man gets 7.5 years for running over woman's toe

Vala lives in Minnesota.  Most of the time, she writes humorous poems for children as well as adults.

Swan Song

The trial is beginning;
I’m ready in defense.
The outlook is alarming;
I’m feeling rather tense.
I know I killed a person
Who trespassed to my land.
This didn’t have to happen,
But things got out of hand.
I do admit I’m sorry,
Although I had the right
To guard against invaders
Of my home, both day and night.
The victim ruffled feathers,
And I became upset.
His presence seemed to tell me
He posed a real threat.
No wonder I am shaking;
I am a nervous wreck,
For if they find me guilty,
They’ll hang me by the neck.
It’s early in the morning.
The judge conceals a yawn,
“State your name,” he’s roaring.
I answer, “It is Swan.”

© Vala Hafstad

Man Drowns in Swan Attack

Vala Hafstad lives in Minnesota. She writes humorous poems for children and, occasionally, their parents.

Stuck

You’re in love, and your girlfriend is hot,
But think twice about tying the knot.
For a Brit it is hard to get out.
Don’t propose if you’re ever in doubt.

Once you’re stuck, you will see a divorce
Is impossible, unless, of course,
Your significant other will act
Without reason - I know that’s a fact.

She would have to cook only the fish
You declared your least favourite dish,
Leave the toilet seat down all the time,
Or be partner in organized crime.

She would have to have too much to drink,
Or have armpits that constantly stink,
Keep tarantulas next to your bed
And complain when you sleep in the shed.

She would have to breathe hard as a whale,
Or take drugs on a pretty large scale,
Be promiscuous, lazy or fat,
Or insist that you slaughter your cat.

With the carpenter she’d have to flirt,
Showing off in a much too tight skirt,
Tell the plumber her dirtiest joke,
Or say “Honey” to any old bloke.

The remote she would have to abuse,
Watching nothing but BBC News,
Be upset when you go to a game,
Call your jokes either stupid or lame.

She would have to keep mum for a year
And with post-its her wishes make clear,
Be obsessed with the fringes of rugs,
Or start spraying for telephone bugs.

So be careful before you propose.
How a marriage will go, no one knows.
In America it’s different, of course:
It’s a country of no-fault divorce.

© Vala Hafstad

Tuna Again? In Fault-Finding England, It’s a Cause for Divorce
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Vala Hafstad lives in Minnesota. She writes humorous poems for children and, occasionally, their parents.

Saving Lazy

My illness began in November,
And then, on the third of December,
They told us the tumor was bad.
My master was terribly sad.

No reason for me to be emo.
They gave me the option of chemo.
A bone-marrow transplant, they said,
Would follow, or else I’d be dead.

„It doesn’t come cheap, saving Lazy.
The figures may sound kind of crazy.
My best guess is 25 grand.
Be ready next week, cash in hand.“

„The kids can forget about college.
The price is too high for that knowledge.
What matters is saving her life,“
Said master, and so did his wife.

My owners collected their money.
With tears in their eyes, they said, „Honey,
Why should we accumulate wealth?
The focus should be on your health.”

I noticed the children were bitter.
They said so on Facebook and Twitter.
My sickness did not make them weep.
They said euthanasia was cheap.

The hospital stay went by quickly.
For days after that I looked sickly,
But then I began to feel fine.
My owners were both on cloud nine.

But sunshine is followed by showers,
And this time the luck wasn’t ours.
One day, at a quarter to three,
It struck me that I couldn’t pee.

A tumor obstructed my urine,
According to Dr. Banduren.
To cure it cost many a buck
(Six thousand).  The dad sold his truck.

He had to find new transportation,
And quickly, without reservation,
Got used to the train ride to work.
(He worked at a bank as a clerk.)

Then, after they cured my last ailment,
There happened this tragic derailment.
The kids tried to blame it on me.
The widow, she seemed to agree.

The house was bereft of contentment.
I noticed an air of resentment
The next time we went to the vet.
It turned out that they were in debt.

I died about seven months later.
Their daughter, the animal-hater,
Engraved on my tombstone:  “A Bitch
- The Reason We Never Got Rich.”

©   Vala Hafstad

New Treatments to Save a Pet, but Questions About the Costs
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Vala Hafstad lives in Minnesota.  She writes humorous poems for children and, occasionally, their parents.