Tag: huahieu

Hứa Hiếu is an American-Vietnamese poet currently lives in Lawrenceville, Georgia.
—
the afternoon horizon void of a storm
the brilliant sunlight, the fresh breeze, a time of one’s life
in a rush to step outside
the summer stroll
I’ve completely forgotten about them
my grave barely paid off
the late insurance fee.

Hứa Hiếu is an American-Vietnamese poet currently lives in Lawrenceville, Georgia.
—
flesh and bones barely enough to lay the foundation of ideals
yet buried is
history
time now
the smoking incense
of loss, and
adversity.

the portrait contains many crooked
outlines unacceptable
at face value, or hints of intricate questions
in every swaying sips of wine always the question of the odd
nonsense accepted
from so many words
the contradiction, and even in the gloom
its character
I can’t lie, if you have a few minutes spare

in splits standing up on the groans of April thirtieth
the North and South are not fields of green grass
the boundary of history was already set: the Gianh river, the latitude
at the heart of a war
the pot of pork porridge
void of a glowing fire
lacking the flavour of u Cơ, looked abandoned
at a world
flea market
I have my share of wreckage
the so-called
proletarian revolution.

we can but count the seconds at the front
behind are the numbers
with meaning attached
when people are no more
the numbers also disappears
behind are the reflectors
of resignation

the earaching grind of teeth pulling at the safety pin(of the grenade)
a dead ball cornered in a blinding fog at the foot of the horizon
broke in half
one side lost the otherside astray
the umbilical cord in the middle dangling
in the way

I’ve never applied for residency
here, the native have never counted upon, nor acknowledged my existence
perhaps, here and there in the shadows
lost in the dark(of night)
to them I’m not much of a surprise

I’m scrambling
to pick up the pieces of lost time
scrubbing them, hang them up, to after folding them neatly inside a draw called life
there, they quietly lay
a tumulus