Author:Geng Bing, net name: Houde Zaiwu, post-70s, college culture, member of Jiangsu Writers Association, columnist of Reading Sleep Poetry Society. In 95, he began to publish his works, and his works were scattered in more than 100 kinds of literary publications such as "Writer's Daily" and "Poetry", and won more than 30 national awards.
Falling Snow: Light lyrics
Don't say repentance and apologies to the moonlight in the pond.
I'm just from the streets of Chang'an in the Tang Dynasty.
A down-and-out scholar:
It was the midnight wind that brought me here.
Let me be on the snow. Hold a grudge.
Rust spots on the clockwork.
It is the mark of the ups and downs of my life.
Just a night breeze blowing.
All sorrows.
And he disappeared into the night.
Shiratori Words
From today onwards, don't write to me.
Don't try with that withered rose.
Wake me up from my slumber.
I'm just this multidimensional world.
One in the Milky Way.
Inconspicuous shooting stars.
Oh my loved ones.
If you hear the wind in the still night.
There is a white rose blooming.
Please stop singing:
You are the eternal jasmine of the summer night.
In the endless wilderness.
Holding a lamp of darkness.
Wait for me to pass in the rain.
When the stars are at midnight.
Issued short-lived.
Laughing. You must have come by the starlight.
In my brilliant dreams.
Die softly. Hexagrams
If your heart has not been converted.
I won't let it go.
The snowstorm on the streets of Chang'an:
Dead butterflies sleep in the vast wilderness.
The rose in the darkness is a weary guest.
The only soul home to which you can cling to.
In the raging wind.
Only Kriss's love poems can soothe the desolation of my heart.
This trembling eucalyptus of compassion.
How can it be so fragile.
The land fell into the distance.
Midsummer night
I was amazed by this film.
Rich lavender.
When I was confused.
Give me weak flower clusters
Through the dawn. Walk through the alleys.
Through the vast depths of the sea.
Arrive slowly. In my magnificent dreams.
Like my endless thoughts about you.
Floating in the distance of the palace.
Light rain in the twilight.
You can see the love of my life.
It's attachment to you.
Loyalty to you throughout your life.
In the splendid Turkey is or is.
Damagram. What a noble bloodline my solitary pride has.
Or. I heard the sound of rain.
It's just a lonely one in samsara.
Sanskrit. How unstoppable.
But it will be. Wiped out.
Author:Hua Ling, formerly known as Liang Chenghao, male, Han nationality, born in 1974, is a native of Wolong District, Nanyang City, Henan Province. He is a contemporary Chinese avant-garde poet, a cutting-edge writer, and a columnist of the Reading Sleep Poetry Society. He is now a local village doctor. The first collection of poems, Love Songs and Lamentations, was successfully published in Henan Zhongzhou Ancient Books Publishing House in April 2015, and won the silver medal of the third New Poet Award held by the Chinese Poetry Society in Beijing in June of that year, and the bronze medal of the second Red Sorghum PEN Club in Qingdao in August. The second collection of poems, "Beauty Snake", is also being planned for publication.
The first dumplings
When I was a child, my family was poor.
They are all looking forward to the thirtieth year of the Chinese New Year's Eve.
I can have a good meal.
Mom and aunt are in charge of making dumplings.
It's always grandma in charge of the pot when it's down.
And the first dumplings that came up.
It's always grandpa who eats first.
Then grandma will ask:
Cooked?Eat another one if it's not cooked!
I envy this privilege.
Until one day I found out.
Grandpa squatted alone in the corner.
Holding a bowl full of sweet potato porridge.
This is the thirtieth year of the Chinese New Year's Eve!
From then on, I was very sorry for my grandfather.
There was more awe.
Every New Year's Day.
Came to Grandpa's grave early.
Offer him a bowl of dumplings.
And my stomach full of sadness.
Our eyes can see goodness
The people at the bottom look up at the sky.
The stars are still so cold.
The heavenly man looks down on the bottom.
The ants are hidden in the grass.
The closer you get to hell.
The more you understand the true meaning of life.
In the world of crows.
The white swan is guilty.
Our eyes can see goodness
but they have no power to change their sorrows.
How many ghosts are rampant.
How many wise people have to keep their lives alone.
A fire ignited in my heart.
It was not extinguished for three days and three nights.
I'd rather keep carbon in the world.
than begging for alms.
Smoke, wine and poets
A cigarette is one yuan, and a bottle of wine is twenty.
I wrote a poem and got three cents and one cent.
In order to write this poem, brain cells do not count.
I smoked half a box of cigarettes and drank four or two sevens.
The child saw that I was tired, and I was still staying up late when the moon went down.
My wife muttered to me that I was not doing my job.
Where's the money, what about the money, what about the money?
I don't know where it is
I really want to take out a loan to buy a money printing machine.
After printing the money, pay back the loan first.
And then print it is to drop it yourself.
But friends, **is it for sale?
*Sell?
About the Author:Zhang Zhanyun, born in the 60s of the last century in the eastern mountains of Ningxia, now lives in Lanzhou City, Gansu Province, a shepherd living in the city, poetry lover!
Crockpot (outer two).
Served in a jar.
It's a handful. Years forgotten.
Dust. When broken.
Finally remembered. Fire in the chamber of the kiln.
It's really prosperous. Balcony
rattan chairs. A collection of yellowed poems.
Savor it. Moonshine hanging on a clothesline.
Because of a ray of sunset.
Wind. Stranded.
In an empty wine glass.
Snowfield
The stone is white.
The wind is white.
In the snow wolf. White roar.
Lonely. Grow into a tree at the pass.
Strive to put the crystal.
Reach for the sky. Years (one song).
The language of fish. It's a carving knife.
Put the inscription. Seal written on the dining table.
Smooth porcelain plate.
On the day when the river is gone.
Memory. Just a piece.
Silent stone.
Muse's kiss
The fragrance of grass.
Clamped under the brim.
It's one. Yellowed cigarette rolls.
Often. Fill with wine.
Sitting in the twilight of many years ago.
Place a leaf.
Pasted on the cover of the poetry collection.
Chinese New Year's Eve (second song).
Snow can. Fall in the distance.
Just will hope.
Solemnly pasted on the door frame.
Serve the dumplings. Wait.
Bell. Fill your glasses.
Push open the window. Enjoy one.
Grand fireworks.
The Great Cold
Snow is just passing by.
A few. Sporadic white.
Be crunchy sheep bells.
Open deep in the wilderness.
Winter is thin. As if with fingertips.
Swipe gently. and revealed the tender green.
Happy New Year
Like one. Streamers of joy.
By the New Year's bells.
Dance to the fireworks in full swing.
Makes people forget about fatigue.
Send off the last passenger.
Remembering home. Hot dumplings.
Can't help it. Shout at the long street.
Happy New Year
Author:Jin Kui apprentice, formerly known as Yuan Jianping, a member of the Sleep Poetry Society, a native of Qin'an County, Tianshui City, Gansu Province, has a university degree, likes to write, and loves traditional Chinese medicine. In the past three years, nearly 100 poems, micro-**, essays, and essays have been scattered on online poetry platforms such as "Xinjiang Literature", "Today's Writers", "Chinese Poetry Network", "Reading Sleeping Poetry Society", and "Poetry Magazine".
Coordinates
In early winter, flying snowflakes.
Fluttery and soft. Each snowflake has a corresponding coordinate.
I don't speak, I hold my phone.
Searching for half of yourself.
Between us. After a call on a snowy night.
Lonely.
Gaze at the yellowed things.
It's the loneliness of the void.
But into the study.
The door will still be closed.
Choose a book. Get another one for free.
Lonely. Clarity
This one is black and white**.
It's been more than 30 years.
It still retains its original size.
Forgotten in words.
Slowly yellowing. The story behind it.
In the passage of time.
On the contrary, it is becoming clearer and clearer.
Secret
It's lonely.
There is a secret hidden in my heart.
I don't know who to tell.
The night of the lunar eclipse. The moonlight is red and there is nowhere to hide.
I whispered to the moon.
Tengu can't be provoked.
Apples
We know that the apples are hiding there.
A good boy won't steal food.
But my brother and I are different.
It's very much like those little squirrels in the mountains who can't stand it**.
The mother in my memory will always tear us apart.
Stand alone on the kang platform.
Take out an apple from the bridal box.
Divide it for us to eat, of course we pretend not to see it, now.
It's been a long time since I've eaten my mother's apple.
I can catch the apple of the memory.
often falls on. In the courier bill signed by the mother.
Fruity aroma wafts all the way.
Author:Shen Zhangbao, pen name: May Water Bird. Born in May 1963 in Yuxikou, Wuhu City, Anhui Province. He is now a member of the Anhui Writers Association, a member of the Wuhu Writers Association, a member of the World Poets Association, a columnist of the Reading and Sleeping Poetry Society, and has published a collection of poems "On the Road".
Round Dance of the Moon
The swaying figure of the phoenix-tailed bamboo.
The breath of the water of Lake Kanas.
The heavy snoring of Kunlun Mountain.
The heartbeat of the Taklamakan Desert.
An empty and quiet firmament.
Fall to the top of the mountains at sunset.
The black curtain slowly opened.
A crescent moon swimming among stars and clouds.
Like a ballet shoe with a light **.
The silver candle is like a cold light in autumn.
Gently shine on the floor-to-ceiling picture screen.
The white gauze skirt flowed like water.
Slender fingers pinched a small fan.
and the fluttering fireflies in front of you in the night.
Wine glasses on tall legs.
There is a bright moon.
The breeze came in the empty time.
The loneliness of rose petals wafting everywhere.
The snowy moonlight slowly grew like feathers.
Falling on the foliage and lonely shadows.
Clear light soaks the eyes.
The hollow wooden chairs emit the residual heat of the sun.
Only the courtyard at this time.
The breeze blows the pure land of the soul.
Little Strauss's goose feathers.
Hit out a pleasant note.
Melodic thunder.
It is the accent of the first beat of 3 4 beats.
The flutter of the wind through the leaves is a chord.
Like a soothing light flowing on the stage.
Round Dance of the MoonThe earth is holding the waist of the moon.
Soaring in the vastness of the universe.
Under a leaf, quietly watch autumn
Shirtless summer.
A white towel was draped over his shoulder.
Wading in a pair of black slippers.
Staggered across the threshold.
One foot outside the door.
One foot is still inside the door.
I know it's unwilling.
And so it goes.
The intellectuals in the trees kept them loudly for me.
There is still a lot of sweat that did not escape.
Unwilling summer.
To the coming autumn.
deducted the title of "Autumn Tiger".
Under a leaf.
Quietly watching the oncoming autumn.
Affectionate and affectionate.
Those fruits that hang among the branches and leaves.
Gifted and sweet.
The color is bright and eye-catching.
A few scurrying insects.
Happily linger in front of the fruit.
Just like when I was a child.
Walk around in front of your mother.
A mother who shelters from the wind and rain.
Just like a leaf.
Sheltering children for many years.
It's the leaves that always fall.
By the time the leaves fell, it was winter.
There are a few unripe leaf buds left.
Carrying the cold wind and snow alone, he staggered all the way.
Passing through spring and summer. Through autumn and winter.
Become a maple leaf that guards the years.
I wish there were fewer poignant legends in the world
Polishing the feathers of the sky.
Walk into the afterglow of the dove and the clear afterglow.
Silence fell.
Magpies.
Fly to the Milky Way with rose petals.
Build a small bridge where two hearts are happy.
Exquisite and elegant moon boat.
Leisurely and freely ripple between the stars.
The one who rocked the oars must have been me.
Blue birds wandering through the streets.
Hand in hand with a beloved butterfly.
Snuggle up in the light and shadow of the lamplight.
Listen to the desolation of meteor showers.
Interpret the love of the perfect life.
I hope there are a lot of poignant legends in the world.
The winds of early winter
Text: If you can. It's like a song without foresight.
Collisions started before the release.
Some emotions continue to ferment.
Suddenly up and down.
At this time, Liuqiao didn't have time to open his mouth.
And the story of the dead leaf butterfly opens the curtains.
Listen, the sound of the sun moving.
More like a mother's call.
Seat yourself in the light and shadow of the afternoon.
Look at this impermanence as usual.
The streets, and all things, were as silent as I was.
Silence, a scratch that was about to move.
The wind, still.
Only the pieces withered.
Swirling and rising.
Listen, the sound of lotus tears
Text: If you can. The lake is waterless, and the eye of the wind is hopeless.
A shaky excuse.
Break the expectations of the heart.
Sad look, in a way you don't know.
The tears that come out condense the luster of amber.
Drop by drop. Whoever put it away and scattered it to the ends of the world.
Broad veins, listen.
Sadly, it seems that the wind has also been sad.
All the hard work became a joke.
Stranded, no longer needed.
Wandering alone. The lotus heart is flawless, deducing the simple little beauty.
And there are always relentless tooth marks.
Tearing, like the heart of the wings.
Then, the pain is numb.
Hold up the wind and the whispers of the stars.
And her tears flowed with a voice.
As bright as the eyes of the stars.
Winter rains
Text: If you can. It's so hearty that you can't tell whether it's late autumn or early winter.
The cold coefficient is not predicted.
It's just that I can't stop crying from last night to tonight.
Whose sorrow is grieved.
The throat did not dare to hurt.
But there is another pain that goes straight to the bottom of my heart.
Every prayer is hidden.
A few square meters in the house.
Pray, redeem yourself.
It's raining.
Can you extinguish some invisible flames?
The fallen leaves have returned to their roots.
The vegetation longs for the lush greenery of the coming year.
Instead, we're hibernating.
There is no cold and frostbite **.
But the bones were trembling.
Hold a pass tightly with both hands.
Be careful to imprison yourself in yourself.
The rain knocked on the window, trying to listen to the sound of winter.
Please stop the beat.
Don't make a big deal out of your daily routine.
I see that everything is back in place.
When the winter rain comes, so do the spring flowers.
October Ensemble
Wenbei Valley. You think you have.
That's all. But he still lost to the wind.
Like an ancient door.
Live time and grief.
Buckle in. Youthful and clear eyes are covered with cobwebs.
We look back at the sky.
Trap after trap.
Between the gaps, kindness.
Sentenced to death.
Under the wriggling materialism.
The world is like a black hole.
You think you have.
That's all. But he still lost to the wind.
Our hands. Reach to.
Tyndall's light shines through the treetops.
The crows were stained with blood.
Peck in armor. Freedom of confinement.
In the cage, the claws are cut off.
All. It is decorated with gold in the past.
But he still lost to the wind.
The stickman who doesn't go out in the wind.
Imprisoned in the sky.
Waiting for the perfect release.
One. Jump.
Buried on the spot.
What the sky needs to do.
Nobody knows.
You think you have it all.
Everything has long been annotated.
Countless planes.
The throat that was pried open.
Whisper. People are as devout as if they were pilgrimages.
Possession of the flesh. Possess armor.
But only the soul is missing.
Everything has long been annotated.
You think you have it all.
By a look.
to a harsh word.
Absolute obedience. Become a curse.
Crooked words - by a mouth that scolds angrily.
And a childlike heart - a distorted eye.
Please tell the world.
People are people. Not to be an appendage to anyone.
People – have beautiful freedom.
Possess. Sacred Rights.
Don't be afraid of the rain in the sky.
Look—I'm for your cowardice.
I prepared white silk.
And hung on the iron bridge continuously.
You think you have.
That's all. But he still lost to the wind.
Unalterable. This is the sorrow of this sky.
It's full of it.
Silence of the stiff earth.
There are ice gates everywhere.
Frosty answer.
One key after another sank in the times.
Rust and turn to ashes.
You think you have it all.
You think—the sound of a mournful dawn resounding through me.
We have the Flood Beast.
But let go of the fight.
We have life.
Another. Glass that looks like it was shattered by Jackie Coogan.
Glassmaker. It is witty.
You think—but 5,000 years have been killed.
It's not just itself.
Everything is hollowed out.
Everything is adorned with a perfect civilization.
Everything goes on and on.
Let's end it. A huge bell rang.
From the center of the earth. Burst.
But in the vast universe, it is as humble as a cloud of smoke.
Extinguish everything. Just the silence that has been silent for a long time.
The sorrow that has been mourning for a long time.
No. Tell the world.
What you think, it's not what you think.
Everyone is born out of freedom.
Everyone has rights.
Say goodbye to the endless dark clouds in the sky.
A pigeon. Ever pounced.
Where my eyes look.
It's all dead silent. Extinguish everything.
Just the silence that has been silent for a long time.
The sorrow that has been mourning for a long time.
No. I am silent for a long time, and the people who are no longer silent.
to the tombstone. Dance with cheerful clowns.
Cast in the sun.
One. Thorny Heart.
Face the sea and look for the light with your black eyes. Founded on November 16, 2015, the Poetry Club takes "speaking for grassroots poets" as its mission and promoting the "spirit of poetry" as its purpose, that is, the pursuit of truth, goodness and beauty of poetry, the artistic innovation of poetry, the spiritual pleasure of poetry, and the revelation of poetry to living life.