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.
The winter of life is destined to have a snowfall
Yes when you say it.
Those secrets. I believe.
It must be in the evening breeze.
I'm going to inspire you
Now it's creating some panic and illusion in the sound of the rain
These unconventional and noble storks.
Right now standing at the end of your love poem.
Shining with brilliance.
Those hinds who lost contact in the moonlight.
Can I also understand your pious call?
In the skin pouch of the eucalyptus tree.
Rush about. It's as if time is moving gently.
Fate is in the snow.
Put away a beautiful set of wings.
Rain sends dusk
Rain at dusk.
Getting denser and denser. Like the white gardenia that is lush on the cliffs.
In the stormy night of the city.
Wind. Trying to interpret something:
White Bird in captivity.
I have long been accustomed to choosing silence in this noisy night.
You say give your heart to the night.
You can choose to escape.
Choose an island at night.
Banish your own soul.
The stars reach the lips of the waves.
Babble. There is always a sense of joy and pleasure.
Drink with the night breeze:
When all loneliness.
Engulfed by unfamiliar waves.
No one will be lonely.
Tell about the ups and downs and wanderings of a lifetime.
When the sea breeze gradually convinces itself.
Only then did I know the deep lip language.
Early into night.
Fireworks that never go out.
Grass and trees
These sloppy plants and trees.
At this moment, please restrain your wanton tears.
Let the autumn breeze take you away.
Take away your remaining flesh.
At night, in the sound of dripping rain.
How open-minded you have been?
Comforting me, relieved by the darkness and mud.
When the person who loves each other chooses to betray.
has long been a lifetime of pride.
Burned. 
Author:Lan Bing, currently living in Xi'an, is a doctor and a member of the Sleep Poetry Society. I love to write poems, I want to be washed by the heavy rain, and I want to kiss the dripping lily of the valley in the poem.
Cook
A rice dumpling. Cook out the sass.
A Miluo River.
Drift a few broken logs with a dragon head hanging on it.
There is jubilation on the water, and you have a headache underwater.
The poet is happy and quiet, and the poet is compassionate.
It's useless to be alive.
It is still to be used after death.
The white stripes of history are hot and indigestible.
Commemorate you every year.
It's like commemorating a poem.
Often hung on the lips of poetic vanity.
Who cares about her originally for poets.
The meaning of life.
Opposite the scene
My north is so far away.
Far more blue than between the sky and the sea.
The clouds are lyrical and clean and untraceable.
Large blank spaces are painted blue.
Imagination has no proof
Floating over the head of the whale.
Only solitude and fountains.
The sea water holds the foam in his hand and comes from afar.
Salty broken kisses.
Wake up to a silence.
Autumn has not yet arrived, and the fruits are still on the way.
The eyes were crumpled by the south wind.
I'm standing in the middle of a hot field in the north.
* Wheat waves with dusk gold.
Trying to hold on, sudden thoughts.
This unexpected hunt persecution.
Tears that are bound to fall.
Rapid breakthrough in the lower reaches of the Centripetal River.
At the moment two salt-bearing stones.
Smash a piece of transparency.
Welcome speech
Hold the silence of dusk.
One person waits and sees.
The smoke rings are wobbly.
Two butterflies shake off a burst of colored powder.
The earth was bloated and sinking.
Compassion spreads out the darkness.
It takes courage to think about the night.
Before the middle-aged pen paints.
At least in the distance at the moment.
Still clothed in the sun.
Warm as ever. A father who writes poetry.
Breathing is getting deeper and deeper often.
Oral dialects create a variety of contexts for life.
Occasionally talk about the past for the children.
and some shadows of high and low trance.
When you reach an age, you often turn back when you walk.
Sometimes catch fireflies and pick up lights, sometimes watch the sea.
Some memories are like an epiphany.
When you touch it, you will get old and have a good return trip.
He was soaked in the rain.
Author:Li Ping, a post-70s amateur writer and part-time poet, has been insisting on writing in the cracks of making a living, was recommended to join the Hubei Writers Association in 2021, and was elected as the vice chairman of the Xian'an District Writers Association in Xianning City, Hubei Province in 2022. has always been busy with work and survival, reading books in his spare time, insisting on writing, although humble, but never sighing, alone in the text along the path of poetry to the otherworldly spiritual palace.
Qianshan Temple with snow
Some hidden thoughts.
Stretch slowly in a chrysanthemum.
The tea is hot. The snow is also hot, outside the window.
Alter a road up the mountain.
Xiangjun said: The way up the mountain.
It is a poem left behind in the past.
The bell of the temple is ringing.
Chant repeatedly. So, a line of crooked footprints.
In the empty snow of the hidden hills.
Squeaky and yelling.
Disappear at the bend of the mountain road.
A drop of water
On blades of grass. I am a drop of dew.
Fade away from the darkness of the long night.
The sparkle of the morning sun.
In the eyes. I am a tear that has not been shed.
You don't wait to turn around.
It dries into a traceless love dream.
And in the earthly rivers.
I couldn't help it, and I was in the mud and sand.
Even if it is turbid, it is always hidden in the bottom of my heart.
A small piece of clear sea ......
At the end of the year, I will give H a gift
The bell rang. Seemingly, I'm a little older again.
Thinning hair.
Messy in the wind. I want to hold the flying snow.
And the fire has not yet been extinguished.
Residual warmth in the chest.
Still warming up a glass of wine with memories.
Drink endless passion.
Always remain at the bottom of the cup.
Even if the steps are a little faltering.
Still thinking about holding your hand.
Go to thousands of rivers and mountains.
Author:Yimei Tingxue, formerly known as Guo Shumei, is a native of Yichun, Heilongjiang. Editor-in-chief of "Jiangnan Literature", contracted poet of "Dingyuan Literature", member of the Sleeping Poetry Society, and member of the Yichun Writers Association.
Early summer, the song of the hometown
Silk threads of sunlight.
Refracted from the eyes of his hometown.
Penetrate the glass of the city.
Hold the struggling shadow tight.
Mottled rust.
Spread on the iron fence.
Awakened worms crawl into the teeth.
Hollowing out life.
Pain. Another pain is needed to numb it.
Homesickness condenses in the clouds.
Heavy into free fall.
Wet the colors of early summer.
A piece of paper. Carry memories that don't sink deeply.
Frog chirping as a child.
It's an enduring ballad.
Let the strings of the years break the red dust.
Under the tranquil moonlight.
Plum flowers in May.
There will still be a tree of innocence.
Last night, he came out of the moonlight
Last night, I saw him again.
Coming out of the moonlight.
Gently. Do not alarm every sleeping leaf.
Don't bother with every grain of dust.
He cut his hands back.
Holding on to the empty years.
The yard was filled with the smell of fireworks.
He bent down and picked up something.
It could be a bean left behind by my mother.
It could be a few mushrooms picked up by my sister.
Or maybe he was.
A piece of time that was accidentally lost.
Behind the busy mother in front of the stove.
Pretend to ask.
Alas, the meal is not ready.
Wait for the mother to come back.
And he took it out of his pocket.
Stained red by the setting sun.
Six mountain fruits.
I really want to write a poem to you
I really want to write a poem to you
But I couldn't find one.
More perfect sentences.
The north seems to be a little closer to the cold.
Only those migratory birds that have wings.
to get closer to the sky.
At the intersection of autumn.
There is always something that is crumpled by the wind.
Throw it at the feet of the trampling.
The cicadas have been silenced. Alcohol applied to the wounds of the years.
It's been evaporated.
The evening drains my blood.
Place only an empty cup.
Leave it to me. Catch the fallen star.
The shadow is different from me.
He prefers sunlight.
So in the night.
I can only embrace loneliness alone.
If only you were a doctor.
You know. How will my heart be riddled with holes.
Homing. And when you are immersed in the story of autumn.
My winter. It's coming.
Author:Ding Jingxian, pen name: Shui Ji Yeke, male, from Fan County, Henan, farmer, veteran, middle ** member. Reading the military poets of the Sleeping Poetry Society, he likes poetry and occasionally publishes it.
Loved the night
Dark night, closed the hustle and bustle, the door of chaos.
Keep Hongchen out for the time being.
Only starlight. And the washed moonlight comes in.
Silent words. All of them are like old monks in the mountains.
The grass and trees are all soldiers, and they all go to the side plug.
Guarding the overflowing rivers.
Occasionally, a few robin chirps.
Not pleasant. But there is no city with owls.
Taste tea and drink light wine.
Whether you know the true taste of the world or not.
Being awake is life. To sleep is to die.
Ignore it for now: the lights are bright, the world is happy.
Quiet, just fish the river and snow alone.
Stuffy, Du Kang can solve his worries.
There can be dreams. The dream is full of mountains and rivers.
When I woke up from the dream, it was midnight.
It was raining, and it was dripping.
Face the world. I have nothing to say.
Spring snow
In the spring sunshine, heavy snow falls.
The white flowers come from Aunt Feng's hometown.
Yang Hua has no talent, but understands, and travels far away all over the sky.
Just like the illusion of life.
The snow in late spring, looking back at the youth of winter.
Illusions and dreams make people doubt the reality of life.
Spray is not a flower.
It's just that the whiteness of the poplar makes you miss the snow.
Stand on the way home of spring.
Nostalgia is better than experience.
Poplar flowers are like snow. The grass has just passed the horseshoe.
The spirituality of spring
The bird leaves behind the burden of winter. The feathers are light.
The cracks of the green leaves peck through the sunlight.
The singing is tactful and crisp.
There is no sadness after the snow.
The brook unloads its silver armor.
Gurgling and flowing. Run to the vast sea.
The sound of the piano at the fingertips, the waves that break the bluestone.
The freshly turned dirt leaves traces of childhood.
It just made the earthworm lose its way home.
Seeds. It's the stars you have along the way.
A lark burrows into the clouds.
Leave behind the cattle and sheep and a song of the world.
In this spiritual spring.
Makino is vast. 
Budweiser Kanoge
Wenbei Valley. If I had always existed, love and hate, hovering on the edge of life and death.
If the speeding locomotive and the scorched trajectory are drifting away, we will replace the scorched but lonely freedom in the wilderness.
If you look above the reef, you can see the vast starry sky and the moonlight like a mirror, and sigh is the silver drizzle on the waves.
The departed lover, I know very well, in the betrayal of love.
I have been unhappy in my life, and I have wandered all over the world in my life.
The tombstone is what you look like later, every groove, the gold edge, I have.
Touch it a thousand times.
Even a speck of dust remains, and the birds rest, I am saddened.
Fresh flowers. I have given you body and soul, what are the tears?
I have fasted and prayed for you in the past.
But now. Thou hast turned into liquor, thy heart struck my dawn, thou hast ignited the crooked throat of the His, and thou hast wept my dreams.
Century grief
Wenbei Valley. In the air.
Hidden faces, people sad.
Ground flash. It seems that when you open your face in the crowd, there are countless steel needles, countless kinds of denunciations, and indifference thrown at you.
We don't know where to start, except for compromise, only a mask of sorrow, tilted towards darkness.
The abyss of silence. I put freedom into the ink of more restraint, and I put joy.
Cut off the head of grace.
We are so young.
Why are there already sighs and sighs?
Come to think of it - this is the sorrow of the century, a cold moon, sleeping in the ice.
The Center of the Earth. It is the edifice of disintegration, the frame is rusting, falling apart, giving rise to desire.
and nature . It is a printer that runs repeatedly, and the lone beast can never be trapped in the cage, the guinea pig, the base pair, not the same as the human.
It's a terrorized soul under a gun, too.
People are like flocks.
Dividing the fence, rushing is the unprovoked of the moon under the stars.
I know very well that from the roots of the rotten tree, you apply the surface, and get only the surface.
of the appendages. I know very well that this is the sorrow of the century, and that there is no cure for us and no cure.
In the sea of the sky.
The moon is the beacon of flowing clouds.
In the direction of the lighthouse, the stars.
It is an immutable buoy.
Tell the world that the coldness of the ice and the frost along the way must not destroy the valley forest and the heavenly pavilion.
Telling the future that destroying and ending is not the purpose of the universe.
The blood of all things is flowing in the warm galaxy of us.
Call it this world.
We. Hug or say goodbye, please do your best, we grieve or laugh, please tie the day with a long rope.
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.