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.
I choose the way to die
When the sun rises.
I received a call from death.
The cluster of arrows that fell in the dust.
Again. Set off in the dark.
The glow of snow ** in hell.
* Some hint of darkness in the night.
The noisy cherry blossoms can't let through the thick air.
The suffocating navy.
It's just the embodiment of an autumn rain.
Everything is on the road to the end.
The butterflies dancing in the evening breeze are like the shackles of death.
I'm wandering, a lonely journey to the end of the world.
I am the daughter of Moonshine.
The Son of the Earth.
I am under the teachings of Jesus.
Learn to be silent. Learn to confront death.
The confused light of the Buddha cried out for distant revenge in the dark flower garden.
Mountain flowers open in the thoracic cavity.
Reborn in the seawater outside of the body.
Those fresh grasses, green winds, reckless men, and girls who refuse to surrender.
Shine in the Mongolian steppe.
Suicide or other
The rain at dusk still chose to be noisy.
Those who are not willing to be lonely raindrops.
Like my eyes.
Quiet and peaceful expression.
Far more than the vanity of the mountain flower.
Like at this time. A herd of Tibetan antelopes passes through the pasture.
This is where my trip begins.
The world I love.
So wonderful. My loneliness seemed too short before 100 million years.
The sound of those rising tides in the setting sun must have many sharp blades.
He is the ** of dreams.
I've long since run out of options.
The path that approached the temple.
Tell the secret of her past life under the torture of Peach Blossom.
White foam rises in an illusory dream.
I've spent my life trying to uncover this.
Beautiful spells.
Geese galloping through the gorgeous and open space.
Can you listen to the frost moon?
The Healing of Lonely Souls.
Reluctant
Always in the middle of summer nights.
Hold out some sentences that refuse to bloom.
Confronting the other self in your body under the starlight.
These refuse to succumb to the warmth of the dim light.
There is always my masterpiece before the epiphany blooms.
My hidden jasmine bones.
I imagine a tree or Bodhi.
In my abundant dreams.
Long stays. There are stars in the sky, and there is a light blue like the deep sea.
There is a fragrance like love.
I'm still in my dreams.
In what way we will be.
Together for a lifetime. Those pearls left in the sea of love.
Radiating the light of the world.
Fall into my arms.
Author:Ye Xiaosong, born in 1964, screen name, Prometheus (fire thief), columnist of the Reading Sleep Poetry Society, and a good poet in poetry writing. Some of the poems are included in "Reading Sleep Poems: Spring Blossoms" and "Reading Sleep Poems: The Grass Grows and the Warbler Flies". The language of poetry is unique, the poetry is agile, and he is good at digging out the poetic soil and building the castle of poetry from the silhouette of life. Poetry has its own unique meaning and specialness, and has a certain degree of recognition.
So be it
I suddenly wanted to write about my life.
Want to pick out a bigger surprise in the sesame seeds.
When the weather is nice, it's even fine.
Swallow your own saliva. OK.
From the kitchen to the living room, bring out a basin.
The steaming gut is worried.
Yes, so it will also glow red.
After drinking, dense rain feet.
Begin to interpret window grilles. I was standing there.
It was as if a long-dead eagle vulture flew by.
The pine that is holding its breath and being restrained. So be it
I was bareheaded, and I saw spring with a red head rope.
Enter the New Year.
I couldn't help but feel a desire for a while.
Run like a snowflake and hide far, far away.
Autumn Wind (Outer Song).
What you can say to me.
Pick three and pick four, even.
You can also hold me and let go.
In order not to leave regrets for those who come after him.
I've been lazy all my life, and I'm not worth it. Tired body.
It swayed, like a round of sun blown down by the autumn wind.
At this moment, the mouth of the autumn tiger is getting softer and softer.
Poisonous oleander flowers after falling.
The bones of the body are becoming more and more skinny.
But yes, I'm used to living in secret.
Like a three-cornered plum full of laughter.
I just remember it.
I don't even know, if it can.
Fly over the mountains to block it.
Like the sea, the smell of starlight rises.
Ebb and flow. February
February, the face of the earth.
I always like to squeeze into bed and whisper.
Some Lamei in the community park.
It's open. This is a batch that has just been born.
Changing the ecology, they are proud and light.
Just like the elf. Leaning against a tree.
I didn't want to struggle, but coughed.
Secretly changed my body. A helpless coldness.
Let me appreciate life and death.
It's an accident.
It makes sense. In the fallen fields.
Spring came to me like a young grandmother.
Follow behind your child and feel the urge to do so. ――
Not to others, but to the heart.
Seems to be able to be stuffed in.
An adult's fist. This power.
Enough to tear the winter.
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.
Ocarina blowing thoughts
Hometown is actually the longing of the ocarina.
Do you believe it? I believe.
In the evening, you sit on a stone bench in the courtyard.
A pot of freshly brewed tea has not yet cooled.
The moon, which is closer than home, shines on you.
At this point, you blow the ocarina.
A song "The Original Scenery of Hometown".
Through the autumn coolness that is as faint as the moonlight.
It rang out slowly.
Thoughts are like frost flowers floating on the clouds.
also floating in the sound of the flute.
Slowly approaching home.
There is no sorrow in that thought.
It's just a faint sorrow with a little autumn dew.
Thoughts are like a meandering stream.
Trickle. The hometown is closer.
I seemed to see.
A clay pot full of moonlight on the windowsill of my hometown.
The dried dates on the trees forgotten by the wind.
Under the eaves, the swallow went to the nest and was lonely.
Fortunately, there are geese in the courtyard.
Like a lamp.
Brighten up the quiet night of motherhood.
The return of geese in the night sky and my thoughts.
Let's get closer to our hometown.
I'm afraid, that autumn goose chirps.
Disturbing sleepless mothers.
Qi Qi remembered.
The goose has not been returned.
The leaf flute of the hometown
Pick two green leaves and put them to your lips.
Just blow the dawn of a small village.
Drive the sheep and go to Nanshan to graze the clouds.
The lamb is better behaved than the girl next door.
It understands my flute.
The leaf flute can also blow apricot blossoms.
It's too far away from Xinghua Village.
I didn't meet the poet who asked me about the restaurant.
Scalpers are very close to me.
But I can't understand my Ye Di.
It just wanted to be before sunset.
Nibbling on the dusk of the half-slope.
The sound of the flute is far away. The flowers of the grass are the same as the stars.
In the arms of the wind. Tease the young man's heart.
Butterflies flying around.
Chase the legendary love.
The flute sounds melodious. The mountains are peaceful.
Ye Di of my hometown!
You blow out the kindness and compassion of the villagers.
The heart is like the sea, and the mountain is open.
In the sound of the flute, it is a simple nostalgia.
Nostalgia for the homeland.
In that rhyme, there is the smell of earth.
Floral taste.
The leaf flute of my hometown!
Thou hast blown out the fare of the birds.
Freedom of the clouds.
Really, I miss Ye Di in my hometown.
Many years later, it often rings on moonlit nights.
Warm my wandering wasteland.
A humble grass
Between the sky and the earth.
A humble grass
With the green of life.
Draw the sun, moon and stars in the sky.
Every morning light.
All greeted the sun with tears of excitement.
Driving cattle and sheep to herd horses.
Chase the end of the world.
There are white clouds and eagles in the sky.
You have the yurt and the sound of the harp.
Between the earth and the sky.
A humble grass
A flower that blooms with a soul.
Decorate the alpine fields.
Every dusk.
They all looked at the lights of the village with a pious heart.
Holding the return bird and his own dreams.
Wait for the next dawn.
The earth has wheat fields and the smell of rice.
You have bugs and moonshine.
A humble grass
Do not compete with Tian He for favor.
It grows on the embankment of the stream, and the mountains and barren forests are barren.
The grassland is your homeland.
You fatten the horses and the cattle and sheep there.
A humble grass
The humble does not forget to worry about the country.
You skin the desert, splash the freehand of the oasis.
Like a soldier on the border.
Protecting the home of mankind.
Mankind rejoices in the abundant grain.
but they forgot that you feed fat cattle and sheep.
You laugh and don't say anything.
You have the humility of the wind and the grass low.
Tonight, under the Yin Mountain.
Snowflakes are like mats, and I sing for the grass.
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.
Process (group of poems).
Text: Blue Ice. 1. "Gongbi".
There is no bird song and flower fragrance at the end of the pen.
In the dark night with your eyes closed.
I dreamed of spring with tears in my eyes.
Ti Peach Blossom arrived.
The best spring is bound to put away.
Vulgar heavy makeup and scent.
Leave space to illusions to paint.
Like a poem with a broken sentence of the horse jumping over the trench.
Wake up to the confused life.
Crush the sluggishness of the sleepy spring.
Ever since I fell in love. Blowing bombs can be broken, dripping girls.
2. Organization
Do the root of the old moon.
Bridge words and words.
Sometimes on the bridge, sometimes at both ends.
Sometimes they kiss passionately, sometimes they look at love from afar.
The red line was clutched in the awning boat.
The big river pulls it.
Ripples of various emotions.
Jump out full of fatty fish.
Sparkling in the moonlight.
3. "Collection".
Cut off the narrative of life.
The narrative is hidden in the drawer of the poem.
Don't talk about the eggs of idle love.
The cicada's wings shake the brass bell of the cow's neck.
Kinky cleverness crashes out of rough sparks.
Before I got out of the summer, I found that I should leave the sound.
The clumsiness of milk production makes more sense.
Eat into the barren life of the four seasons.
Dig out the calcium and iron in your body.
It will be the most precious gift.
Fourth, "Searching".
Carry lanterns to catch up with the night.
The light in the distance belongs to the ideal and to the moon.
Feet clear to live and think.
It's loneliness catching fireflies for the Nightcrawler.
On the surface of a lake full of moonlight.
Pick up a string of shadows from the past.
Like a contemplative moored boat on the shore.
See the silent and mysterious center of the lake.
The lights rush to the dawn and the sun.
Like the self-completion of a poem.
5. "The Road".
Dead leaves fall into view.
The wind has blown far away.
There is no leaf shadow in the distance.
There are fingerprints of the earth disappearing.
Time looks at the hypocritical pilgrimage.
The sun and moon ran with limp legs.
The son who stopped to wait and see.
Taste the suffering and prepare to be born again.
Look, the light that suddenly flashed.
6. "Ceremony".
Moonlight washes the body.
The loneliness and sorrow of sacrificial poems.
Standing naked in front of her mother.
Large ships surround the island.
On the coast, sails in the distance.
A chess piece that touches the night sky.
The god of poetry is like a hand to initiate the head of his son.
Tears slipped through the corners of the eyes.
Coming from afar, the blue of the sea.
In the deep silence of the night.
A green salt strikes the drum of the earth.
Ding-dong.
VII. The Entente
Just stay alive. It will inevitably go through vicissitudes.
This is the right to move around the world.
Since it is not easy to come here.
Let's taste all the sad tears first.
Expand the abdominal cavity into an ocean.
Lick the wounds of the night.
Swallow the blood and salt of the starry sky.
The taste of the sea and the sky.
A flower that will make a smile on your face.
Well, that's it.
8. Methodology
Sometimes waiting is fruitless.
We will still be elsewhere in life.
Find the meaning of waiting for the dawn.
For example, looking out in a lighthouse.
A person who has no news at all.
That's it. Watch your heart.
Let the lights be as far away as day every day.
It's to miss the time when you went away.
You can find your way home.
Like a needle offshore.
Lost in the sea.
The needle can still be scooped up.
Lonely grains of sand at the bottom of the sea.
9. "Points".
I don't have much to give you.
Only to myself.
At least my bones are white enough.
White into a snowy sprinkled.
Cover your lonely world and nights.
I don't hesitate to lose calcium in pain.
Leave you with purity and leave a song.
Poems that can be buried in the soil.
Accumulate enough points for our spring.
Complete the kiss of two flowers.
Please let us. A dark river where the depths of the earth meet.
The root of life that is twisted and twisted.
Tighten and tighten in the pain.
10. "Capture".
To catch the slippery ending.
Cast moonlight and fishing nets at night.
I dragged the blue in the great lake.
And the clouds that fall during the day.
The mottling of the nets and the sediment of time.
Converge into all kinds of regrets.
Struggle to retreat to form a whirlpool.
A word fish jumping in the net with shining silver.
Let me grit my teeth and not bear to give up.
Eventually, he went ashore and hung the net.
This. for a poem.
I did everything I could.
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.
Qinggang sleepless on a rainy night
No one. Can be spared, insomnia.
April is on the horizon.
Wet night in Qinggang.
The sound of rain filled the erected ears.
A muddy path.
Many years ago. Wandering over and over again by memory.
And she, with it in the long parting.
Fade into oblivion.
Young laughs. In the form of Limbo.
Stay in my dream of being knocked by the wind.
I did not reject this sudden sorrow.
Alone in the dark.
In a foreign land. I rented a small house.
It's like an island that can't anchor.
Drifting on the sea.
Distant. As if within reach.
Your girlish voice.
Flood me. Journey
Even if it's a leafy tree.
At first, there were fears and doubts.
Can seeds germinate.
Can the seedlings withstand the wind and rain?
The axe that waited for the opportunity.
Will you taste its sharpness.
You always think about questions like this.
Again and again, worried.
Let the leaves fall and fall again, and green and fall again.
Until in the whirlpool of growth rings.
The years of constant stirring.
Finally settled, and you straighten your waist.
To the boundless sky, silently.
Spread out your fruit-filled arms ......
In the morning, I say to you: I love you.
When I speak.
A lark sings in the sky.
A drop of sparkling dew.
Shimmering on the tips of the emerald grass.
I was young and happy.
A dream of a good life is far away.
Vaguely beckoning me to go.
By noon, we had come a long way.
In a strange and still mediocre city.
I look at you as you become more realistic day by day.
Ask yourself: Do I really love you?
A gust of wind blew, and the leaves were noisy.
Will my voice be confused.
Drowning in the depths of the heart.
And just like that, dusk finally came.
We are so tired that we no longer need each other.
An emptiness that has never existed before.
Grabbed my tired soul.
I don't think about it anymore.
Did this filthy earthly world really have love?
On the way to the underworld.
I couldn't stop.
Hazy twilight.
Some of them were stunned.
A sunset that has lost its light.
Fell down the hill ...... without a word
Write for Haizi, or for yourself
Only one thought is allowed.
It's impossible. Loyalty is impossible.
In a woman's well-water-like eyes.
You can always see the shadow of another woman.
Move your gaze. You know.
It is impossible without deception.
It would not be possible without the love that once burned.
On this piece of paper that is being defiled.
Indulge these inks that have been bound for too long.
Open up a clear.
The path to love is impossible.
You suddenly feel happy.
It's because you finally realized it in your solitary journey.
Only death. is the supreme glory.
And I, I have to live.
Must be written soon.
In the next line of the poem.
Lonely and farther and farther.
All love me. or someone who is about to love me.
Please stay away from my dangerous fire.
I burn. Not for the sake of being in the dark.
Shine on you, but on my pain.
It hasn't been done ...... yet
Occasionally I write poetry
Text: Hawkeye. Occasionally I write poems, like the sky writes rain. You always like to ask
What tips do I have?
I'm not trying to shy away from it. It's just that through the glass window, the rain is so beautiful. but they cannot wet me.
I can't stop the lightning pen. It's so intense, so dazzling.
There is a cloud mood in my heart——
Changes. Each day is complete in the group**. Whoever stops will inevitably regret it.
Occasionally I write poetryLike a skirt to write you, like the beauty of summer.
But I can't guess about vanilla's character.
The feelings of that poem are like a sea floating from the sky to the earth. Occasionally I look at it with a stream in my eyes.
Oh, yes! I'm a man. Keep the valley in your heart.
Wait for a stream of clear spring water.
In all my rugged hopes, converging.
A thousand feet of waves.
Loud noise. Embattled
Text: Hawkeye. The deliberate ignorance of the world made me.
EmbattledWhat intoxicates me?
Yellow River, Mother! You have been surging like a dragon and a snake for hundreds of millions of years, and I have only heard of it but have never seen it in person
Your soul has been singing its own song:
No matter how many twists and turns lie ahead.
No matter how many bumps in the distance.
What bottle should I use in this life?
Don't beer, it's too much nonsense.
Don't liquor, it's too strong.
I just want to stand still
Let the scenery be eyebrow with me.
I still want to lie down quietly
Give a poem. But the river runs through here, and I have to look through all its waves.
Villages in the delta are already thriving.
Gold in the sand and gravel has taken over the high ground.
I couldn't resist.
Like a hedgehog breaking into a field, covered in mud.
My thorns. What else can be stabbed at?
Let me speak quietly of the autumn wind, the rain, and the possible sweet fruit.
Let me be embattled on all sides and resist on all sides.
A thousand kings. Three** poemsText: Hawkeye.
Morning light misses you. Hindsight.
I can see your name in every star.
Dew drops are shy. Miss your day. It's fleeting.
Smoke lightly. Creek behind the house.
I miss the awkward rain that I took refuge from with you.
The day the coffee was sweet.
It's you. Sit next to you.
Write poetry secretly. Those who dare not read aloud in the early morning.
It's all over you.
Sing your heart's content. You're not there.
I can also be presumptuous late at night.
Love you. It's my ideal.
The third line should be realistic.
I'm in poetry. Poetry in the palm of your hand.
This rainy season has been stretching for a long time.
Fingerprint locking. Printed with red lips.
You're the only leaker in my life.
No matter how far from youth.
Young loved. I've loved it all my life.
Author:Ma Weiju, male, born in 1957, is a native of Huining, Gansu Province, and lives in Beijing. He used to be the executive deputy secretary of the Party Committee of the Ministry of Railways and the China Railway Corporation, and was a member of the Chinese Writers Association, the China Railway Writers Association, and the Chinese Poetry Society. His poems have been published in hundreds of publications such as "Poetry Magazine", "Poetry Monthly", "Stars", "China Railway Literature and Art", "Ginseng Flower", etc., or have been selected into various anthologies such as "Chinese New Poetry" by the Chinese Poetry Society. Some of them are on the **People's Radio "Voice of China? Read Poetry for You" aired. Published his personal poetry collections "Gap" and "Deep Snow".
Let poetry warm the world
The lights dimmed and the fireworks were disillusioned.
In this quiet, warm bedroom, I opened the curtains.
The moon is flawless, and the moonlight is cold.
The moonlight that illuminates the window also illuminates the old ridgeline of Yanshan.
The second hand of the clock strikes persistently and forcefully.
The darkness of the Yuan Night.
And time, forming a huge trap.
Swallow the beauty and desolation of the capture one by one.
The shadows of the mountains are hazy, and the pine forests are slightly white.
The sleeping family may be wandering in a deep dream, maybe.
Still struggling in the invisible fall.
The distant mountains are like my window.
The moonlight is leaving, and the morning light will come.
At this moment, the moonlight is still good, and there is no sleepiness.
I'm like a craftsman, putting some words and phrases.
Precisely riveted into the lonely and cold body on the night of the Lantern Festival.
Let the temperature of poetry warm the early spring.
Heaven and earth on earth. The persistence of the red maple
The lawn is dry. The creeper withered.
The vines stretched out their wizened arms towards the autumn sun.
A red maple in the corner of the wall, with goose-webbed claws.
Hook the hem of the pants in late autumn.
It persists in insisting, dandelion's little white umbrella.
It's time to take off.
Insist on insisting, sleeping old woman in wheelchair.
You can wake up.
The shape of the language
A round pen holder with an elegant and supple appearance.
It's like a light **, playing softly all the way.
There seems to be nothing, and there are times and moments.
The pen holder does not speak, but it does.
Speaking teeth, sharp tongue and throat.
Speaking from the pen holder, there are circles, there are ovals.
There are also slightly undulating curves.
In fact, the pen holder holds a lot of sharper things.
It's best to say mean words.
Therefore, some sounds are square and some are square.
It's an acute triangle, some.
It's just a needle, an arrow.
The unspeakable, their needles and arrows.
Either in the heart or in the eyes, or in the pen holder.
You can ejaculate at any time.
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.