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.
Love is like a snow falling from the sky
The wind rushing towards the night.
You can hear my terrifying call.
You can hear me. The fading sunset sings in the middle of the night
The night was filled with more snowfall.
In the depths of the sea.
Fly. My bets.
Perish in a hoarse carol.
The longing of the snowy night.
It's a sharp blade.
There's always a fire I've licked.
The moon and the stars of the day.
Become a faded scenery in the years.
Please follow me to the Tang Dynasty.
I'll ring the chimes of the paragraphs.
Make some noise:
When love falls into a silent winter night.
Please forgive me. I will fall into this eternal cycle of reincarnation.
Winter snow
Oh the people who fell in the pass.
I have been waiting for you for a long time while standing in the wind
Cretaceous Perhaps Pangu opened the heavens and the earth.
We chose to fall in the winter.
Become the two most silent people in the world.
We're in the winter again and again.
Caught in a snowstorm.
With scorched lips.
Lick ** residue with imprints in the snow.
Like the ocean of wind promises something.
But betrayed something.
In the distant Cretaceous era.
Transform into a snow that can cover all disasters.
In the face of an angel.
*Make move. I enter the temple of your devil :
The world has promised me a storm.
I will be doomed. Cover me up with a snow.
Slipping tears.
Rain at dusk
That's how to describe the thin rain.
Why did you hide in the deep alley all of a sudden?
It made me feel an inexplicable agitation.
Keeps me up at night.
On yellowed rice paper.
Write your name countless times.
Like me. Countless times in the middle of the night.
With a shiny blade.
Engraved with the eternity in the Book of Songs.
I know my fears.
* In a snowfall from the sky.
When I speak absurdly.
Write the first hymn for a winter night:
When the wind of the fertile field.
Blowing across the distant galaxy.
Who in a thick tone.
Torture to the heavens.
I'm looking forward to a lifetime.
It will be destroyed here.
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.
Fang Zhi (Group 4).
Text: Blue Ice. 1. "White Deer Plain, Crying Fairy Grass".
The sun on the plain, glamorous.
Back then, I was all the way in the plains, looking for you.
Ten thousand acres of peach blossoms are in full bloom, like love.
Like Jiaxuan taking back the fairy grass and taking back the spring.
The white deer stepped on the last snowflake.
Quietly gone, and took you out of the world.
Crying lady, I just feel that the world is shaking".
Step by step, I lost my tears in my eyes.
Spring turns, and the old houses are empty.
I wipe away the dust of this world.
Your industriousness is so bright on the table.
brightens the life in the Jiaxuan family rules.
But lonely as loess never speaks.
Lonely. On the plain behind the village, the sun is still so bright.
The new grave has snow sprinkled by white deer.
2. "Tanabata. The Saponaria Tree
The old soaphorn red belt is entangled, and the couples under the tree are weaving.
The concubine and the Ming Emperor of the Root Lianli.
Plant this thousand-year-old love spell and let the cherished people.
Come and make a wish and bring the spell you made in your previous life.
Hang it up with affection, and pick another soaphorn to taste.
Love tastes bitterness, but poisoned lovers are willing to be willing.
Lishan on Qixi Festival, looking back at Ma Wei.
The neon clothes and feathers entered the earth, and the soul was lost in the Hall of Eternal Life.
Eternal love is a tribute to you today.
Drunk wind cup, love is always mellow.
Wherever you are far away.
It's still like glue.
3. "South Journey".
Look for the path in your memory.
A group of teenagers walk through a green wheat field.
The footprints are like dreams, up and down.
Step out of the yellow bare veins.
Half an hour round trip, early morning and dusk.
The wheat straw stack watches the bell for the end of class.
The childhood sun hides in the shadows of the trees and listens to the cicadas.
The old well next to the village has long been drained by nostalgia.
The depths of the earth are pitch black and blind.
The countryside sent their children out to be educated, but they couldn't even get them back."
The southern journey, the name of the place where my fate begins and ends.
Now I want to hide away from my safety.
The wheat field became the home of the flooded paths.
I sing with affection and look forward to our long absence.
Able to claim each other in strangers.
Tears took a step forward, shattered and full of sorrow.
The bones burned greener and greener in the flames.
Daze, who is desolate at heart, has no boat to moor.
One day, I will be burned to the ground.
The body and soul that watched themselves return to the earth.
Then it was buried inch by inch by the night.
As at that time, step by step away from the original.
Nancheng, can you contain my wanderings?
Let the old man take refuge in peace in a quiet village.
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.
Buds
For the strangulation of the love in the heart.
I'll lift you up from the graveyard.
The bees flew in.
Let the suffering souls fly into the air
Ridges in March.
Imagine the leaves of a birch tree.
Burn the North. I looked at the way I came.
Like a warrior in the backlight.
In the ashes. Pick out the snow-covered flowers.
Oh, spring. In the bombardment of bees.
Blooming buds, love in lovesickness.
Brewing a flowing love song".
I look up at the sky.
Look for the vultures that brought it.
Meteors, but in the moment of bowing their heads.
Suffered a tragedy.
and happiness across the wall
and happiness across the wall
Not painfully, actually, but.
The merciful hand of truth.
When we come out of a dream.
Call out a name affectionately.
But on the way to wake up, I forgot everything.
You, O sufferers.
Often immersed in the past.
Even when we are close to God, we are created out of nothing in our hearts.
Defeated is coming.
of joy. Oh, destroy us.
Not God. It's not God!
Rather, it is the dust that accumulates on the soul.
set off one.
Destroy humanity itself.
StormThe empty house was as black as iron
1 Weak moonshine
Memories support dreams.
From the dappled light and shadow.
Wake up. Weak moonlight.
Let the earth become trance.
There was an illusion in my heart.
It looks like a cat scratch mark.
Fall on the back of the fish.
In the swaying waves of tree shadows.
There's something deeper.
Buried by an hourglass. The empty house.
A well as black as iron, cold.
Raise the discarded.
Face. ――2 Quiet House
Lying in bed, I have a mass of nothingness.
The sound of flapping through the air.
Childhood through decades of wind and rain.
Trotting all the way. Come to the window of the tired years.
Mouth. Quiet house.
Crawling with the moss marks of the four seasons.
Love, thrift.
Give cracked walls.
Watering love. The old wound that never **. ——
3 In the night
To prevent yourself from getting lost.
On the road to cognition, I left to cry.
It is the process of getting rid of sin.
It's like life is always torn apart without heeding.
Our support for love.
I was there for no reason.
Drink. In order to find.
A day of drinking, I talked about sin, in the night.
Crying. Afterward.
Dull days have wiped away some of the mud and sand.
In the story of a broken heart, pull out the spring.
Exposed spring sprouts.
A lot of things, leave it in a notebook.
Let yourself be alone-
Go to the narrative.
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.
Falling flowers
You yearn for the flight of butterflies.
Or is it the freedom of the wind?
Spinning, rising, falling.
Dewdrop, drop one for you.
Sorrow, or tears of joy.
You don't care about the ruthlessness of running water.
The intention of the heart.
You see through the seasons.
The seasons see through you, too.
You still are. Spinning, rising, or falling.
Ascent is not necessarily heaven.
Falling is not necessarily hell.
Letters
A printed letterhead, silent night.
Write down the words as you see.
Write down the paper for a short and long time.
A vermilion postmark.
Leave a deep kiss mark.
Then, it's time to wait.
Some early morning or dusk.
The postman's bell rings crisply.
Holding her reply.
It's like a child receiving a candy wrapped in flower paper.
That sweet ......
Now. WeChat, **
I don't have the touch of reading a long letter at night.
Desolate thoughts, no branches to rely on.
The stars shattered. A starry sky.
Don't give
Sunset, parting day.
The moon is a cup of wine.
Outside the Lao Lao Pavilion. Grass is green.
After crossing Guanshan, there is no one again.
Kuan Rong is a foreign land where you have gone.
The white clouds are your horses to the west.
The road is long and obstructive. The stars light up the lights ahead for you.
The sound of the goose is far away. The frost is light and heavy.
That longs for heaven on earth.
Meet, the day is waiting for you in the East China Sea.
The first rays of light.
Written on the autumnal equinox
Wen Caohui. We go from summer to autumn.
The hooves of the horses that ran did not stop.
Cross a mountain pass with several solar terms.
It didn't stop, all the way to the autumnal equinox.
When the universe is spinning at a rapid pace, it will.
Day and night are equinoxized. And hollowed out a valley.
Let the frost and snow fall.
In the morning, when the horse's hooves sound on the mountain road.
I've drunk all the wine on the way.
There were only a few grains of dry food left, a guqin.
Wait for the cold moon to rise.
I didn't bring anything with me.
An empty me, carrying an empty valley on my back.
Sit on horseback all the way to winter.
Day and night.
To go back to a cold temple.
At the edge of the pool
Wen Caohui. A flock of egrets stand at the water's edge, meditating with their eyes closed.
The flowers, trees, and reeds around me are also meditating.
The whole island is like a quiet temple.
A few autumn lotuses chanting in the wind.
At the edge of the pool, my reflection is a shadow.
When I shake, it shakes.
A bird flew by, dropping a feather, very light.
If I come gently, I will also walk back gently.
Leave that shadow behind and let it melt.
The sound of chanting on the island.
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.
Shooting stars
With his own loneliness that is always burning.
In the silence of midnight.
In the fleeting fragrance of an epiphany.
Polished the darkness of the sky.
Let the melancholy girl lean against the window.
Gaze at my vanishing back.
Make a wish in your heart.
It's the most beautiful of me.
And the youth that can't be saved.
Night Song
Yun lowered his body.
And the mountains were raised.
Some wandering shadows.
Like the mood I want to talk about and rest.
Lie down on the silent flowing water.
Watch as you slowly sink into time.
Sink into a trance dream.
And the past. It is a star embedded in the firmament.
One after the other.
Fall into my darkness.
Your countenance. Flashing in the darkness.
Sudden grief.
Splashing up. Then go up to Qinglong Mountain
A season in the making.
Even with an unexpected light rain.
I'm going to unload it too.
The weight of life on my shoulders.
No umbrellas, no invitations.
Only bring a copy of Yu Xiuhua's poems.
Go to the top of the mountain, go to the Zhuangyuan Pavilion.
Go to the heart of another person.
Read about the suffering that is not strange.
Wet stone steps along fallen leaves.
I kept circling, rising.
The rain, the birdsong, and the hustle and bustle of the town.
In a slight cool breeze.
Dripping from the tip of the swaying leaves.
Splashing around. The mountains are empty.
Welcome the 20th National Congress of the Communist Party of China, and celebrate the new Lintao
Wenbei Valley. O Yellow River, this land you have raised.
The wind of the new era.
Blowing the beautiful "land of faience".
Lintao, Lintao.
That's my truly beautiful and magnificent hometown.
Acre of terraced fields is the ladder for the earth to climb the clouds.
Yellow and green interlaced - full of spring.
The historic sites are dazzling with the "saddle mouth plain clay pot".
Between the auspicious light of the feathers, it is the long-term residence of the stars.
And that. One by one, they are blooming, and they are extremely beautiful.
of purple spotted peony.
Under the sunset, there are endless patches of road.
The Dream of Glass. O Yellow River, this land you have raised.
The light of a new era.
Illuminate the beautiful "Lanzhou back garden".
It stretches for tens of thousands of miles of green, and the waterfall enters the eye.
It is a stone Buddha ditch. There. How many vicissitudes of life, do not change the verdant and jade spring echoes.
White marble Buddha and spruce are natural designers with a touch.
Stacked mountains, clear tea, all under the shade.
A pure place. Anxin Pavilion", "Gujing Seven Star Spring", everywhere you go.
The heart goes with it. The shimmer casts a tiny wheat winter.
Wildflowers are singing.
And the gold leaves scattered in the depths of the trail.
It is the new clothes of the autumn of the earth.
O Yellow River, this land you have raised.
The hand of the new era is ringing.
Lanzhou South Gate".
That hand is the hand of technology.
A pair of hands have gone through countless journeys of struggle.
With a new perspective, a new horn is sounded.
The hand had touched ears of wheat and hard earth.
Once in the moonlight.
With the original intention and mission.
Cultivate yourself. With concentration and an indestructible will.
Sow hope and distance.
That's a struggle.
around a country of struggle.
I love Lintao.
Follow the country on the "Belt and Road".
Forge ahead. On the "strong foundation".
Charge thin hair. We should develop in an all-round way in "rejuvenating the country through science and technology".
I love Lintao.
An inseparable piece of the puzzle in the country.
Down-to-earth is the course.
Innovation and exploration are the steering wheel.
The practice is giant turbines.
I love Lintao.
With a new attitude.
Facing the rags of the new era.
With a new look.
Meet new challenges and opportunities.
With new courage.
Sprint to new heights.
with elevation. I love Lintao.
Streets, walls.
A full ear.
All twinkling with the morning light.
I love her more than that.
Faith burned in her eyes.
In her heart. The undertone that does not change.
And also. When the stars gather.
I love China.
I will always be young in China.
China in my struggle.
My lovely and beautiful China.
In eternity. Forever to the "two centennial goals".
Forever to that new era.
The new era belongs to the endeavors.
New achievements. It is the base color that does not change.
We. Dreams as horses.
Live up to the 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.