Modern poems for mom

A modern poem for mom 1 I don't know how long it's been since I took a shower with you.

When I picked up the bath towel and rubbed your back.

That flabby skin

And thin shoulders.

It shook my heart at once.

I don't know when you became like this.

Is it enteritis?

Is it housework fatigue?

Or my indifference?

I spent all my time.

Gave it to my home, my children.

But I forgot.

Your place is my home.

I am your child.

I was just thinking about your cooking.

Call you

Mom, I'm going home.

Come and go in a hurry

It seems that I seldom sit down and listen to you.

It seems that I seldom see your change.

I don't know what I'm busy with.

Hear your hoarse and low cough.

I didn't know you had a cold.

I didn't accompany you with the infusion.

Didn't pour you a cup of tea

It's nothing like senior three.

Learn from you

Haohaoao Chinese medicine

Send it outside the classroom

I think I forgot about you.

For some time,

It's like forgetting some strangers

This is really terrible.

It shouldn't be like this.

You're mom.

Someone I can't live without.

Dear mother

Time to brush and brush.

I hope it's not too late for me to wake up

Modern poetry is dedicated to mom 2. You love yourself.

spread

In the wind

Float to my place

You smile.

Crying

perspicacious

The wall of disappearance

Your bent back

Can't stand up straight.

It stings

The mark on my heart

You have silver hair.

Not young

That kind of sadness

Crawl all over my heart

Your wrinkled face

It's vicissitudes

feel

I have been unfilial for half my life.

The moment you get up

So slow

hands up!

I will lend you my arm.

You are no longer sad.

Just sigh

Wake me up.

The power of the mind

Your shriveled breasts

Hang down

tell

No milk is mother.

The moment I hugged you

You cried.

I stared.

The dark dawn outside the window

You made breakfast.

It tastes bad

Children swallowing

Lack of great love

The days are getting longer.

No longer than you bend over.

The outflow of sweat

My melancholy

No matter how dark the night is.

Black but your face.

Those years.

The wound left in your heart

My pen tip quivered slightly.

Eyes flashing.

fall

It turned out to be glittering and translucent light.

I miss

You're looking forward to

Written in this poem

Leave it somewhere else.

Modern Poetry for Mom 3 My phone is ringing and my mother is still sleeping.

The rain gave her a leisurely holiday.

When I was a child, there was always enough rain in the mountain village.

I like to listen to the sound of rain hitting the tiles.

.

In the days of growing up

There is always a bowl of buckwheat noodles and a bowl of corn noodles.

On such a rainy day.

It is not appropriate for a rooster to crow.

Old quilts will also accelerate erosion.

My sisters are too noisy. I seem to be very good.

Compare the bowls of people who have eaten.

.

Walk out of the house alone

Bitter bracken can not be forgotten, nor can sour soup.

You can't leave the village

That year was the same as this year.

Piglet is the hungriest in the village.

Screams seem to urge us to grow up.

The year I was born, I had more than I could eat.

Plastic toys that my parents didn't have when they were children.

I broke a few and left them in the wild dunghill.

.

At noon, the village is very quiet.

I woke up from a deep sleep.

Pick up your schoolbag and run to school.

Third mother-in-law called me in the wheat field above the high cliff.

Children who miss Sunday school will leave the village one day.

Now, I have left.

I can't hear the cries of the old people in the village anymore.

I know they still miss me.

Stay in the village or sleep in a sunny cemetery.

.

Mom told me to leave.

Homesick people have to bear loneliness and guilt.

It rained today, and my mother had a good sleep.

When I was young.

There is no end to sewing on rainy days.

.

I want to write a lot to my mother today.

As neat as mom's stitches.

Write about mom's love and craft.

Write a bowl of noodles, miss.

Modern poetry is dedicated to mother 4 in the whispers of rain and wind.

In warm and sunny summer, in cold winter

Mom, you are my memory over and over again.

When I feel cold, you are warm.

When I feel dangerous, you depend on me.

When I felt wronged, you wiped away my tears.

You gave me courage to move forward when I was depressed.

Who remembers the beauty of mother when she was young?

When she found out, her face was wrinkled and she faltered.

Mother's heart beats with our growth.

Mom's years are aging and vicissitudes because of our charm.

Now mom is old and young.

Naughty and coquettish like when we were children.

As headstrong and surly as we were when we were young

She hurt others unintentionally and hurt herself.

Her tears are not as clear as ours.

Unknown substances float in the turbidity.

Mom is old and doesn't have much needs.

Just a little warmth and a few words of intimate happiness.

When I clean up the housework for her

I thought of the sloppiness of my childhood.

When I wiped the dust off her face

I saw the naughty childhood in her eyes.

When she stubbornly wants to do something she can't reach.

It was like a broken thermos bottle and broken glass when I was a child.

The beginning and end of reincarnation, the similarity of reincarnation

Love rises in the morning and filial piety leaves in the evening.

We take care of ourselves while taking care of our mother.

Mother squeezed my hand.

I'll take you to see the scenery you liked as a child.

I'll take you to the zoo to see the slide.

I will sing "I love Tiananmen Square" for you.

I will read you the poem I wrote for you.

//

I hold my mother's hand like a day.

Just like the umbilical cord is inseparable before it is torn.

She helped me walk, and I helped her walk.

We walk under the sun and the moon.