Sitting under the old locust tree in front of the door
Cloudy eyes, trudging on the dry leaves of Sophora japonica.
Tired birds bring dusk, and the wind pulls her white hair.
Hanging in the lonely night sky, extending infinitely.
Time has bent her into a bow.
The hot sunshine drained the water from her pulse.
Bitter tears can't fill the gap of a lifetime.
In the noisy city, the lights are dim
I am standing on top of an unfinished building.
Counting the stars and humming the songs my mother taught me when I was a child.
The night dew moistened the heart of the wasteland and grew a rootless grass.
Toss and turn, sleep deeply
Often awakened by a familiar birth name.
Ribs, ribs, when are you going home?
Mom, when the Mid-Autumn Festival is full.
I will plunge into your warm embrace from running all the way thousands of miles away.
Good memories guide my way home.
The boss's mother celebrated her seventieth birthday.
The scene is vigorous, festive and lively
The red-faced old lady wore a gorgeous wedding dress.
Happiness blooms into a golden flower.
Red candle burns my humble heart.
Mom at the moment, in the stormy old house.
Stepping on the broken moonlight, measuring the gloomy days.
A gift of 200 yuan for a rich boss.
However, Niu Yi Jiumao dismissed this.
Send it to my mother in the mountains.
You can buy a lot of pills to relieve her whole body pain.
Spicy liquid burns in the chest.
Mom, my heart is full of tears.
You gave me the same life as everyone else.
I can't let you enjoy the same happiness.
That winter, the cold was long.
Delayed construction period
Mother's waiting ran aground again and again.
There was a violent cough on the phone.
Like a sharp knife, it cuts my heart hard.
Rib, mom is tired, waiting for you to go home.
Surging tears drowned the struggle in my eyes.
Squeeze into a crowded station
In my arms, I hold the clothes I chose for you tightly.
Glittering brocade embroidered with blessings, with my body temperature.
Will warm my mother's lonely heart
A snowy night
The orange light reflected mother's smiling face.
My mother is wearing new clothes, as beautiful as a bride of 18 years old.
Time can't be cut, in an empty yard.
Mom's shadow is everywhere, erratic.
The morning light can't melt the sadness in my eyes.
Missing is a thorn that can't be pulled out.
In the dark, the injured moon hides in the clouds.
With tears in my eyes, I washed my vague memories over and over again.
Young mother, holding my hand through the winding mountain road.
Smile falls on every leaf behind you, leading to the place where you sleep.
With the temperature of your palm, I continue to wander the world.
Clear and transparent rain, with my steps.
Go further and further. Thoughts and confessions left on the grave
It is branded in my heart and hurts forever.
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 thought
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.
Fallen
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 3 for Mom My phone is ringing, and Mom 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 poem 4 for mother in the line of rain and the whisper of 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.