Looking for a poem in praise of my mother, I want to do it tonight, and kneel down and beg my brothe

Crying mom Lelivy.

It was a text message from the northwest wind.

Hanging from the head of my bed, I turned it out again.

A white sweater that has been sewn up.

Delicately woven into a pure snow lotus.

Let me stand among the wrinkles of old age.

Oh. Mom: The first time I saw you cry.

Crying into the words on the letterhead and the song of the northwest wind.

Crying into my little hands and my pencil.

Cry into my white sweater and the poems I wrote for you.

Crying into my childhood memories and the worn-out little rocker.

I remember that you wouldn't let me go barefoot in the winter.

I once remembered that you mixed me with sweet potatoes for unpaid lunch.

I remember that my father was seriously ill and you went to the blood bank again and again.

I remember the tragic death of my sister, and your tears only flashed in your eyes.

How many times have you ever remembered that you didn't cry.

Dad said that the new building was built on the old thatched eaves house, and you didn't want to.

You did get sick that time and only bought an abc for two cents

Sewn up the clothes you pulp shampoo white.

The little wooden bed loves to sing, and you have nailed a few iron nails.

You don't cry for life.

I can't help but call out here.

Mom's yellow hands and white hearts.

I opened my mouth and turned into a white mist.

Mom, it's going to be colder in winter.

I cried quietly where no one was.

A white sweater carried by a frozen red hand.

You leave quietly.

Step by step lonely back.

I want to be with you and tell you how much I love you.

Flowers bloom quietly.

In the night when I suddenly thought of you.

I want to tell you that you have always been my miracle.

Year after year, the wind and frost obscured the smiling face.

Who can still understand your lonely heart?

Is it the spring flowers and autumn moon ruthless.

Spring goes to autumn, and your love is silent.

gave me all the love, and gave the world to Nebi to open my eyes.

From now on, I don't know the bitterness and joy in your heart.

I want to be close to you.

Tell you, I've always understood you.

Give me all the love and give me the world.

From now on, I don't know the bitterness and joy in your heart.

I want to be close to you.

Snuggle up in your warm, lonely arms.

Flowers bloom quietly.

In the night when I suddenly thought of you.

I want to rely on Hui to get closer to you.

Tell you, I've always understood you.

Year after year, the wind and frost obscured the smiling face.

Who can still understand your lonely heart?

Is it the spring flowers and autumn moon ruthless.

Spring goes to autumn, and your love is silent.

Give me all the love and give me the world.

From now on, I don't know the bitterness and joy in your heart.

I want to be close to you.

Tell you, I've always understood you.

Give me all the love and give me the world.

From now on, I don't know the bitterness and joy in your heart.

I want to be close to you.

Snuggle up in your warm, lonely arms.

I want to tell you that your loneliness hurts my heart together.

Poems praising mothers include "What is Mother", "My Mother", "Mother", "Mother", "Dear Mother", etc.

1, "What is Mother".

Mother is a bright moon, and I am a star in the sky. The light was faint, but it was enough to give me a little warmth, and I fell asleep in my mother's arms. The mother is an umbrella, and I am the child under the umbrella.

Although the umbrella is not big, it is enough to shelter me from the wind and rain, and I am sheltered from the rain in my mother's arms. Mother is the blue sky, and I am the bird that flies.

2, "My Mother".

My pen pulls the blind date of the blood, the gentle and longing call in the dark night, the black is silent and profound, twelve o'clock I am immersed in a silent return, when all the fallen leaves drifting from your ears and temples, frozen behind you into a withered yellow-gray past, a day quietly close to history and today, will give you the highest honor in the name of time.

So on the day when the frozen grass was green on the edge of the ridge and you came up with the idea of your autumn basket, I began to plan a calendar for my dear mother!

3, "Mom".

Mom, I like your sweet words the most, and whenever you finish speaking, my heart is sweeter than honey.

Mom, I like the grace of your dancing the most, it makes people fascinated. Mom, I love your seriousness and happiness. Mom, I love what you do the most, it makes me feel incredibly happy.

4, "Mother".

I never gave up a piece of paper, but always kept it, kept it, folded it into a very small boat, and threw it out of the boat and into the sea. Some were swept into the windows of the boat by the wind, and some were wet by the waves and stuck on the bow of the boat. I still don't lose heart, and I always hope that one can flow to the place I want him to go.

Concealment. Mother, if you see a very small white boat in your dream, don't be surprised that he fell asleep for no reason. This is your beloved son, with tears in his eyes, begging him to return with her love and sorrow.

5, "Dear Mother".

Dear Mother, I love you! Like the deep affection of a stream to the mountains, I hug you warmly and tightly, and I cherish the warmth of spring selflessly. I am a mountain goose flying south, with a desire as tender as cream.

I love you, my dear mother! I love you, the breath of the mountains, the air and the moisture. In the time of youth, you carefully designed for me, every second and every minute of my life.

"In Praise of Mother".

This document is for all mothers in the world, whether poor or rich.

Mother, can you use the hands of withered bark?

Brush away the frost that has already turned gray on your temples? I know.

The bow of the red ribbon bleached the black hair in memory.

It's been a long time. Mother, you are all right.

Or gently squirm a loose tooth.

Unhurried. and laughter in the curtain of tears.

Sing songs and ballads that are still fresh from childhood.

Memories are the snake of longing. Draw a word.

Meandering in, the remnants of the pain of my life.

Mother, you still don't hesitate to use this chapped tongue.

Lick up the poison of my pride. I'm in front of you.

It's always a child who doesn't grow up.

So, there is a vague topic called maternal love.

It is undoubtedly the most stupid wound of wanderers.

Mother, you are old.

The edge of the white porcelain vase has your leftover medicinal scent.

Su silk deep old years. In operation.

Wipe through the heart of love, but it is still today.

can't hide the crazy growth of your care.

The autumn wind has risen. Even in the lonely shadow, mother.

Don't catch a cold. Anytime, anywhere.

The setting sun clings to a crutch called a child.

And you, on the fertile soil that was nurtured.

The seeds covered by vegetation are germinating and growing.

And I, at the moment. I just want to hear you call.

My milk name. In a trance, mother.

It was as if I had returned to the courtyard, to the well where I had drawn water as a child.

1, "The Wanderer's Yin" [Tang] Meng Jiao.

The line in the mother's hand, the wanderer's shirt. Before leaving, I am afraid that I will return late. Whoever says an inch is careless, and he will be rewarded with three springs.

2, "Farewell Mother" [Qing] Huang Zhongze.

Bow to the mother river beam, white hair and tears dry.

The miserable snowy night in Chaimen, at this time, it is better to have a son than nothing.

3, "Fifteenth" [Song] Wang Anshi.

The mother will be on the ditch and leave the family white and yin. When the moon heard Du Yu, the north and the south always cared.

4, "Home at the End of the Year" [Qing] Jiang Shiquan.

The love of the son is endless, and he is happy to return home. The cold clothes are densely sewn, and the ink marks of the family letter are new.

When he met Pian Qingqing, Hu'er asked about the hardships. He was ashamed of the son of man, and he didn't dare to sigh for the dust.

Time of the beautician (to mom).

Mom, I want for you.

Become a beautician of time.

Smooth your carved skin, dye your early hair, straighten your crooked loin, and wipe your stricken soul.

At that time, my mother, what will be left behind, will be, a beauty forever.

Mother is as humble as moss, solemn as the morning light, soft as the sound of water in the south of the Yangtze River, as hard as a thousand years of cold jade, When she raises her eyes, she is the bright moon, and when she lowers her head, she is reckless earth.

Like snow, the moonlight infected their green silk.

Like a bow, the scythe fixed their waists.

All mothers deserve to be remembered, to be remembered at all times.

If you can't catch the wind.

Be sure to remember.

On the blade of the years live all the mothers.

All mothers.