The small problem of modern poetry, the problem of modern poetry

Distant clear cloud map.

The grass is green, the river is crooked, and the path is long.

Under the blue sky and white clouds, small birds flew by.

The summer color is not thick, and the rice and wheat are already yellow.

In the light wind, there were bursts of singing, and there were a few readers.

On the field, the sunset is sent away and the morning sun is ushered in.

Nostalgia for the small primary school taught me to sail away from now on.

Although the ends of the earth are unforgettable.

All kinds of disasters, still crazy.

Raise the sails, ride the wind and waves, and then educate the pillars for all generations.

On the journey, just like the sun in the sky, thousands of lights. Langlang's book is melodious.

Hardworking gardener irrigation specialty.

Red walls and white tiles are high-rise buildings.

Students are replaced.

Beautiful campus, loud books.

This is the sweetest fruit that the previous generation has given us!

What's the most important thing in the world?

Is it time? Is it life?

Is it dignity? Or is it money?

There are many kinds of mouths.

We forgot. What is ignored is sometimes the most important.

Some people don't believe it, and only the unimportant ones are ignored.

I'm going to say, you're wrong.

We're desperate to make money.

but neglecting health.

We are desperate to produce.

but ignoring the quality.

Our economy is growing rapidly.

But they ignore the living environment.

I'm worthy of the old ones. Material life is getting more and more exciting.

but neglect our barren spiritual life.

We ignore Mother's nagging words to you.

Only the state attendant has when you can no longer hear.

We just found out.

That nagging turned out to be the natural sound of the world.

Neglect is a sin.

Maybe ignore it once.

You're missing out on the best part of your life.

Cherish every little bit around you.

Don't ignore anything.

That's the only way to do it.

When we are old.

We can say it with pride.

I'm on the superlative train of my life!

Of course it's too much! There are three reasons for this:

1. I like to be more long, such as the above, and write dozens or hundreds of sentences in one breath. It's no wonder that readers don't get tired!

2. I like to cut off the breath, such as the above, one breath is out of breath, you guess. It's no wonder that readers don't get tired of it!

3. I like to vomit more than vomiting, such as the above, the tone is gorgeous and frivolous, and there is no life! It's no wonder that readers aren't annoyed!

This kind of poet can only deceive ignorant girls, and he can deceive for a while, but he can't deceive for three days.

We are seedlings.

We're growing.

Teachers are like the sunshine of spring.

No fire, no burning.

Giving us the nutrients we need to grow.

A pair of small hands holding pencils.

Gradually, I picked up the pen.

Write a book We are seedlings.

We're growing.

Teachers are like a summer breeze.

Not abrupt, not cold.

Teach us what we need to know about being a human being.

A pair of eyes thirsty for knowledge.

Slowly, the peach blossom pond water.

Thousands of feet deep, the teacher is like rain and dew.

Let's stop being thirsty.

Look at your smile, we.

From "Qingqingen Nakakui".

to "all things are born of brilliance".

From "the little lotus only shows sharp corners".

to "the lotus flowers are different red".

If said before dawn.

Be sure to go through a period of darkness.

Then you are a sky full of stars.

A guiding light.

Guide us to the dawn.

Towards maturity That night, the wind picked up the last rays of the sunset.

You quietly spread the nets all over the sky.

Don't say a star a little.

You have to salvage the time forgotten by the sun.

When the morning glow holds up the golden umbrella.

You quietly retreat into the distance.

When the jade wheel hangs a lantern.

You are ashamed to hide yourself.

You drive fatigue into the mantle.

There was a look of concern in his eyes.

Regardless of spring, summer, autumn and winter.

You keep watch with sincerity.

Turned into a ray of light.

You are not as arrogant as thunder and lightning.

With their own short life.

Write a glorious poem.

Don't say it's just a little star.

It's the golden ideal singing.

You build the bridges of tomorrow.

The first ushered in the dawn of the eastern sky.

Time carving knife.

What is time?

It is a carving knife that carves minutes and seconds, leaving marks on everyone.

Give the baby two legs, carve out two wind wheels, let him grow taller day by day, and run away with laughter.

Give the elementary school student two eyes, carve out a question mark like a small ear, and let his thick eyebrows be twisted into inquisitive thinking.

Give the big brother's chin, carve out a stubble of black leeks, let his rough throat, and sing the pride of youth.

Carve beautiful staves on the faces of grandfathers and grandmothers, and let them play sweet ballads under the red sunset.

Ah, this invisible carving knife works diligently, without any difference, it is impartial to no one, and it is always so fair.

It carves a stupid turtle to a child who does not value time, and crawls behind it with a heavy sigh.

It carves a big red horse for a diligent child, and every day it always flies with its hooves flying, running ahead of others.

It gives people who have made great contributions, carved an almighty passport, and no matter where you go, you will see a spring-like smile.

It carves a certificate of disqualification for a person who has achieved nothing, and although he is still very young, he is too old to be old.

This time carving knife is so iron-faced and selfless.

It tests everyone's attitude towards time, whether you are old or young.

I hope that everyone will use the carving knife of time to carve for themselves.

A pride in life.

Not every era of poetry will become popular, modern poetry is also very good, Zheng Chouyu's "Mistake", Zhu Xiang's "Waste Garden", etc., as well as Gu Cheng, Haizi so many good poets. Why care if it's popular or not.

Nostalgia in the afterglow.

When I was a child, homesickness was a small stamp, I was here, and my mother was there.

When I grew up, nostalgia was a narrow ticket, I was at this end, and the bride was at that end.

Later, nostalgia was a low grave, I was outside, and my mother was inside.

And now, nostalgia is a shallow strait, I am at this end, and the mainland is at that end.

Yi Yunqing [Original].

I'm a waddling dancer.

In the crimson wind, in the transparent water, swaying my body.

Nobody understood.

Why—I came calmly.

but he went away sorrowfully.

I leave the dance steps to the sunset.

So in the evening light of the setting sun.

Hanging lonely.

A person's sorrow.

Maybe tomorrow. No one can remember.

In the evening light. A one-of-a-kind stumbling stumble.

But what does it matter.

As long as you've ever danced.

There's always something left.

1, "Seven Miles of Fragrance" sat on the curtain.

2, "Farewell Kangqiao" Xu Zhimo.

3, "Rain Alley" Dai Wangshu.

4, "Broken Chapter" Bian Zhilin.

It's all modern poems.

If all three chickens are bought, there are three kinds of round possibilities.

4 roosters, 18 hens, 78 eggplant, and 78 chicks.

8 roosters, 11 hens, 81 chicks.

There are 12 roosters, 4 hens and 84 chicks.

Only bai

Moon Moxuan. I lay helplessly on the windowsill.

Du looked at it blankly.

Night view outside the window.

It's still so bleak.

The moon dang hangs alone in the sky.

The only answer is the moon.

Appreciate with me.

I sat alone on the bench.

I think deeply. Next to the twilight.

It's still so sad.

The moon is about to hang in the sky again.

The people who are far away and near away.

Can you join me?

Playing with computers at home, you can't always win, it's the 21st century, and there are no new games.

The game is too old-fashioned, and it feels boring, and when the game is cleared, I am overjoyed.

Withered vines and old trees are faint, the cafeteria is rising in price again, classmates are hungry like thin horses, the sun is setting, mom I want to go home.