How to write a short poem on Qingming Day?

Appreciate the fragrance of the festival Qingming day, Qingming put wine to release the sorrow of parting. Here I bring you modern poems about Qingming Festival, welcome to enjoy! Modern Poems for Qingming Festival Part 1 1. Qingming Festival By: Chao Qingming rain comforts the departed figures The tears of people on this day can only be used as flower petals Dotting the mournful landscape The beginning of spring The birth of a new life The life maker Takes off his clothes Thoughts turn into a cloud of lit smoke Smells of spring Thinks of the milky smell Thinks of the breast-feeding mother Perhaps this is how tribute to the deceased begins Qingming Festival The burnt-out patterns Fly to the place where they should be It can be used as a cake to feed the hungry, as a house to live in, the smoke, on this day, is a very, very long bridge. 2. Ching Ming Festival is a timely rain By: clumsy penguin Ching Ming Festival is a timely rain, in the name of Ching Ming, since the Zhou Dynasty, it has been sprinkled with baths, Qin, Han, Tang, Song, Yuan and Ming, and the generations have inherited the order, and poems and songs and gifts have left their trajectories, so that they can irrigate the watersheds in the gardens of the folklore Ching Ming Festival is a timely rain, and the saplings of the spring, which are showered by it, are sprouting and growing green, and they are being passed on to the families of thousands and thousands of households. It is poured into the fields of thousands of families to prevent moths and corrosion, soaking out fine varieties to wait for the spring breeze to enlighten them. Qingming Festival is a timely rain A bunch of white chrysanthemums motions with the sadness of rain, and a soul weeps on the branches, dragging the time to stay, and the reversed time takes us backward, treading on the ground with broken silver, and we turn around with the time, and look at each other with our loved ones, and the rain spills down on the ground. There is no greater sacrifice than to be remembered by everyone. There is no more sublime ceremony than to be remembered by the people forever! Your inscriptions are engraved in the hearts of the people of your great achievements, magnificent feats. Or the little bits and pieces of the ordinary, but because of your true feelings, bright as a star, glossy and glittering. I reverently touch your short but eternal life with my soul, and every time I touch your words, my ignorant soul undergoes a baptism of transformation; my conscience, which has been desolated by desire, is undergoing punishment and torture. All the white and elegant flowers should be piled up at your grave, this is the continuation of your splendor, this is the cohesion of your voice. All the compassionate hearts should be examined by you, even if it is a hypocritical visit, it is also awe, it is also humility's fearful cowering in front of nobility. Standing at thy grave, I feel my heart dripping blood! Lamenting the vast vault of heaven, whose depravity has made your honor a bondage to their corruption? Whose rottenness made your splendor a martyrdom for their sins?　4、Commemorating the Qingming Festival By: Xing Zheping Ancient ancestors set up this special festival to commemorate all the deceased. So that they will not be alone in heaven, no matter whether they are their loved ones, ancestors or martyrs of the revolution. The land they walked on, the bloodline still lives on. Your deeds, your history, we will never forget. At this time the graves in the wilderness are filled with flowers, and the paper money is burned. May you not be poor and lonely on the other side. Tears are sprinkled over your memories, and glory over your thoughts. I praise the martyrs of the revolution, you left behind a strong will. China's military spirit has a far-reaching influence that will never cease. I miss my deceased relatives, my eyes are wet with tears. Your labor, our happiness, will always be linked together.　5. Ching Ming Festival (Poem) By: Simple Under the earth Under the earth, that's the netherworld Inside there are different kinds of people living. I guess it must be the world of bliss Those who went there never came back Close your eyes and go inside Let some tears and paper dust float up The people above the earth can't stop reminiscing They don't believe that people have really died They think they have gone to live in a different place They are blessing us underground Blessing us and reciting to us Qingming Festival Qingming Festival is not really Qingming Festival The rain is turbulent, the fog is faint A meter away, I can see the ghosts riding on the wall On the road, the wind is moving the white streamers and the ash of butterfly White-headed dixie flowers are swaying The water is rising and falling, splashing the ink of spring. The water rises, the water falls, the ink is splashed on the spring Ching Ming, not clear, not known, the witchcraft spells, seeping out of the moldy bushes, spreading through March, cursing incoherently the bright poetic land, making the peach blossoms nervous, stirring up the silence of April, stirring up the gloomy blackness, not clear. Ching Ming rains, fine, dense filaments, densely packed with sadness and restlessness, souls fluttering around, unable to see the blackness of the sleep, divided by the rains, the tearful eyes, the tantalizing clearness of the mind, the silence, the silence, blinded by the root of the words, make a mountain. A mountain, where the wind is strong and the dog barks without fear, where tears flicker in patience, where witchcraft drowns in the silent dust, where the rain passes, and the sky is clear. 6. It's the Qingming Festival again. The sky is heavy with rain, and the water beads between the strands of hair. The sky is heavy with tears, the breeze is cool, and my heart is damp, and the sky and the earth are in two rows of road, where tears are in the air and the heart is wet, and where I think of each other, and where the willows come out of the sky, and continue to turn over from yesterday's leaves. The ground is full of petals continuing the blossoming and falling of flowers and rests in a white haze Sends condolences Today is not yesterday yesterday is not today Tongan Only efforts and happiness can make heaven and earth laugh together 7, Ching Ming Festival By: Floating in the center of the clouds Lightly, intoxicated in this helpless earthly world Lighting a candle of clear incense to worship a lifetime of silence Flickering memories open up, rows of mountains and seas Hierarchical yearly rounds Responds to the relentless sound of bells Tears in the eyes of the Ching Ming Festival and the heart of the Ching Ming Festival, silence, peace of mind 8, Ching Ming Festival, nostalgia Father By: Rustic Poet Rain pours down at Ching Ming Festival A day when the whole world pays homage to the ancestors The wandering heart is suddenly very close to you Very close to you, very close to you, very afraid of a kind of heart-breaking cry The weeds in front of the grave have been waiting for the wanderer who returns from a foreign land Ten years of parting, one day's tears, gently approaching your land, checking whether it would stir up your precipitated dreamland Ten years of slumber, ah, tears are like a curtain of rain, between black hairs the white hairs are added Kneeling in front of your grave, my heart also aches with pain, and I feel happy. Where are the days of happiness, where are the memories of childhood? O Father, in the depths of the earth where you sleep, have you ever felt my heartache, have you ever listened to my sobbing words? It is a luxury to express to you, it is a helpless sentiment to speak to you, separated by the yin and the yang, deep in love, divided by heaven and earth.　9, Qingming Festival thoughts By: eleven ice cold Qingming Festival thoughts The drizzle, quietly in the heart of the weave a sticky net, locking my deep attachment. Grandma's smile is close to my eyes. I open my palm and release a thousand paper cranes. It carries my ten million wishes. Flying into the lush spring, flying to the sea of blossoming rape. The road to my hometown is far away.　10, Ching Ming Festival Sister Sacrifice Author: Smoke and Rain Corridor Bridge you no longer with a smile to us I ride the Ching Ming Festival rain and sister with a soaking wet thoughts once again come here to see you since zero four years you live here alone we did not have never seen each other between relatives can only be in the dream of the sea of tears after so many years have you forgotten the road home so why not come to see the elderly parents do not you hear them wanting you when you are in a hurry to get back to your home town? Can't you hear them cry when they miss you? The tomans in my hand are like spring flowers trembling in the cold wind. Tears of determination and paper dust are flying in the air. I'll steal the key to the gate of heaven and take you home, never to be separated again. I will steal the key to the gate of heaven and take you home, never to be separated again. I can't see the restless souls walking, I can't see the black sleep, the dusk, all living here, a batch of rain divided into tearful eyes, serving wine, worshipping, extinguishing incense, solemnity. Let the ancestors come in. Throw away the thunder and lightning that lacks water, don't hide, don't pull yourself away, keep your thoughts in your mind. 2. Under the Loess It's a foreign land, it's inhabited by different families, it must be Elysium, and those who went there, didn't come back, close your eyes and get inside. Bypassing a black funeral, letting some tears and paper dust float up like the wind People on top of the loess can't stop reminiscing. Like me, I don't believe that my dear grandmother is dead, I think she's just gone to live in a foreign land. Spinning threads, embroidering flowers, leaving me good food. Watching over me from afar, blessing me, praying and singing like the Virgin Mary, the festival of the dead, the carnival of tears, the whips, the fruits and the candles have made a scene, and we walk through the many wooden frames of the formal, the souls huddled together, as if for warmth, close to each other, the souls silent and silent, in their own caskets, remembering the streets they have passed, the people they have known, the things they had done, and the love that was denied to them in the early days, and now their bodies have been sawn off, and they have been carved up, and their bodies have been cut up, and they have been made to look back on the past. Now that the bodies have been sawn, carved, and painted differently than before, listen to the sound of firecrackers, like so many people slamming their hands on a table with empty bowls, and another way of expressing it is that we throw all kinds of feelings onto the table like dice, and then put them away in a single voice, and then, oh, the white ashes, the very best of morality, these souls no longer use their words, their gestures, or their eyes, and they've swept away their lives, no longer welcoming guests, no longer lending what little they have left, and no longer lending what little they have left. The few breaths they have left are our memories, long and short, and the pastries and fruits we have brought today, the real thing, seem to them like a man in a dream, dreaming all sorts of dreams, circumstantial things, rich fantasies, eat, this is life, touch and feel, through the flames, these souls, like birds, have settled down in a self-contained box, not in the spring, summer or fall, winter or winter; and they begin to repent how much these souls, long imprisoned, long to be like dust in the world, and how they want to be like the dust of the world. How these souls, so long imprisoned, long to be as dust between heaven and earth, as rain on the wind, or light sifted through the trees, and behold, the smoke rises, and we see a fog of sincere remembrance, and once a year, on the steps, among the lawns, these boxes, which we adore, and wiped with tears, and whose scented candles, like our sorrows, gradually burn to ashes, are brought nearer to each other, as though for the sake of warmth, those souls are huddled together, and we walk through a landscape of whips and flames, as we walk through a landscape of whips, and we walk through a landscape of whips, and we walk through a landscape of whips, and we walk through a landscape of whips. We walk through the landscape, the sound of whips, the fruits and the joss sticks have become the festival of the dead, the carnival of tears. 4. "Until another clearing" The sun or the rain, the flowers or the warmth, the thoughts or the tears, the deep hiding of a smile, is delivered to the far-away love, until there is another kind of love, accompanied by a companion, or a word, standing in front of a face, recalling a memory, or assuming a smile, the path of a longing for a life once lived, until there is another cloud, flying or transcending, walking or running, rotating, or following. The back of a smile pours out a dream of the past. 5. "In the Cemetery" This is the village's seven inches, and at the waist of the Qingming Festival, it puts out a lot of eye-catching words and places them in coffins, not creating suspense, but only remembering to commemorate them. The wild grasses remain fresh and taller than the tombstones. The weeds are still fresh, growing higher than the headstones, the barrenness continues to penetrate deeper into the roots, hooking up with a few white bones, and your visitor doesn't move, doesn't speak, and the crows are spectacular. With panicked eyes, they break up the noise of a festival, like a Buddha that has traveled for thousands of years, sitting in April, waiting for countless tears to drown itself, holding a few handfuls of soil, burning a fire, letting its body fold, repeatedly hanging its head, watching the black butterflies, floating up and gently falling down to rest, the willow flute, the pines and the cypresses, as we swim upstream along the line of a period, the past is full of memories. At this time, some inanimate souls begin to speak, but many people only know how to send paper money, and those mysterious voices are never heard. I write about my hometown, the rice, the clear river, the fish swimming under the water, the green grass along the shore, the female ghosts searching for love in the night, and the legend of my grandmother and the Goddess of Mercy, a story of a man who has done good deeds all his life. A person who does good deeds all her life becomes an immortal although she always says she has unfinished business l have to write about this, the nostalgia that haunts my dreams l have to write about the landscape from your humble farmhouse l have to write about the strength of life from the backbone of your poverty l have to write about my father's digging up a golden child from a field we all know it's a fake, but he dug it up all his life, can you not believe it l have to write about this before the Ching Ming Festival l have to write about this before the Ching Ming Festival l can hardly tell the name of the place where the ancestral grave has been moved My ancestral tomb has been moved, I can hardly speak the dialect, but the only family name that has not changed is my mother's, and it is only because of you that I have retained my connection with her. I must burn these unfinished verses in the northern sky on the Ching Ming Festival. The grass breaks, the slightest sound I make in my hand is a message to thee; through nature the noise of life and the solitude of death are reconciled, as two opposite doors are opened, and an emotion walks through them in peace and fascination. Eleven years ago the eyes looked up to a comet whose tail circled around the city in a grand and mournful manner, and all who saw it took off their hats in homage, and wreaths of five-coloured flowers, which had once formed the bulwark of remembrance on the mountain, and the brilliant star, which has long decayed like mud in a deserted field, are now in a state of decay, and are now in a state of mourning. The weeds, like a flagpole torn from its cloth, sing of the glorious past in the cool wind, and the cemetery crumbles, but thousands of ants guard you day and night. I will take the ups and downs of life as the enjoyment of life, the toil and pain as the reward of action, and finally, like you, say to the people, "I am not ashamed of my life." 8. "Ching Ming" Shi Wangxiang The spring rain has been raining for many Ching Ming days, and I think that it has been raining like this since Du Mu's time. I think that this rain is still wetting the newly-added incense and paper money all over the mountains, and I think that this rain has accompanied my grandmother to the underworld, and she has burned through the many lamps that have been extinguished, and that this fluttering wind has made me feel that the rain is cold and cool, and that it is not a cold, cold wind, but a cold, cool wind. The wind and the rain are cold and cold in my body, the poignancy in my heart, and the heavy traveling bag carries not only sacrifices, but also nostalgia. Where can I get drunk and sleep? The apricot blossoms and the spring rain, the shepherd's flute, the continuous sound of the wanderer's travel, the spring rain in Jiangnan, and the low wine flags in South Asia, have they ever beckoned me to sleep? I'm drunk and want to sleep. You should go, but you'll come back next year to bring wine with you on a cold snack. Every year on this day, a crop of thoughts grows in the hearts of our descendants along with the loud call of the cuckoo bird. No matter how far the kite flies, it will be led back to the altar in our hometown by a long thin thread. Kneeling in front of a mound of yellow soil, we will ignite our long-paid thoughts and then call for a special line to heaven, so that our joys and sorrows can be interpreted as a tearful reminder of our ancestors, who are separated from each other by the yin and yang, and who are still releasing warmth, and who are still reaching out to the hearts of their younger generations with their dried-up hands. A sheet of straw paper filled with the traces of the years dissipates with the smoke and fire. A Singijeon mark, a series of footprints, a hurdle, an abbreviated life, a page is a day, a day combs through memories, a fire burns out, a lifetime is finished, a heap of riches, leaving behind the ashes, the smoke far away, the paper money sent at the Ching Ming Festival, the fire of lovesickness, burning in the spring, consoling the soul? Where is the soul's home? Shovelfulfuls of yellow soil, piling up the thoughts. 11. "Twilight at the Ching Ming Festival." Laughing humans gradually leave, leaving flowers behind. The moss of the soul is a cry that slips out of the grave, and with the last layer of its life it conveys the laughter of the night. The rose that never blossoms on the corpse is a rejected legend, and the tunnel that leads to Rome in the night is made by ants with their toes, and a sneer is the coffin that laughs at the sun's lowliness, and the sky has long since been separated from civilization, but who still dances in a shiver, full of curses? Who still dances in the trembling dusk of a cursed dusk, never extinguishing the pain of being torn apart, if the sky is a giant mausoleum, what will we become, corrupted glory, shattered into eternal silence, carving last night's shame on a tombstone for a dream that's already burned out, and when the wind sweeps away the verses like withered leaves, tears will be the only remaining ash, the only thing that will remain, the empty space, covered by all the exaggerated smiles and the triumphs that will be launched by the inexplicable pride of a dream crushed by despair, will be a dream that will be crushed by despair, will be a dream that will be crushed by despair. Dreams crushed by despair will be silenced on the broken strings of the lute Young love, nourished by tears, is as pale as a gyroscope spinning The night's brow is a barren land The night light of March is a tattered tumult Time and space are only stand-ins here The skeletons that run wild under the moonlight are from the future At the dusk of the Ching Ming Festival, I hid in my own tent and used a blood-stained knife to add to the graves of the barren mounds. A white towel sweeps away the dust from the gravestone, a bunch of silk flowers tie up my condolences to my mother, and I light a stick of incense to tell my mother of my parting. In the north in April, the unmelted snow and ice remain in the graveyard, and the spring breeze is still cold, and the tears that come out of my eyes feel a salty taste, and I stand in front of the gravestone, and my mother's smile, her soft eyes, and a wave of heat strike my heart, and your exhortations are turned into a set of chimes, and are pleasing to the ear, Wet Soul has always accompanied our children as they grew up, the years have carved the landscape, the steps up the hill aren't neat, and all the way up, your arms are climbing, and on the hardest days, you face them with a smile, and the wind is blowing very hard today, and I know that it's a message from you to your children to take good care of themselves, and you're still the umbrella that protects them from the wind and the rain, and you're still here, but you haven't left us. In my dreams, I always think of my loved ones when I'm alive, I'm filial to my parents, but I can't forget them even after they're gone, and this deep love has taken root in my heart, not just for show, it's the sincerity of my children, unlike some people who are not filial to their parents when they're alive, there's no need to be filial to your parents when they're alive, when they're dead, and then you show them again, but your parents in the ground know what you're doing, and life requires a deep introspection of how you're treating your parents, and in fact, what you're doing. The most important thing is how to educate the future generations. The Qingming Festival should not be a show, but an expression of the sincerity of the children. There are many things to repent for in life, and the most terrible thing is to be sorry for your deceased relatives. 14. "Thoughts on the Qingming Festival" Entering the Qingming Festival, we should be thankful for our relatives in the ground, and thankful to our parents for their kindness and gratitude. The most important thing is to be a good person, more important than anything else. The reputation of people who have passed away is precious, and the heart is always looking for the good and the true. What is the fundamental thing is, of course, to be a good person, and to be normal in life. Don't lose heart in life, don't be sorry, don't be worthy of your friends, don't be worthy of your loved ones, and don't be ashamed of your wealth and fortune, don't take it seriously, and don't worry about being honest and being a good person, and don't worry about your loved ones in the ground. 15. Drunk on the Ching Ming Festival! The only way to get drunk is to be in front of your parents. You can't get drunk when you're not drunk, but when you're in front of your parents, you'll be able to reveal yourself to them, and you'll be able to tell them that you've been through a lot, that you've been through a lot, and that you've been through a lot.