Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.
Enter Title (Not Required)
Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Vampires by Michael R. Burch Vampires are such fragile creatures; we fear the dark, but the light destroys them... sunlight, or a stake, or a cross—such common things. Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings, we heed his voice. Centuries have taught us: in shadows danger lurks for those who stray, and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs. He has no choice. We are his prey, plump and fragrant, and if we pray to avoid him, he prays to find us, prays to some despotic hooded God whose benediction is the humid blood he lusts to taste. Keywords/Tags: vampire, vampires, undead, Dracula, supernatural, superstition, horror, gothic, night, dark, darkness, death, grave, blood, stake, fangs, Halloween, bat, bat-like, human, prey, lust, blood lust Pale Though Her Eyes by Michael R. Burch Pale though her eyes, her lips are scarlet from drinking of blood, this child, this harlot born of the night and her heart, of darkness, evil incarnate to dance so reckless, dreaming of blood, her fangs—white—baring, revealing her lust, and her eyes, pale, staring... Originally published by Scarlett Memories, then performed on YouTube by G. M. Danielson Like Angels, Winged by Michael R. Burch Like angels—winged, shimmering, misunderstood— they flit beyond our understanding being neither evil, nor good. They are as they are... and we are their lovers, their prey; they seek us when the moon is full and dream of us by day. Their eyes—hypnotic, alluring— trap ours with their strange appeal till like flame-drawn moths, we gather... to see, to touch, to feel. Where in their arms, enchanted, we feel their lips, young/old, till with their gorging kisses we warm them, growing cold. Originally published in Monumental Moments by Eye Scry Publications Solicitation by Michael R. Burch He comes to me out of the shadows, acknowledging my presence with a tip of his hat, always the gentleman, and his eyes are on mine like a snake's on a bird's— quizzical, mesmerizing. He cocks his head as though something he heard intrigues him (although I hear nothing) and he smiles, amusing himself at my expense; his words are full of desire and loathing, and while I hear everything, he says nothing I understand. The moon shines—maniacal, queer—as he takes my hand whispering Our time has come... And so together we stroll creaking docks where the sea sends sickening things scurrying under rocks and boards. Moonlight washes his ashen face as he stares unseeing into my eyes. He sighs, and the sound crawls slithering down my spine; my blood seems to pause at his touch as he caresses my face. He unfastens my dress till the white lace shows, and my neck is bared. His teeth are long, yellow and hard, his face bearded and haggard. A wolf howls in the distance. There are no wolves in New York. I gasp. My blood is a trickle his wet tongue embraces. My heart races madly. He likes it like that. Published by Dowton Abbey, Aesthetically Pleasing Vampires, Into the Unknown, Since Halloween is Coming and Poetry Life & Times Sometimes the Dead by Michael R. Burch Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes— the pale dead. After they have fled the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise. Once they have become a cloud's mist, sometimes like the rain they descend; they appear, sometimes silver like laughter, to gladden the hearts of men. Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift unencumbered, yet lumbrously, as if over the sea there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift. Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies only half-remembered. Though they lie dismembered in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; although they have committed felonies, yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust blood-engorged, but never sated since Cain slew Abel. But until we become them, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must... This poem imagines a modern-day "Goth girl" as a vampire... Dark Gothic by Michael R. Burch Her fingers are filed into talons; she smiles with carnivorous teeth... You ask, "Are there vampires? " Get real! (Yet she has my belief.) The Vampire's Spa Day Dream by Michael R. Burch O, to swim in vats of blood! I wish I could, I wish I could! O, 'twould be so heavenly to swim in lovely vats of blood! The poem above was inspired by a Josh Parkinson depiction of Elizabeth Bathory up to her nostrils in the blood of her victims, with their skulls floating in the background. Medusa by Michael R. Burch Friends, beware of her iniquitous hair— long, ravenblack & melancholy. Many suitors drowned there— lost, unaware of the length & extent of their folly. Originally published in Grand Little Things Goddess by Michael R. Burch for Kevin N. Roberts "What will you conceive in me? " I asked her. But she only smiled. "Naked, I bore your child when the wolf wind howled, when the cold moon scowled... naked, and gladly." "What will become of me? " I asked her, as she absently stroked my hand. Centuries later, I understand; she whispered, "I Am." Circe by Michael R. Burch She spoke and her words were like a ringing echo dying or like smoke rising and drifting while the earth below is spinning. She awoke with a cry from a dream that had no ending, without hope or strength to rise, into hopelessness descending. And an ache in her heart toward that dream, retreating, left a wake of small waves in circles never completing. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
Enter Author Name (Not Required)