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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

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.

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dark matter(s) by Michael R. Burch the matter is dark, despairful, alarming: ur Creator is hardly prince charming! yes, ur “Great I Am” created blake’s lamb but He also created the tyger and what about trump and rod steiger? The Echoless Green by Michael R. Burch At dawn, laughter rang on the echoing green as children at play greeted the day. At noon, smiles were seen on the echoing green as, children no more, many fine oaths they swore. By twilight, their cries had subsided to sighs. Now night reigns supreme on the echoless green. evol-u-shun by michael r. burch does GOD adore the Tyger while it’s ripping ur lamb apart? does GOD applaud the Plague while it’s eating u à la carte? does GOD admire ur brains while ur claimng IT has a heart? does GOD endorse the Bible you blue-lighted at k-mart? Mongrel Dreams by Michael R. Burch I squat in my Cherokee lodge, this crude wooden hutch of dry branches and leaf-thatch as the embers smolder and burn, hearing always the distant tom-toms of your rain dance. I relax in my rustic shack on the heroned shores of Gwynedd, slandering the English in the amulet gleam of the North Atlantic, hearing your troubadour’s songs, remembering Dylan. I stand in my rough woolen kilt in the tall highland heather feeling the freezing winds through the trees leaning sideways, hearing your bagpipes’ lament, dreaming of Burns. I slave in my drab English hovel, tabulating rents while dreaming of Blake and burning your poems like incense. I abide in my pale mongrel flesh, writing in Nashville as the thunderbolts flash and the spring rains spill, till the quill gently bleeds and the white page fills, dreaming of Whitman, calling you brother. I Learned Too Late by Michael R. Burch I learned too late that poetry has rules, although they may be rules for greater fools. In any case, by dodging rules and schools, I avoided useless duels. I learned too late that sentiment is bad— that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had. In any case, by following my heart, I learned to walk apart. I learned too late that “telling” is a crime. Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time? In any case, by telling, I admit: I think such rules are . tyger, lamb by michael r. burch the tiger’s a ferocious slayer. he has no say in it. hence, ur Creator’s a . the lamb led to the slaughter extends her neck to the block and bit. she has no say in it. so don’t be a nitwit: drink, carouse and revel! why obey the Devil?

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William Blake Poems

dark matter(s) by Michael R. Burch the matter is dark, despairful, alarming: ur Creator is hardly prince charming! yes, ur “Great I Am” created blake’s lamb but He also created the tyger and what about trump and rod steiger? The Echoless Green by Michael R. Burch At dawn, laughter rang on the echoing green as children at play greeted the day. At noon, smiles were seen on the echoing green as, children no more, many fine oaths they swore. By twilight, their cries had subsided to sighs. Now night reigns supreme on the echoless green. evol-u-shun by michael r. burch does GOD adore the Tyger while it’s ripping ur lamb apart? does GOD applaud the Plague while it’s eating u à la carte? does GOD admire ur brains while ur claimng IT has a heart? does GOD endorse the Bible you blue-lighted at k-mart? Mongrel Dreams by Michael R. Burch I squat in my Cherokee lodge, this crude wooden hutch of dry branches and leaf-thatch as the embers smolder and burn, hearing always the distant tom-toms of your rain dance. I relax in my rustic shack on the heroned shores of Gwynedd, slandering the English in the amulet gleam of the North Atlantic, hearing your troubadour’s songs, remembering Dylan. I stand in my rough woolen kilt in the tall highland heather feeling the freezing winds through the trees leaning sideways, hearing your bagpipes’ lament, dreaming of Burns. I slave in my drab English hovel, tabulating rents while dreaming of Blake and burning your poems like incense. I abide in my pale mongrel flesh, writing in Nashville as the thunderbolts flash and the spring rains spill, till the quill gently bleeds and the white page fills, dreaming of Whitman, calling you brother. I Learned Too Late by Michael R. Burch I learned too late that poetry has rules, although they may be rules for greater fools. In any case, by dodging rules and schools, I avoided useless duels. I learned too late that sentiment is bad— that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had. In any case, by following my heart, I learned to walk apart. I learned too late that “telling” is a crime. Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time? In any case, by telling, I admit: I think such rules are . tyger, lamb by michael r. burch the tiger’s a ferocious slayer. he has no say in it. hence, ur Creator’s a . the lamb led to the slaughter extends her neck to the block and bit. she has no say in it. so don’t be a nitwit: drink, carouse and revel! why obey the Devil?