Home » Poems » Poetry Art » Poetry Art / Greeting Card Maker

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.

Text
Layout
Background

Enter Title (Not Required)

Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required
X Continues Marking Many Spots by Odin Roark Anonymous living suits many, gypsy fever of the brain. Seldom hiding in the shadows, the glare of klieg-light attention forever glares upon responsibility, a disease to many, a growing malady for most, a welcome invitation to others. Even back then, at twenty, the waking age, at least for this X, a Midwest-ignoramus, a miscreant not even aware, experience was about to render raw and tender the face. The vengeance proffered gloriously fait accompli, needing not the klieg light focus, better mere awakening by simpler means like... like, a few beers, so liberating, so embarrassing. This '56 student of students, bathed in the drenching of Kerouac, Baldwin, Miller, Bergman, Fellini, Truffaut, Godard, Kieslowski, Antonioni, damned near drowning in flailing need to see and survive. After all… This was education, totally missing from cult religious dogma, not offered in Aristotelian mode. So… Here X was, always at the Plaza screens, or the Waverly, Saturday nights, lasting forever. X along with some buddy Y's and Z's exited the art houses and made their way, oh yeah, to the Russian Tea Room. Saved up rations of money… Black Russians, minimal water, more Black Russians, the world as we discovered it, not the world as professed All around us. There in Italy, France, Poland, life seemed somehow more real not caked over with candied syrup like American’s urban seduction. Oh how we longed to be part of it… make films. But more important, discover what it was all about, this life that for many Was but professed by a God. Those were times, magical times where peeling away the facade was so delicious, while we got wasted. Along about 2 AM Columbus Circle Books. Sit on the floor, thumb through 25 cent paperbacks, always a Nietzsche, a dog-eared Menninger, a used Baldwin, treasures we could afford. ‘Course… We had to careful to save enough for the subway. We… The X Y's and Z's hugged, kissed with manly disregard, Hell, we didn’t care who was watching. We were happy. We were learning. We were happening. X dragged his weary ass up the 4 flights screwed back in the light bulb old man in 4f always unscrewed, figuring no one's gonna rob a dark floor. Simple shit. But… love him to this day. He was wise. My first introduction to street cred in spite of his oldness. Next morning… Ah, Sunday New York Times, Espresso, Aspirin, Growing up. Learning the hard way. Sublime, One’s x’s.

Enter Author Name (Not Required)

Move Text:

Heading Text

Color:

Main/Poem Text

Color:

Layout: TallShort

www.poetrysoup.com - Create a card from your words, quote, or poetry

X Continues Marking Many Spots

X Continues Marking Many Spots by Odin Roark Anonymous living suits many, gypsy fever of the brain. Seldom hiding in the shadows, the glare of klieg-light attention forever glares upon responsibility, a disease to many, a growing malady for most, a welcome invitation to others. Even back then, at twenty, the waking age, at least for this X, a Midwest-ignoramus, a miscreant not even aware, experience was about to render raw and tender the face. The vengeance proffered gloriously fait accompli, needing not the klieg light focus, better mere awakening by simpler means like... like, a few beers, so liberating, so embarrassing. This '56 student of students, bathed in the drenching of Kerouac, Baldwin, Miller, Bergman, Fellini, Truffaut, Godard, Kieslowski, Antonioni, damned near drowning in flailing need to see and survive. After all… This was education, totally missing from cult religious dogma, not offered in Aristotelian mode. So… Here X was, always at the Plaza screens, or the Waverly, Saturday nights, lasting forever. X along with some buddy Y's and Z's exited the art houses and made their way, oh yeah, to the Russian Tea Room. Saved up rations of money… Black Russians, minimal water, more Black Russians, the world as we discovered it, not the world as professed All around us. There in Italy, France, Poland, life seemed somehow more real not caked over with candied syrup like American’s urban seduction. Oh how we longed to be part of it… make films. But more important, discover what it was all about, this life that for many Was but professed by a God. Those were times, magical times where peeling away the facade was so delicious, while we got wasted. Along about 2 AM Columbus Circle Books. Sit on the floor, thumb through 25 cent paperbacks, always a Nietzsche, a dog-eared Menninger, a used Baldwin, treasures we could afford. ‘Course… We had to careful to save enough for the subway. We… The X Y's and Z's hugged, kissed with manly disregard, Hell, we didn’t care who was watching. We were happy. We were learning. We were happening. X dragged his weary ass up the 4 flights screwed back in the light bulb old man in 4f always unscrewed, figuring no one's gonna rob a dark floor. Simple shit. But… love him to this day. He was wise. My first introduction to street cred in spite of his oldness. Next morning… Ah, Sunday New York Times, Espresso, Aspirin, Growing up. Learning the hard way. Sublime, One’s x’s.