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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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Stacks of Aloneness by Odin Roark He wandered here among the longings And the forgotten, Not many remaining properly covered, Their dust jackets of protection Long gone. Worn and torn, The many leaned fatigued in their shoulder to shoulder exile, With an occasional entombment in plastic wrap Sweltering in the heat of its many paged passion. He saw there was something for every kind of aloneness, Requiring only to be read, Not bought and placed on another shelf, But made companion, A redemptive power for continuing, often singular journey of aloneness. A sudden draft from the entrance door Fluttered the pages of an ancient pyramid travel guide, The open page 86 sent miniscule sand afloat, Including its stowaway squashed flea, Having once bitten the privates of the book’s looting bandit, Now reduced to but another powdery remnant of history He gazed upon the shaft of light spotlighting the settling dust. Such never-ending stacks of tomes, he thought. A mix of direct and implied philosophy of time, Some read and pondered, Others once he knew were but color-matched bindings for A decorator’s intellectual pandering to A 5th Avenue looky-loo, Someone wanting the perfect life, A delusion her inheritance Could ever accommodate. And then… There was this one opus, ‘til now he knew not of. Here, the fortune of lovers lying side by side Beneath the weight of print and paper, Shared a vial of death, now empty. A desperate love wanting only to be read, To be understood as prohibited emotion Reduced to a finite repose in the darkness of closure, Like the unopened book now about to have its long awaited embrace. From his hand he placed the worn book down for ring up. The clerk opened the cover to reveal its eye-pencil message: “To my love. May you live long enough to finish this.” Smiling to the obviously homeless man, the clerk said, “Just a buck, including tax. Gotta love a bargain, eh?” “Yes,” he said. “They say the bard knew aloneness needn’t be lonely. Think he was right?” She shrugged. He handed her four quarters.

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Stacks of Aloneness

Stacks of Aloneness by Odin Roark He wandered here among the longings And the forgotten, Not many remaining properly covered, Their dust jackets of protection Long gone. Worn and torn, The many leaned fatigued in their shoulder to shoulder exile, With an occasional entombment in plastic wrap Sweltering in the heat of its many paged passion. He saw there was something for every kind of aloneness, Requiring only to be read, Not bought and placed on another shelf, But made companion, A redemptive power for continuing, often singular journey of aloneness. A sudden draft from the entrance door Fluttered the pages of an ancient pyramid travel guide, The open page 86 sent miniscule sand afloat, Including its stowaway squashed flea, Having once bitten the privates of the book’s looting bandit, Now reduced to but another powdery remnant of history He gazed upon the shaft of light spotlighting the settling dust. Such never-ending stacks of tomes, he thought. A mix of direct and implied philosophy of time, Some read and pondered, Others once he knew were but color-matched bindings for A decorator’s intellectual pandering to A 5th Avenue looky-loo, Someone wanting the perfect life, A delusion her inheritance Could ever accommodate. And then… There was this one opus, ‘til now he knew not of. Here, the fortune of lovers lying side by side Beneath the weight of print and paper, Shared a vial of death, now empty. A desperate love wanting only to be read, To be understood as prohibited emotion Reduced to a finite repose in the darkness of closure, Like the unopened book now about to have its long awaited embrace. From his hand he placed the worn book down for ring up. The clerk opened the cover to reveal its eye-pencil message: “To my love. May you live long enough to finish this.” Smiling to the obviously homeless man, the clerk said, “Just a buck, including tax. Gotta love a bargain, eh?” “Yes,” he said. “They say the bard knew aloneness needn’t be lonely. Think he was right?” She shrugged. He handed her four quarters.