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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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Could be any day now, waiting for that last breath and a peek, an opening, of glazed orbs once blue. Wanting him to stay forever even though his body laughs at me. Each consuming cell eager for his parts; each consuming cell seeking malice against him. Time rips away as cafeteria food tears apart my stomach. I churn altogether with labored breaths we share – One, two… three, four… neither of us ready. I hunger for a smile from ragged ends of lips, holding a crushed pastry in my hand and looking on the first man I ever loved. Down sterile hallways and up to floor three, past gleaming instruments waiting for purchase, where days ago he inched forward, struggled, bending, working at leaving there – Twists and pulls and penicillin and Jello. “Getting out of here tomorrow.” Yet room 3220 never released him. Eighty-two years, some tattered, some fulfilled, his face before an enchantment of warmth. I kiss him and his cheeks dampen and he cannot hear me because the whispers devour him in such a small room, poised to yank grandfather away from me. I yell, surprising myself, worried about his safekeeping. And they tell me the angels’ surround him. But I fear giving him over to strangers and question everything then, right then, while mourners touch him, all eyes able, all mouths perfunctory motions Of grief and despair that only I should share with only him. And these angels… are they good enough to take his hands turning blue, and his second-hand hearing aids? At three a.m. I cringe at my own suspicions and with the fifth breath I believe in that place, for him, anything (even that) I will believe, for him. His prayers are mine as long as the pain ceases, though my angels are morphine and the twelve-hour shifts of Margaret and Sam and Betty, who have known him three days and call him “sweetheart”.
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