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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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Faulkner's comment, I imagine him tossing it off like Yogi Berra between games of a doubleheader. The hero, the expert, the virtuoso has no real control, is going to feel unmitigated, unsparing forces, a mighty sun swallowed by a black hole, coughed up into a big sky. The past isn't dead. It isn't even past. Versus Wayne Gretsky's formulation. When I think of my death, I think of returning the chemicals and microorganisms I borrowed. If my plane goes down, when we hit the ground fruits with names will be waiting - squawbush if in the desert uplands, rose hips on a Vermont farm. The past is skating to where the puck will be. I realize I have a religion, a science fiction the size of Jupiter which is, as these things go, small: Chardin's theory unifying physical matter, rocks and all sentient beings into one - here's the catch - conscious organism. Having said that, why not claim the same for the entire universe? Rock + DNA = soil. The past isn't dead. It isn't even past. These trees cannot feed me. Self-sufficiency is relevant only in context of community, economy. Every drug, every vitamin is wrung from plants, tools and shelter are ore. A tincture, infusion, decoction, a douche, a compress, poultice, a salve, a syrup. A war president needs war. The past is skating to where the puck will be. 5 a.m., first of Spring. Robins still in flocks, not paired off. But crows mating on the sky - two couples dating a sign of luck, that Celtic god passing Peter talked about. 8,000 generations, I reach only to my grandparents but history and the naming of things extend our vision. The past isn't dead. It isn't even past. I was handcuffed but not beaten. Humiliated but not insulted. And when I came before the judge, he was uninterested in vengeance or restitution. He had his own death before him, probably. I keep wanting to go back to before the big bang, reading books about the cosmos, FLO, LUCA, the texture of reality, consciousness, God-seeking. The past is skating to where the puck will be. For the next 5-10 years my goals are: geographically compact and contiguous Congressional districts, term limits for Federal legislators and judges, election of the president by direct popular vote, public financing, spending limits and free air time for candidates, abolish UN vetoes, consent of the governed before governments can sit in global councils. The past isn't dead. It isn't even past. No greater tragedy than the death of your children. Yet you live on, eyes drained of color. Old, you make plans. To know the names of every flower in the temperate zone. Every bird by its song. Just as you're about to reach your goal, a tipping point comes along: a nuclear detonation or it gets too cold. The past is skating to where the puck will be.

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The Snail Will Get To Easter Just As Soon

Faulkner's comment, I imagine him tossing it off like Yogi Berra between games of a doubleheader. The hero, the expert, the virtuoso has no real control, is going to feel unmitigated, unsparing forces, a mighty sun swallowed by a black hole, coughed up into a big sky. The past isn't dead. It isn't even past. Versus Wayne Gretsky's formulation. When I think of my death, I think of returning the chemicals and microorganisms I borrowed. If my plane goes down, when we hit the ground fruits with names will be waiting - squawbush if in the desert uplands, rose hips on a Vermont farm. The past is skating to where the puck will be. I realize I have a religion, a science fiction the size of Jupiter which is, as these things go, small: Chardin's theory unifying physical matter, rocks and all sentient beings into one - here's the catch - conscious organism. Having said that, why not claim the same for the entire universe? Rock + DNA = soil. The past isn't dead. It isn't even past. These trees cannot feed me. Self-sufficiency is relevant only in context of community, economy. Every drug, every vitamin is wrung from plants, tools and shelter are ore. A tincture, infusion, decoction, a douche, a compress, poultice, a salve, a syrup. A war president needs war. The past is skating to where the puck will be. 5 a.m., first of Spring. Robins still in flocks, not paired off. But crows mating on the sky - two couples dating a sign of luck, that Celtic god passing Peter talked about. 8,000 generations, I reach only to my grandparents but history and the naming of things extend our vision. The past isn't dead. It isn't even past. I was handcuffed but not beaten. Humiliated but not insulted. And when I came before the judge, he was uninterested in vengeance or restitution. He had his own death before him, probably. I keep wanting to go back to before the big bang, reading books about the cosmos, FLO, LUCA, the texture of reality, consciousness, God-seeking. The past is skating to where the puck will be. For the next 5-10 years my goals are: geographically compact and contiguous Congressional districts, term limits for Federal legislators and judges, election of the president by direct popular vote, public financing, spending limits and free air time for candidates, abolish UN vetoes, consent of the governed before governments can sit in global councils. The past isn't dead. It isn't even past. No greater tragedy than the death of your children. Yet you live on, eyes drained of color. Old, you make plans. To know the names of every flower in the temperate zone. Every bird by its song. Just as you're about to reach your goal, a tipping point comes along: a nuclear detonation or it gets too cold. The past is skating to where the puck will be.