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
He remembers when his many bolts weren't ringed in rust, and his seams weren't blackened with years of grime and dust. The post upon which he sat was gray and weathered now, and had become just slightly west of plumb somehow. The screw that held his little flag had long ago come loose, chipped and faded, no longer red, it was of little use. The driveway that he guarded was dirt and deeply sloped, and halfway down it gently curved around a massive oak. Now some might think that he'd be bored, stuck there night and day, but he found entertainment in the things that came his way. He pondered long and hard on things before making up his mind, there was no hurry, he reasoned, when all you have is time. He carefully watched a nest of ants both day and night for weeks, before he reached the conclusion that ants must never sleep. He marveled at the seasons and loved both sun and snow, but sometimes he felt beaten down when the wind-whipped rain would blow. He loved the feel of bird feet when they used him as a perch, and when a truck would rumble by he'd feel his spirit lurch. He delighted in the field mice, and wept with the mourning doves, was suspicious of the furry raccoons, with their masks and leather gloves. Though days and months and years went by, and he was oft ignored, his life of perfect stillness was itself a rich reward. So as we hurtle past him, with our tires spitting rocks, perhaps we could learn something from our stoic old mailbox.

Enter Author Name (Not Required)

Move Text:

Heading Text

Color:

Main/Poem Text

Color:

Background Position Alignment:
LeftCenterRight | TopCenterBottom

Tall Bkgds
Wide Bkgds

Upload Image:

Fit to HeightFit to Width

10mb max file size

Use Internet Image:

Fit to HeightFit to Width

Like: https://www.poetrysoup.com/images/ce_Finnaly_home_soare.jpg

Layout: TallShort

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

The Mailbox

He remembers when his many bolts weren't ringed in rust, and his seams weren't blackened with years of grime and dust. The post upon which he sat was gray and weathered now, and had become just slightly west of plumb somehow. The screw that held his little flag had long ago come loose, chipped and faded, no longer red, it was of little use. The driveway that he guarded was dirt and deeply sloped, and halfway down it gently curved around a massive oak. Now some might think that he'd be bored, stuck there night and day, but he found entertainment in the things that came his way. He pondered long and hard on things before making up his mind, there was no hurry, he reasoned, when all you have is time. He carefully watched a nest of ants both day and night for weeks, before he reached the conclusion that ants must never sleep. He marveled at the seasons and loved both sun and snow, but sometimes he felt beaten down when the wind-whipped rain would blow. He loved the feel of bird feet when they used him as a perch, and when a truck would rumble by he'd feel his spirit lurch. He delighted in the field mice, and wept with the mourning doves, was suspicious of the furry raccoons, with their masks and leather gloves. Though days and months and years went by, and he was oft ignored, his life of perfect stillness was itself a rich reward. So as we hurtle past him, with our tires spitting rocks, perhaps we could learn something from our stoic old mailbox.