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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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Shopping bags In a concrete building, there lives a man. He has not moved in many days. There comes a knocking upon his door, And he returns to his reality once again. He has been floating in a land of clouds, Speaking with his creator, But now a knock, knock, knocking upon his door, Has brought him back to being, a doorman with an answer. Through the door there stands a woman, She has appeared from the floor below. She is standing upright, still hopeful lips pursed together, It is time for him to let her know. At the main entrance there is a knock, knocking upon the door. The guard gets to his aching feet, his walking stick no aid at all. This is no age for him to be working, But he has to pay for his dangerous drinking. He hides a bottle of whiskey behind the counter, As the bells inside his heart and mind are still ringing. He opens the door, as the winter blows in, Sending shivers down his spine; This bouncer has long ago stopped all his fighting. He looks at an angry man in his twenties; This is no time to be staring at your prime. He offers the man no help at all, And sends him away with a sorrowful reply. The children run throughout the hallways, To the discontent of Mavis Davis. She has not been able to sleep this week, Due to the couple next door and their new born baby. The sound is soon gone, the children rush by, The baby is fast asleep, and now unfortunately so is Mavis Davis. Her friend will find her when she remembers to visit, But her friend has not visited this place in so long, the liar. The last time she saw Mavis, was when they sang together in the choir. Nobody has the heart to tell her the truth, That behind her back they call her ‘The Trier’. One day I read their story in the local news. Upon her door there still hangs a flier. I live in a home without a number. The floor I use is not relevant. This cul de sac which has drained all its wonder, Has never been Heaven sent; But there are artists and poets in residence, They all speak of changing their lives. They paint their pictures of a better time, They write stories of better lives. Only their diaries tell the truth, And they are all kept hidden from view. After each full stop they seek a review, But I cannot always glue them to an answer of truth, Because I would always disappoint their fragile ego’s; They need to be needed, whilst I need them to go. I turn the key and hide away my manuscripts; The books I no longer show. Once upon a stormy night, I allowed the world to see my soul, And all the pens became broken, paint brushes were all snapped in two. Now I exist in a higher rise building and I always feel too low. The lifts are never working here, up or down is unpredictable. Nobody can plan a future here, Sometimes when Alice returns home from school, There is no food waiting for her on the kitchen table. Her Grandmother recently passed, so Alice has no more fables. Her Mother arrives home late too exhausted to even speak. Alice rifles through the shopping bags, so desperate to eat. Her Father arrives home later with a rumble in his tummy, And as he walks in and smells the hot cooking food, He says “That smells yummy honey.” The caretaker lives in the basement. His wife passed on, so many years. The engineers are called to look at the lifts again, Without the oil to turn the gears. They say they will return tomorrow, But tomorrow becomes Wednesday. As the ambulance arrives half an hour too late, Mavis’ friend kneels down in sorrow, Her life so left in a sorry state. A heart attack on the Fifteenth floor; A friend in need, a Good Samaritan called. The desperation of the voice, Could be heard loud and clear through paper thin walls. Knock, knock, knocking on the door. There comes a knock, knock, knocking upon the door. (C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

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Shopping Bags

Shopping bags In a concrete building, there lives a man. He has not moved in many days. There comes a knocking upon his door, And he returns to his reality once again. He has been floating in a land of clouds, Speaking with his creator, But now a knock, knock, knocking upon his door, Has brought him back to being, a doorman with an answer. Through the door there stands a woman, She has appeared from the floor below. She is standing upright, still hopeful lips pursed together, It is time for him to let her know. At the main entrance there is a knock, knocking upon the door. The guard gets to his aching feet, his walking stick no aid at all. This is no age for him to be working, But he has to pay for his dangerous drinking. He hides a bottle of whiskey behind the counter, As the bells inside his heart and mind are still ringing. He opens the door, as the winter blows in, Sending shivers down his spine; This bouncer has long ago stopped all his fighting. He looks at an angry man in his twenties; This is no time to be staring at your prime. He offers the man no help at all, And sends him away with a sorrowful reply. The children run throughout the hallways, To the discontent of Mavis Davis. She has not been able to sleep this week, Due to the couple next door and their new born baby. The sound is soon gone, the children rush by, The baby is fast asleep, and now unfortunately so is Mavis Davis. Her friend will find her when she remembers to visit, But her friend has not visited this place in so long, the liar. The last time she saw Mavis, was when they sang together in the choir. Nobody has the heart to tell her the truth, That behind her back they call her ‘The Trier’. One day I read their story in the local news. Upon her door there still hangs a flier. I live in a home without a number. The floor I use is not relevant. This cul de sac which has drained all its wonder, Has never been Heaven sent; But there are artists and poets in residence, They all speak of changing their lives. They paint their pictures of a better time, They write stories of better lives. Only their diaries tell the truth, And they are all kept hidden from view. After each full stop they seek a review, But I cannot always glue them to an answer of truth, Because I would always disappoint their fragile ego’s; They need to be needed, whilst I need them to go. I turn the key and hide away my manuscripts; The books I no longer show. Once upon a stormy night, I allowed the world to see my soul, And all the pens became broken, paint brushes were all snapped in two. Now I exist in a higher rise building and I always feel too low. The lifts are never working here, up or down is unpredictable. Nobody can plan a future here, Sometimes when Alice returns home from school, There is no food waiting for her on the kitchen table. Her Grandmother recently passed, so Alice has no more fables. Her Mother arrives home late too exhausted to even speak. Alice rifles through the shopping bags, so desperate to eat. Her Father arrives home later with a rumble in his tummy, And as he walks in and smells the hot cooking food, He says “That smells yummy honey.” The caretaker lives in the basement. His wife passed on, so many years. The engineers are called to look at the lifts again, Without the oil to turn the gears. They say they will return tomorrow, But tomorrow becomes Wednesday. As the ambulance arrives half an hour too late, Mavis’ friend kneels down in sorrow, Her life so left in a sorry state. A heart attack on the Fifteenth floor; A friend in need, a Good Samaritan called. The desperation of the voice, Could be heard loud and clear through paper thin walls. Knock, knock, knocking on the door. There comes a knock, knock, knocking upon the door. (C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.