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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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In A Suburban Paradise I was to spend hours on my bed writing short stories in 1967; with my left leg dangling over the left side, I sat on the right leg, like I was some nosy bird nesting on a log, watching life and its endless intrigues, concerning a sad lonely woman in a suburban paradise. I would stare at the quaint white house next door, the Barren home, staid residence of John and Ann, a quiet couple in their childless fifties; He, who went to work in a pink Ford carrying a black lunchbox; She, who stayed home wearing loose revealing smocks, while painting mysterious pictures under green stretching avocado branches in their open backyard patio, paved with red bricks. I was to grow fond of brunette Ann, as I secretly spied on her as any boy my age might, and watched her create art, but only from a curious safe distance through the concealing aluminum screen of my open bedroom window; she, with upright easel, a dozen brushes, and interesting gesticulating body movements, while conversing in a low whisper with either herself, or perhaps a ghostly lover. And I, fifteen years old, and curious, oh so curious, describing with pencil in one hand and an open notebook set before me, a lonely sad lady with brown curly hair named Ann, as she painted with pointed strokes and flourishes, dripping desperate paint upon a white loose smock, and I wondered, oh, I was curious indeed, as to what she was painting on her big white canvas, and what bright sensational colors she might be using. It was not until a few years later that I found out what Ann had been creating in 1967; Not paintings with color-laden flowers or trees, but grim drab buildings filled with trauma; Of a bout with metastatic breast cancer, leaving Ann with a flat arid chest, barely covered by the loose smocks she wore, ripped smocks picturing drab flowers and trees; Of private violent incidents with John, who beat her with an old Navy hand, which, five days a week in 1967, carried a black lunchbox to work. Years were to go by after those curious artistic scenes next door, and I have often thought about Ann. Divorce and death followed eventually. Their quaint white house stands mutely today a half century later, with the laconic oleanders out front bending a little, in abject exhaustion toward the ancient street, not willing to speak about the unspeakable; those secret untold tales of pain and trauma, done furtively with the back of an old Navy hand, to the whispering fragile artist living next door, in a suburban paradise.

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In a Suburban Paradise

In A Suburban Paradise I was to spend hours on my bed writing short stories in 1967; with my left leg dangling over the left side, I sat on the right leg, like I was some nosy bird nesting on a log, watching life and its endless intrigues, concerning a sad lonely woman in a suburban paradise. I would stare at the quaint white house next door, the Barren home, staid residence of John and Ann, a quiet couple in their childless fifties; He, who went to work in a pink Ford carrying a black lunchbox; She, who stayed home wearing loose revealing smocks, while painting mysterious pictures under green stretching avocado branches in their open backyard patio, paved with red bricks. I was to grow fond of brunette Ann, as I secretly spied on her as any boy my age might, and watched her create art, but only from a curious safe distance through the concealing aluminum screen of my open bedroom window; she, with upright easel, a dozen brushes, and interesting gesticulating body movements, while conversing in a low whisper with either herself, or perhaps a ghostly lover. And I, fifteen years old, and curious, oh so curious, describing with pencil in one hand and an open notebook set before me, a lonely sad lady with brown curly hair named Ann, as she painted with pointed strokes and flourishes, dripping desperate paint upon a white loose smock, and I wondered, oh, I was curious indeed, as to what she was painting on her big white canvas, and what bright sensational colors she might be using. It was not until a few years later that I found out what Ann had been creating in 1967; Not paintings with color-laden flowers or trees, but grim drab buildings filled with trauma; Of a bout with metastatic breast cancer, leaving Ann with a flat arid chest, barely covered by the loose smocks she wore, ripped smocks picturing drab flowers and trees; Of private violent incidents with John, who beat her with an old Navy hand, which, five days a week in 1967, carried a black lunchbox to work. Years were to go by after those curious artistic scenes next door, and I have often thought about Ann. Divorce and death followed eventually. Their quaint white house stands mutely today a half century later, with the laconic oleanders out front bending a little, in abject exhaustion toward the ancient street, not willing to speak about the unspeakable; those secret untold tales of pain and trauma, done furtively with the back of an old Navy hand, to the whispering fragile artist living next door, in a suburban paradise.