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
There stood the Good German. He is proud. There was also a man, Behind the drab uniforms. The one who was plain, but whose, Heart beat fervently and yearned for glory. When proud marches, Passed his way, their colours blazing and beckoning, he turned, Red, black, green; a rainbow it seems. But he never turned yellow. He gaped at the insignias and symbols, imbued with power by, Oratories and make believe fallacies. Caught in the maelstrom, Of emotions and fervour, he heeded their calls. Puppet strings, Appearing as ethereal wings to his fooled perceptions rose as high , As his eye can see. When he wore the uniform, it was his hands, That wove it to the sinews of his shoulders; the oaths bound him. He is an archangel, a protector of ideals, principles or men’s, Religions. He can do no wrong, or so he thought, when orders, Went his way and he “executes” them. His wings he believes are, His, but the height of his soaring is determined by the whims of, Vile giants, who steers upon crashing rocks, lost ships of history. He is Alpha-one up to Zulu-Infinity, reliant on his weapons, And battlefield ferocity. Always, he hoped, a worthy protector, Of those he values the most. He is everywhere, a waiting sentinel, On wherever scorched or inhospitable parcel of earth maybe. Peace, They tell him, is to be forced on everybody. Or cleansed if need be. He is in the army, the spy networks, the police force, the special And killing machine units. He yearns to prove his value and worth, Blinded by the brass his masters wore, and the warrior’s ethos that Stirs his soul. He is everywhere. From the trenches of Africa to the Cockpits of Western aerial wings, there he lies and patiently waits. He hears the orders, loud and clear. The radio is lustful and deafening, The signals and codes turn firm and clinical, no longer imbued with the, Warmth of brotherly feelings. He wades then, into blood. He sees then, The sparkle dim from the innocent’s eyes. He smells the stench of burnt Flesh consigned to fiery dustbins; an oven he plays a part in the making. He waded in and did not retreat. He is in service of humanity, immersed On trainings and indoctrinations. The confusion that assails, they tell him, Is only the enemies’ psychological offensives. ‘You are armed’, his masters Shout from raised pulpits and dais, ‘with righteousness and truth’. But the evil unfolding before his ‘good’ eyes, sends him to falseness’ reeling.

Enter Author Name (Not Required)

Move Text:

Heading Text

Color:

Main/Poem Text

Color:

Layout: TallShort

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

The Good German Part 1

There stood the Good German. He is proud. There was also a man, Behind the drab uniforms. The one who was plain, but whose, Heart beat fervently and yearned for glory. When proud marches, Passed his way, their colours blazing and beckoning, he turned, Red, black, green; a rainbow it seems. But he never turned yellow. He gaped at the insignias and symbols, imbued with power by, Oratories and make believe fallacies. Caught in the maelstrom, Of emotions and fervour, he heeded their calls. Puppet strings, Appearing as ethereal wings to his fooled perceptions rose as high , As his eye can see. When he wore the uniform, it was his hands, That wove it to the sinews of his shoulders; the oaths bound him. He is an archangel, a protector of ideals, principles or men’s, Religions. He can do no wrong, or so he thought, when orders, Went his way and he “executes” them. His wings he believes are, His, but the height of his soaring is determined by the whims of, Vile giants, who steers upon crashing rocks, lost ships of history. He is Alpha-one up to Zulu-Infinity, reliant on his weapons, And battlefield ferocity. Always, he hoped, a worthy protector, Of those he values the most. He is everywhere, a waiting sentinel, On wherever scorched or inhospitable parcel of earth maybe. Peace, They tell him, is to be forced on everybody. Or cleansed if need be. He is in the army, the spy networks, the police force, the special And killing machine units. He yearns to prove his value and worth, Blinded by the brass his masters wore, and the warrior’s ethos that Stirs his soul. He is everywhere. From the trenches of Africa to the Cockpits of Western aerial wings, there he lies and patiently waits. He hears the orders, loud and clear. The radio is lustful and deafening, The signals and codes turn firm and clinical, no longer imbued with the, Warmth of brotherly feelings. He wades then, into blood. He sees then, The sparkle dim from the innocent’s eyes. He smells the stench of burnt Flesh consigned to fiery dustbins; an oven he plays a part in the making. He waded in and did not retreat. He is in service of humanity, immersed On trainings and indoctrinations. The confusion that assails, they tell him, Is only the enemies’ psychological offensives. ‘You are armed’, his masters Shout from raised pulpits and dais, ‘with righteousness and truth’. But the evil unfolding before his ‘good’ eyes, sends him to falseness’ reeling.