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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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Gramps had a Sunday rite, It was quiet, perhaps trite. In his chalice a Bloody Mary, As solemn as a seminary. Took the goblet and a crank, To his great Big Ben clock. Slowly wound as he drank, When done, he’d close the lock. A hundred years of perfect time, With a soft, not muffled chime. On the hour, brass bells peal, Then a strike, the hour to reveal. From its grand and lofty tower, Only time did the clock devour. Telling time is how it played, For only this, was it made. The pendulum’s eternal swing, Akin to ocean, time was king. Like endless waves of the sea, That hit the beach, to rise and spree. The old clock stopped when Gramps died, The crank too hard, still Granny tried. The case too tall for her new abode, Became gift to grandson, down the road. The clock from Gramps, to enshrine, One day to pass it down the line. ‘Til then to crank it every week, Its old wood to groan and creak. The grand old clock no mere shell, A soft ticking, then sudden knell. Like ocean waves, gave quiet peace, Its pulleys and cables never cease. The sounds of eternal tick, Westminster chant be its lick. All derived from weekly crank, For this and love, Gramps we thank. **** This poem is also on Vimeo https://vimeo.com/455917835

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The Clock

Gramps had a Sunday rite, It was quiet, perhaps trite. In his chalice a Bloody Mary, As solemn as a seminary. Took the goblet and a crank, To his great Big Ben clock. Slowly wound as he drank, When done, he’d close the lock. A hundred years of perfect time, With a soft, not muffled chime. On the hour, brass bells peal, Then a strike, the hour to reveal. From its grand and lofty tower, Only time did the clock devour. Telling time is how it played, For only this, was it made. The pendulum’s eternal swing, Akin to ocean, time was king. Like endless waves of the sea, That hit the beach, to rise and spree. The old clock stopped when Gramps died, The crank too hard, still Granny tried. The case too tall for her new abode, Became gift to grandson, down the road. The clock from Gramps, to enshrine, One day to pass it down the line. ‘Til then to crank it every week, Its old wood to groan and creak. The grand old clock no mere shell, A soft ticking, then sudden knell. Like ocean waves, gave quiet peace, Its pulleys and cables never cease. The sounds of eternal tick, Westminster chant be its lick. All derived from weekly crank, For this and love, Gramps we thank. **** This poem is also on Vimeo https://vimeo.com/455917835