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.
Enter Title (Not Required)
Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Poems about Flight, Flying, and Birds (I) Flight by Michael R. Burch It is the nature of loveliness to vanish as hummingbird wings, batting against nothingness seek transcendence... Southern Icarus by Michael R. Burch Windborne, lover of heights, unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace, you climb, skittish kite... What do you know of the world’s despair, gliding in vast... solitariness... there, so that all that remains is to fall? Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs; you stall, spread-eagled, as the canvas snaps and flaps its white rebellious wings, and all the houses watch with baffled eyes. The Wonder Boys by Michael R. Burch for Leslie Mellichamp The stars were always there, too-bright cliches: scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew as baffled poets winged keyed kites—amazed, in dream of shocks that suddenly came true... but came almost as static—background noise, a song out of the cosmos no one hears, or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys, lay tuned in to their kite strings, saucer-eared. They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke of words poured from their overheated hearts. The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope... You will not find them here; they blew away— in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung by fingertips to satellites. They strayed too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young, their words are with us still. Devout and fey, they wink at us whenever skies are gray. American Eagle, Grounded by Michael R. Burch Her predatory eye, the single feral iris, scans. Her raptor beak, all jagged sharp-edged thrust, juts. Her hard talon, clenched in pinched expectation, waits. Her clipped wings, preened against reality, tremble. Springtime Prayer by Michael R. Burch They’ll have to grow like crazy, the springtime baby geese, if they’re to fly to balmier climes when autumn dismembers the leaves... And so I toss them loaves of bread, then whisper an urgent prayer: “Watch over these, my Angels, if there’s anyone kind, up there.” Learning to Fly by Michael R. Burch We are learning to fly every day... learning to fly— away, away... O, love is not in the ephemeral flight, but love, Love! is our destination— graced land of eternal sunrise, radiant beyond night! Let us bear one another up in our vast migration. In the Whispering Night by Michael R. Burch for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky while the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our bodies to some famished ocean and laugh as they vanish, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze... blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning to the heights of awareness from which we were seized. Earthbound, a Vision of Crazy Horse by Michael R. Burch Earthbound, and yet I now fly through the clouds that are aimlessly drifting... so high that no sound echoing by below where the mountains are lifting the sky can be heard. Like a bird, but not meek, like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey, I will shriek, not a word, but a screech, and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay— the sheep, the earthbound. Sioux Vision Quest by Crazy Horse loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A man must pursue his Vision as the eagle explores the sky's deepest blues. in-flight convergence by Michael R. Burch serene, almost angelic, the lights of the city ——— extend ——— over lumbering behemoths shrilly screeching displeasure; they say that nothing is certain, that nothing man dreams or ordains long endures his command here the streetlights that flicker and those blazing steadfast seem one: from a distance; descend, they abruptly part ———— ways, so that nothing is one which at times does not suddenly blend into garish insignificance in the familiar alleyways, in the white neon flash and the billboards of Convenience and man seems the afterthought of his own Brilliance as we thunder down the enlightened runways. Flight 93 by Michael R. Burch I held the switch in trembling fingers, asked why existence felt so small, so purposeless, like a minnow wriggling feebly in my grasp... vibrations of huge engines thrummed my arms as, glistening with sweat, I nudged the switch to OFF... I heard the klaxon's shrill alarms like vultures’ shriekings... earthward, in a stall... we floated... earthward... wings outstretched, aghast like Icarus... as through the void we fell... till nothing was so beautiful, so blue... so vivid as that moment... and I held an image of your face, and dreamed I flew into your arms. The earth rushed up. I knew such comfort, in that moment, loving you. Flight by Michael R. Burch Eagle, raven, blackbird, crow... What you are I do not know. Where you go I do not care. I’m unconcerned whose meal you bear. But as you mount the sunlit sky, I only wish that I could fly. I only wish that I could fly. Robin, hawk or whippoorwill... Should men care that you hunger still? I do not wish to see your home. I do not wonder where you roam. But as you scale the sky's bright stairs, I only wish that I were there. I only wish that I were there. Sparrow, lark or chickadee... Your markings I disdain to see. Where you fly concerns me not. I scarcely give your flight a thought. But as you wheel and arc and dive, I, too, would feel so much alive. I, too, would feel so much alive. This is a poem I wrote as a high school sophomore.
Enter Author Name (Not Required)