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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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rain hitting the asphalt, the cracking concrete, water weaving its way down the overpass. Residents cover up with plastic, a conflagration of yellow light on garbage bags hitting tree tops, branches, leaves old and new. Boughs sagging with the weight of the world pressing down hitting the tops of umbrellas, flags, car covers, dampening canvas one drop at a time. Its pit-pattering like horseshoes on the dirt of some race, somewhere, that someone has too much money on hitting the skylight in the bathroom, knocking on my door and, like a gracious host I let it in. A few icy drops take refuge in the warmth of the house, just to die in the glow of electric light hitting fields of Queen Anne’s lace, goldenrod, daisies, tulips, wildflowers, daffodils, chicory, fire pink, gold thread, twinflower, honeysuckle, jack-in-the-pulpit wolfs-bane hitting streets so black with tar, pouring past the lights, rushing down the gutters of dirty concrete, people fording the rivers on the street, swallowed up by parched gutters hitting oceans teeming with aliens, teeming with life and death, salt spray and driftwood, the sea drinks the fresh, falling water and waves its hand in thanks hitting the lacquered wings of owls, beading up, rolling down, soaking through. Waiting for the dusk to thrash the liquid weight off, and fly hitting the arid desert of the birdbath never filled, its porous concrete drinking sweetly. The bowl fills with innocent rainwater, soon frozen by winter’s touch. An ice skating rink for chipping sparrows hitting lakes, ponds, rivers, streams, creeks, fjords, inlets, marshes, swamps, reservoirs, puddles, sounds, and springs. Inundating the world with nectar of the gods, bringing life hitting levees and dams, dunes and banks, silt fences and retaining walls, moats and sewers, pounding upon them all, breaking them down, beating them back, ceaselessly. Water grasping for calamity hitting you as you walk home, pulling up your coat just a little higher, bangs sticking to your forehead, hair tucked snug behind your ears, the wind whips droplets sideways, gravity pulling them down from the heavens, rain so hard every drop is a diamond. hitting me as I stand here, waiting, water dripping down the sides of my face, filling my ears, head too bloated for thoughts. Eyes too wet to even notice the difference, clothes soaked heavy as lead. Hitting me as I write this for you. hitting me, pallid and desperate. Hitting me and I have no hope of ever Hitting back.

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Rain

rain hitting the asphalt, the cracking concrete, water weaving its way down the overpass. Residents cover up with plastic, a conflagration of yellow light on garbage bags hitting tree tops, branches, leaves old and new. Boughs sagging with the weight of the world pressing down hitting the tops of umbrellas, flags, car covers, dampening canvas one drop at a time. Its pit-pattering like horseshoes on the dirt of some race, somewhere, that someone has too much money on hitting the skylight in the bathroom, knocking on my door and, like a gracious host I let it in. A few icy drops take refuge in the warmth of the house, just to die in the glow of electric light hitting fields of Queen Anne’s lace, goldenrod, daisies, tulips, wildflowers, daffodils, chicory, fire pink, gold thread, twinflower, honeysuckle, jack-in-the-pulpit wolfs-bane hitting streets so black with tar, pouring past the lights, rushing down the gutters of dirty concrete, people fording the rivers on the street, swallowed up by parched gutters hitting oceans teeming with aliens, teeming with life and death, salt spray and driftwood, the sea drinks the fresh, falling water and waves its hand in thanks hitting the lacquered wings of owls, beading up, rolling down, soaking through. Waiting for the dusk to thrash the liquid weight off, and fly hitting the arid desert of the birdbath never filled, its porous concrete drinking sweetly. The bowl fills with innocent rainwater, soon frozen by winter’s touch. An ice skating rink for chipping sparrows hitting lakes, ponds, rivers, streams, creeks, fjords, inlets, marshes, swamps, reservoirs, puddles, sounds, and springs. Inundating the world with nectar of the gods, bringing life hitting levees and dams, dunes and banks, silt fences and retaining walls, moats and sewers, pounding upon them all, breaking them down, beating them back, ceaselessly. Water grasping for calamity hitting you as you walk home, pulling up your coat just a little higher, bangs sticking to your forehead, hair tucked snug behind your ears, the wind whips droplets sideways, gravity pulling them down from the heavens, rain so hard every drop is a diamond. hitting me as I stand here, waiting, water dripping down the sides of my face, filling my ears, head too bloated for thoughts. Eyes too wet to even notice the difference, clothes soaked heavy as lead. Hitting me as I write this for you. hitting me, pallid and desperate. Hitting me and I have no hope of ever Hitting back.