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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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NOTE: Some of you seemed to enjoy my stories from the past. Of course, posting this in the story folder is tantamount to burying it six feet under, as you know, so I'm posting it here. I understand that some will see the length and move on and that's okay. But for those who stay, I don't think you'll be disappointed. Storytelling is what I think I do best. This one is new to Poetry Soup. If you like your Rod Serling with a dash of Mel Brooks, you might like this little tale... The old woman had lost everything. A ramshackle one room flat in Hackney was all she could afford since the fire destroyed her little cottage in the English countryside, along with her hubby and cat. The only thing left for her to do now was to die alone and in peace. Musing on her ill fortune left her rather tired on this rainy, bleak Monday afternoon, so she flopped down on her musty recliner for a short nap. Just as she began to doze off, there was a tickle on the end of her nose. Now, her nose was no ordinary one but a rather large promontory with a decided point to it. It was precisely on this point that a fly had comfortably perched. She glared at it. It seemed to stare back somewhat menacingly, she thought. She swatted it away with a wave of her hand and fell back to sleep. Within a minute or so a tickle on the end of her nose roused her from her nap once again. "That's it," she cried aloud. "Is it not enough that I am living in sheer misery without you bothering me to no end?" She got up, fly swatter in hand, and chased it around and around without success. As she stood there panting in the middle of the room, she thought she heard a whiny, tiny screech. "Over here, Snaggletooth!" She stopped panting and listened more intently. "Hey, Snaggy, over here!" Was it possible the little demon was taunting her? She let out a loud cry that shook the room as any sanity that she had managed to retain up till now was all but lost. She pulled a loose wooden plank from the floor and started swinging. There it was on the window - SWAT! The glass shattered into a thousand shards. There it was on the lampshade - SWAT! The lamp lay broken in two. There it was on her nicely stacked dishes - SWAT! Seven dishes (one had been lost to the fire) now broken into pieces. She was sure she got it this time. She listened for what seemed like an eternity and then let out a sigh of relief. "The bloody thing is dead," she screamed. Utterly exhausted, she returned to her sleeping chair and did her best to forget about her brief encounter with hell and was soon fast asleep, until that familiar tickle roused her once again. To her great surprise the thing spoke: "O Snaggletooth, why doth thou hateth me so?" A devil on the end of her nose and speaking Shakespearean at that! Well, she wasn't having it. With a shriek she got up to chase down her nemesis once more but tripped on the hole in the floor that resulted from her removal of the floorboard earlier. She tried her best to twist her body around and catch herself but fell face upward to the floor, her skull splitting down the back and center from the impact. The old hag was dead. The fly cautiously circled but was careful not to land lest the crazy wench was only feigning it. Finally satisfied that she was gone, it landed on that very same tip of her nose that had so intrigued it previously. "So, this is victory. Ahh, it has a sweet taste," it boasted. "I'm feeling rather hungry after all of this inanity. I think I'll get myself a tasty snack." It surveyed the room and decided that its best opportunity was to be had atop the kitchen cabinet where scrumptious crumbs can almost always be found. Upward it flew, higher and higher when suddenly - it couldn't move! Something was restraining it. Before long it was tangled up in an evil web of thin strands unlike anything it had ever encountered before. In a word, it was stuck. And then a voice: "Welcome, welcome to my lair, my friend. Would you care for a cup of tea before dinner? Buwahaha. Forgive me, I find a little humor makes things less tense. Hold on, don't move, I'll fetch the dinnerware and be right back. Buwahaha." The spider soon disappeared, but unbeknownst to him and, I dare say, to the dead old woman and the helpless fly, a scorpion had just made its way through the busted window. As it was, the scorpion was rather hungry and had a peculiar taste for arachnids...

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The Fly

NOTE: Some of you seemed to enjoy my stories from the past. Of course, posting this in the story folder is tantamount to burying it six feet under, as you know, so I'm posting it here. I understand that some will see the length and move on and that's okay. But for those who stay, I don't think you'll be disappointed. Storytelling is what I think I do best. This one is new to Poetry Soup. If you like your Rod Serling with a dash of Mel Brooks, you might like this little tale... The old woman had lost everything. A ramshackle one room flat in Hackney was all she could afford since the fire destroyed her little cottage in the English countryside, along with her hubby and cat. The only thing left for her to do now was to die alone and in peace. Musing on her ill fortune left her rather tired on this rainy, bleak Monday afternoon, so she flopped down on her musty recliner for a short nap. Just as she began to doze off, there was a tickle on the end of her nose. Now, her nose was no ordinary one but a rather large promontory with a decided point to it. It was precisely on this point that a fly had comfortably perched. She glared at it. It seemed to stare back somewhat menacingly, she thought. She swatted it away with a wave of her hand and fell back to sleep. Within a minute or so a tickle on the end of her nose roused her from her nap once again. "That's it," she cried aloud. "Is it not enough that I am living in sheer misery without you bothering me to no end?" She got up, fly swatter in hand, and chased it around and around without success. As she stood there panting in the middle of the room, she thought she heard a whiny, tiny screech. "Over here, Snaggletooth!" She stopped panting and listened more intently. "Hey, Snaggy, over here!" Was it possible the little demon was taunting her? She let out a loud cry that shook the room as any sanity that she had managed to retain up till now was all but lost. She pulled a loose wooden plank from the floor and started swinging. There it was on the window - SWAT! The glass shattered into a thousand shards. There it was on the lampshade - SWAT! The lamp lay broken in two. There it was on her nicely stacked dishes - SWAT! Seven dishes (one had been lost to the fire) now broken into pieces. She was sure she got it this time. She listened for what seemed like an eternity and then let out a sigh of relief. "The bloody thing is dead," she screamed. Utterly exhausted, she returned to her sleeping chair and did her best to forget about her brief encounter with hell and was soon fast asleep, until that familiar tickle roused her once again. To her great surprise the thing spoke: "O Snaggletooth, why doth thou hateth me so?" A devil on the end of her nose and speaking Shakespearean at that! Well, she wasn't having it. With a shriek she got up to chase down her nemesis once more but tripped on the hole in the floor that resulted from her removal of the floorboard earlier. She tried her best to twist her body around and catch herself but fell face upward to the floor, her skull splitting down the back and center from the impact. The old hag was dead. The fly cautiously circled but was careful not to land lest the crazy wench was only feigning it. Finally satisfied that she was gone, it landed on that very same tip of her nose that had so intrigued it previously. "So, this is victory. Ahh, it has a sweet taste," it boasted. "I'm feeling rather hungry after all of this inanity. I think I'll get myself a tasty snack." It surveyed the room and decided that its best opportunity was to be had atop the kitchen cabinet where scrumptious crumbs can almost always be found. Upward it flew, higher and higher when suddenly - it couldn't move! Something was restraining it. Before long it was tangled up in an evil web of thin strands unlike anything it had ever encountered before. In a word, it was stuck. And then a voice: "Welcome, welcome to my lair, my friend. Would you care for a cup of tea before dinner? Buwahaha. Forgive me, I find a little humor makes things less tense. Hold on, don't move, I'll fetch the dinnerware and be right back. Buwahaha." The spider soon disappeared, but unbeknownst to him and, I dare say, to the dead old woman and the helpless fly, a scorpion had just made its way through the busted window. As it was, the scorpion was rather hungry and had a peculiar taste for arachnids...

Book: Reflection on the Important Things