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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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Saint Tropez is a summer town. Smaller than it ought to be, really. Like when you realize the French quarter, in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long. In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez. A turquoise bike leans haggard against a tree, and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash. Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise. The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu. Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse. You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs. Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy, like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"? Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real. You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme, lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store, where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.” But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass. You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable to remember her lines - lines that would make it real, invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell. The Saint Tropez of summer.

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the fall of Saint Tropez

Saint Tropez is a summer town. Smaller than it ought to be, really. Like when you realize the French quarter, in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long. In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez. A turquoise bike leans haggard against a tree, and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash. Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise. The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu. Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse. You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs. Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy, like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"? Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real. You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme, lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store, where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.” But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass. You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable to remember her lines - lines that would make it real, invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell. The Saint Tropez of summer.