Home » Poems » Poetry Art » Poetry Art / Greeting Card Maker

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.

Text
Layout
Background

Enter Title (Not Required)

Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required
DISCLAIMER : THIS IS AN ACCOUNT OF THE MASSACRE IN ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE IN FRANCE WHICH TOOK PLACE ON JUNE 1OTH 1944 TO MY READERS , " SOME LINES IN THIS POEM ARE GRAPHIC , AND SOME MAY FIND THEM OFFENSIVE . MY INTENT IS NOT TO OFFEND ANYONE , MY INTENT IS TO SHED LIGHT ON THE GRAPHIC REALTIES OF WAR AND EVENTS WHICH HAPPEND ON THIS DAY. "Our voices will never be heard if we choose to remain silent " Whispers of Hell As I walked, no thought of what may lie ahead, I strolled into someone else's frozen hell, now mine. I swear, if I could have plucked my eyes to make blind, And this day ripped my flippant tongue so not to tell, Images that haunt and scar still this fragile mind . The living remains of death, this mueseumed shell, I would with all my heart, have wrenched this tragic find. Encircled by Panzers, 200 raging beats rage, stealing peace, Men shot where they stood , women the ultimate invasion. Eyes like cameras snap each vivid detail, hate in eyes seared, The Martyred village with tongues ablaze, and houses raised. Man's courage smouldering , a child muted in terror hidden, peers Afraid , a child once soft with purity of heart, another child erased . Bodies piled by the roadside lost memories mangled in a heap . And lifeless lives unsung, old and young, the sleeping dead, Brains and beauty mass-acred , they'd huddled close in prayer. Direct orders from Adolf Diekmanm , lay squarely on his head, No sanctity of life as they nail a baby to the cross, in dare, Religion raped in mockery, a crown of thorns upon her head, The screams of crippled mothers laying, crying in despair. The doors locked the torches lit, winged angels soaring, fled. Thanatos through nostrils flamed, spits venom upon our world, The vestry window open, a woman desperate, wriggles, squirms, Outside Gods basilica in flames, lay the wounded and grateful dead. As killers disguised as men herd all life, all life that isn't burning, Those they had shot and wounded , no way to run and hide, Eyes and hearts petrified, the marching helmets with devil's horns, As mens eyes weep with guilt and shame, what has Man become ? The ruins of Man's soul lays quietly within it's now guarded walls, Where 642 women children and men, witnessed the irony in man-kind And now where I softly tread where you once smiled and loved , I fall To my knees and like the impending dead cried what has Man done ? They were the fire beneath the earth , the keepers delivering Hell . And from death and destruction, we have learned nothing from our God ? I roam with heartfelt dread among the ruins and souls of the placid dead. Their homes and hearts ripped out and eighty years on, the ruins lay untouched, Gifts made by the loving hands of a father, destroyed by another man's hate, Homes made by the love of two people, murdered, by the hand of Man's greed,. Loving children slaughtered, "in lawful play", by enemy fathers, disguised as men. My emotions are unequal to their suffering, Man's pain should not be in vain. Our world has learned nothing from our past , a truth known all too well. As today idly our world stands by . "Enjoying Saturday nights out with friends " , My only hope, come Judgement Day, is they will see, and feel the hand of God . The boot stamp of war , embedded in memory, flickering images in my head: Singer sewing machines in ruins lay strewn about the shells of homes destroyed Ready to repair, to mend, to create, a message transcended from the martyred dead. A message of hope, of defiance, of love, our voices heard over the whispers of Hell. " Our words will never be read unless we choose to write them ". A new village has replaced the old village close by and this museum has Been preserved as a reminder of the evils of Man , mankind to horrors of Which we are capable of , it is a part of every French schools curriculum And every child must visit this museum with their school , so they learn and never forget what happened Here on June 10th 1944 , four days after the D-Day landings . All 642 people are buried here and only 7 people escaped . There are monuments and graves across the site laying tribute to all those that died .

Enter Author Name (Not Required)

Move Text:

Heading Text

Color:

Main/Poem Text

Color:

Layout: TallShort

www.poetrysoup.com - Create a card from your words, quote, or poetry

Whispers Of Hell

DISCLAIMER : THIS IS AN ACCOUNT OF THE MASSACRE IN ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE IN FRANCE WHICH TOOK PLACE ON JUNE 1OTH 1944 TO MY READERS , " SOME LINES IN THIS POEM ARE GRAPHIC , AND SOME MAY FIND THEM OFFENSIVE . MY INTENT IS NOT TO OFFEND ANYONE , MY INTENT IS TO SHED LIGHT ON THE GRAPHIC REALTIES OF WAR AND EVENTS WHICH HAPPEND ON THIS DAY. "Our voices will never be heard if we choose to remain silent " Whispers of Hell As I walked, no thought of what may lie ahead, I strolled into someone else's frozen hell, now mine. I swear, if I could have plucked my eyes to make blind, And this day ripped my flippant tongue so not to tell, Images that haunt and scar still this fragile mind . The living remains of death, this mueseumed shell, I would with all my heart, have wrenched this tragic find. Encircled by Panzers, 200 raging beats rage, stealing peace, Men shot where they stood , women the ultimate invasion. Eyes like cameras snap each vivid detail, hate in eyes seared, The Martyred village with tongues ablaze, and houses raised. Man's courage smouldering , a child muted in terror hidden, peers Afraid , a child once soft with purity of heart, another child erased . Bodies piled by the roadside lost memories mangled in a heap . And lifeless lives unsung, old and young, the sleeping dead, Brains and beauty mass-acred , they'd huddled close in prayer. Direct orders from Adolf Diekmanm , lay squarely on his head, No sanctity of life as they nail a baby to the cross, in dare, Religion raped in mockery, a crown of thorns upon her head, The screams of crippled mothers laying, crying in despair. The doors locked the torches lit, winged angels soaring, fled. Thanatos through nostrils flamed, spits venom upon our world, The vestry window open, a woman desperate, wriggles, squirms, Outside Gods basilica in flames, lay the wounded and grateful dead. As killers disguised as men herd all life, all life that isn't burning, Those they had shot and wounded , no way to run and hide, Eyes and hearts petrified, the marching helmets with devil's horns, As mens eyes weep with guilt and shame, what has Man become ? The ruins of Man's soul lays quietly within it's now guarded walls, Where 642 women children and men, witnessed the irony in man-kind And now where I softly tread where you once smiled and loved , I fall To my knees and like the impending dead cried what has Man done ? They were the fire beneath the earth , the keepers delivering Hell . And from death and destruction, we have learned nothing from our God ? I roam with heartfelt dread among the ruins and souls of the placid dead. Their homes and hearts ripped out and eighty years on, the ruins lay untouched, Gifts made by the loving hands of a father, destroyed by another man's hate, Homes made by the love of two people, murdered, by the hand of Man's greed,. Loving children slaughtered, "in lawful play", by enemy fathers, disguised as men. My emotions are unequal to their suffering, Man's pain should not be in vain. Our world has learned nothing from our past , a truth known all too well. As today idly our world stands by . "Enjoying Saturday nights out with friends " , My only hope, come Judgement Day, is they will see, and feel the hand of God . The boot stamp of war , embedded in memory, flickering images in my head: Singer sewing machines in ruins lay strewn about the shells of homes destroyed Ready to repair, to mend, to create, a message transcended from the martyred dead. A message of hope, of defiance, of love, our voices heard over the whispers of Hell. " Our words will never be read unless we choose to write them ". A new village has replaced the old village close by and this museum has Been preserved as a reminder of the evils of Man , mankind to horrors of Which we are capable of , it is a part of every French schools curriculum And every child must visit this museum with their school , so they learn and never forget what happened Here on June 10th 1944 , four days after the D-Day landings . All 642 people are buried here and only 7 people escaped . There are monuments and graves across the site laying tribute to all those that died .