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 VI. We are all metric modulations of our former selves—changing time signatures mid-measure, learning to count in odd meters when life refuses to conform to 4/4 expectations finding beauty in 7/8 existence— the off-kilter cadence of becoming. The teenager tattoos pain across her skin in sixteenth-note flurries— razor crescendos marking flesh rimshots echoing in a locked room her body a snare absorbing what no one will hear. But the counselor reorients her strikes— guides her hands to ghost notes tapped on the edge of possibility showing how silence can carry rhythm how grief, redirected, becomes texture— not erased but transformed into syncopation. Teaching her flamacue and ratamacue— rudiments to rebuild rhythm from fracture. In meditation halls, the brush technique of breath against awareness sweeps circular patterns across the snare drum of consciousness each revolution revealing the interdependence of all sounds— how silence gives meaning to music how emptiness gives shape to form. Even after forgetting— we are the drum that cannot be silenced. VII. The mother with Alzheimer's forgets words but remembers the shuffle rhythm of her grandmother's feet on kitchen linoleum forty years ago— proving knowledge lives deeper than language, that love is stored in the muscle memory of tempo, in the bone-deep knowing of when to accent when to rest. The war veteran's PTSD manifests as explosive snare hits in quiet moments— his nervous system stuck in double-time every car backfire a timpani roll announcing danger that exists now only in the echo chambers of trauma. Slowly, therapy teaches him to play his pain in slower tempos— cross stick replacing gunfire’s crash cymbal, finding the spaces between beats where healing lives. VIII. The street musician's tabla bols create community from strangers— ta-ka-ta-ki-ta becomes the common language that transcends the babel of urban isolation. Each coin in his case a vote for the radical proposition that beauty matters more than efficiency— that rhythm is prayer accessible to all faiths all doubts. The autistic child constructs cathedrals from polyrhythms—three against two four against three— tiny wrists parsing the paradox of a world too loud to understand yet perfectly timed beneath its chaos. Each strike a syllable in a language her flam paradiddle-diddle hands dissecting chaos into latticework unspoken but truer than speech. Her fingers discovering order in the latticework of syncopation where logic and wonder share the same downbeat. She does not fidget— she improvises. She does not escape— she listens deeper. And in her palms the world becomes percussion— finally speaking in a dialect her heart can follow. ================== The Final Book 3 is coming.....
Enter Author Name (Not Required)