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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Rant: Inevitability
Rant: Inevitability by Michael R. Burch This is a prophetic poem about the triumph of real poetry over its current poor imitation. There is change in the wind; there is change in the sea preternaturally strange with her myriad eyes— stars mirrored in waves. Compelled by the moon, whipped to foam, she is drawn into restive tides rising and cresting as kestrels flee shrieking, “Passion is all!” You are nothing to me. What will be, will be. There are words to arrange; there are tongues to employ; there are songs to engrave on each vellum leaf. But the gold will not hold lacking passion or joy and the gilt ink fades without rage or grief. All your high Latin hymnals bind spineless belief, and your mild incantations mean nothing to me. What will be, will be. Emotionless arrows impale no meat, leave no prey blood-splattered, no white bone staring, no pale breast shattered, no lamb’s soft bleat ... but a table barren, an ear uncaring. And your listless denouements mean nothing to me. What will be, will be. There are souls’ riven screams, there are blind eyes staring— imploring the sun or the moon or the sea for an inkling of meaning, a morsel, a shaving ... and your pallid dispassion means nothing to me. What will be, will be. There is much that is lost, and yet much to be gained in each dark starless night, each advance of the sun. We have so little time to wrestle your meaning. Stars trestle the heavens. Wind haunts. You are done. And your temple bells’ tinklings mean nothing to me. What will be, will be. All my cruel Celtic henchmen, my bold Nordic bards, will shatter the canes of your cripples to shards, impaling pale corpses on blood-slickened staves, tossing leprous white limbs to the wild-drooling waves. For your steaming viscera are manna to me. What will be, will be. No Iscariot kiss, but a Jubilant Hiss you will get from me. What will be, now is. Keywords/Tags: poetry, poets, poems, write, writing, words, romantic, romanticism, wind, sea, waves, moon, stars, tides, foam, passion, strange
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