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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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required What kindling might i offer to the long dead, now near newly dead? my seeing. my walking. my sitting. my doing. What lung-puff (however quiet, however meek, however entropy-fated it may be) might i offer? As it always will be, leaving lungs and lips and losing itself in storm gales of modernity. Eclipsed by howling and raring roarings, the whispered whiffs of this bent soul’s wish... to speak Qì to the tinder bundle, held aloft but low. i genuflect and bend and bow to stones, arranged in a circle just as humanity has long seen fit to arrange the stone Earth. my seeing. my walking. my sitting. my doing. What spark might i offer? to Zhuang Zhou? to Li Bó? What spark might i speak into eruptive life? to Tara? Om. to Ram? Bolo. Death does not safekeep wisdom from further death. The masters die many deaths. Forgetting. Confusing. The Entropy of Illusion is the rot-causing beetles and chemistry and larvae unseen in the height of day but never more than a last gasp away. At the ready to take down and break down what’s built up and named. What light, what heat, what protectiveness might i offer to ?afe?? to Frost? That they are gone is no blame on us. That they are lost is all blame sent to and stuck on us. On each of us. On each day. Let, rather the cemetery sing the silent wisdom without tarry. An undulating, perhaps roiling tubule by sea of purported peace: this gravemarked sea of sliced and shined and stuck stones... some with offered pebbles there stacked ‘pon...sees me sit. In screaming silence. Sees me rushlessly walk. Sees me speak wisdumb through closed lips. Nothing comes. Nothing comes. Everything goes. Nothing comes.
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