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 Before the ink, the silence was a throat too wide for breath, a hollow-hoarding room where syntax slept in dust, a formless mote. Then came the stroke—the necessary doom— that etched the first shaky consonant of home. We named the light, and naming made it fear, a brilliant terror cracking in the air: And in that sound, the echo was a tear. The lexicon is porous. It accepts the slow encroachment of the sudden “gone.” I’ve seen the tense shift while the subject slept, the “is” dissolved before the “is” was done. I hear your laughter, a broken, brittle run, a syntax in the doorway of the mind that leaves the quiet, comfortable behind, a shape I cannot hold, but seek to find. I have attempted to define your hand— its knuckles, a syntax of necessary stone— but language is a shifting, sliding sand, it takes the shape of all that I have known and breaks it down, a solitary moan. I know the definition of the wait: a vowel stretched until it cracks with weight, a verb that acts too often and too late. If I could pull the vowels from the air and rearrange the grammar of our loss, I’d make a structure sturdy, stable, fair, a monument that does not pay the cost of every single, sudden, final frost. But every word is stolen from a sigh, a breath that knows it only needs to die, a sky that mimics emptiness to fly. The inevitability is, in turn, a pivot where the poem starts to break. I feel the syntax of the darkness burn, the structure of the longing that I take, the shape of every mistake that I make. I find myself within the space between the first and final, fast embrace, a memory I cannot quite retrace. So let the lexicon be what it is: a porous thing that lets the silence in. I trace the syntax of the final kiss, and find the ending in the way I spin a language from the skin, and from the sin. The tide returns, the lexicon is wet— The words are drowning in the sharp regret— And I am learning, slowly, to forget. Forget the sound, the shape, the solid hand, and keep the empty, loud, and lovely air. I understand the way the broken sand creates a new topography to share, a syntax in the middle of despair. The ocean does not need a name to be. It is the final, endless, opening plea, a memory that only lives in me.
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