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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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She said that this man, my grandfather, held her head under the black pool water, while up above, a German man leaned out of his window, against the moss and brick to scream violently: "Don't hurt that woman! She is the most beautiful woman in the world!" The tone of the man's voice, authoritative, cold broke my grandfather's concentration and he let her bob up to the surface, coughing, sputtering in an almost drowned manner, while still maintaining a beauty uncommon to humans, as she stole a quick glance to the heavens of heavens to acknowledge the saving power of a stranger. This is her story today, as she sits on three moth-eaten, velvet pillows to make her tall enough to reach the kitchen table. She has shrunk in her old age and is no longer "the most beautiful woman in the world". She sips her black coffee out of Russian demitasse cups with diamond emblems until she reaches the grinds which have slept in warmth on the bottom, to fool her, she thinks. She nibbles her white toast with butter and honey and shivers in the air conditioning as royalty should. When she has filled the remaining ten percent of her stomach (the other ninety percent was removed from the worry of ulcers when technology was in it's infant stage), she continues her story. It lasts all afternoon and twists and winds around the basic sub-plot that, somehow, her beauty and dignity was acknowledged in the worst circumstances, and, with her infinite wisdom, the world was made a better place. Her voice soaks into the wooden cabinets, and will remind me forever of strong, fresh-brewed coffee, and I think, right at that moment as I look at my hands (which I know will resemble hers one day), that I miss my grandfather. The most gentle man in the world, whose thoughts never amounted to more than wanting to garden well, or shape the perfect pizza in his pizza shop. This man, who set chairs on tables to clear the floor before he danced in pure Zorba the Greek manner, with a glint in his innocent eyes. This man, who looked at this woman, this fabricating, self-absorbed, once beautiful woman, with an adoration never deserved. I clean up the dishes, while still listening, and kiss her good bye on her forehead. Jittery from stories caffeinated and old, I chose to walk the long way home, lightening my mood and shedding her words along the way.

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An Afternoon With Katherine

She said that this man, my grandfather, held her head under the black pool water, while up above, a German man leaned out of his window, against the moss and brick to scream violently: "Don't hurt that woman! She is the most beautiful woman in the world!" The tone of the man's voice, authoritative, cold broke my grandfather's concentration and he let her bob up to the surface, coughing, sputtering in an almost drowned manner, while still maintaining a beauty uncommon to humans, as she stole a quick glance to the heavens of heavens to acknowledge the saving power of a stranger. This is her story today, as she sits on three moth-eaten, velvet pillows to make her tall enough to reach the kitchen table. She has shrunk in her old age and is no longer "the most beautiful woman in the world". She sips her black coffee out of Russian demitasse cups with diamond emblems until she reaches the grinds which have slept in warmth on the bottom, to fool her, she thinks. She nibbles her white toast with butter and honey and shivers in the air conditioning as royalty should. When she has filled the remaining ten percent of her stomach (the other ninety percent was removed from the worry of ulcers when technology was in it's infant stage), she continues her story. It lasts all afternoon and twists and winds around the basic sub-plot that, somehow, her beauty and dignity was acknowledged in the worst circumstances, and, with her infinite wisdom, the world was made a better place. Her voice soaks into the wooden cabinets, and will remind me forever of strong, fresh-brewed coffee, and I think, right at that moment as I look at my hands (which I know will resemble hers one day), that I miss my grandfather. The most gentle man in the world, whose thoughts never amounted to more than wanting to garden well, or shape the perfect pizza in his pizza shop. This man, who set chairs on tables to clear the floor before he danced in pure Zorba the Greek manner, with a glint in his innocent eyes. This man, who looked at this woman, this fabricating, self-absorbed, once beautiful woman, with an adoration never deserved. I clean up the dishes, while still listening, and kiss her good bye on her forehead. Jittery from stories caffeinated and old, I chose to walk the long way home, lightening my mood and shedding her words along the way.