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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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SENSITIVITY They’re all ignored by us, but they have feelings too : A black gravestone in New York, down in the world, Recalling its halcyon days as a part of The impressive strata at Palisades Park. The statue in the museum of Androcles and the Lion Daydreaming - oh, for the good old days just lying sunbaked On the beach surrounded by Fossil shells and shrimp at Sables d’ Olonne, With the feet of the famous resting gently on you. And the marble fireplace in our living room - He can still see in his mind’s eye The Carrara quarries in bygone days….. Why, some of his great-grand-daddies were Hacked out of there and taken to Rome for the Via Appia. Oh yes, stones have feelings too. My carved ship-of-the-line from Nelson’s navy With her masts and spars and decks and cabins Lies awake at night thinking of her days In the pine forests of Norway; and next to her This old cedar jewellery box, with intoxicating Smells of the coast at Prince Rupert Where she lay on the beach for weeks Before the saw mill changed her shape and sent her to me. The new sapele door in our hall spends hours Wishing for his buddies in the jungles of Uganda Where the ants would tickle you Half to death with their constant scurrying Up and down your branches, building this or that. Listen closely and he’ll boast that some of his relatives ended their days as propellers on German zeppelins, I kid you not. Everyone has to feel special. And what about those unassuming steel forks in my drawer who can still tell stories Of their days as iron ore in Finland, And how their brother Ernie became A bumper on the President’s limo (supposedly). Or my wife’s copper bracelets with their pathetic tales Of being shipped from Cyprus and remelted into ingots in Bimingham. I have overheard the wings of a 747 Recollecting in the hangars at night How their existence as bauxite in Jamaica was so idyllic, “Wit all dat reggae and smokin’ and god knows what, man.” They too have their memories. And, man, de smell in dat hangar!

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SENSITIVITY They’re all ignored by us, but they have feelings too : A black gravestone in New York, down in the world, Recalling its halcyon days as a part of The impressive strata at Palisades Park. The statue in the museum of Androcles and the Lion Daydreaming - oh, for the good old days just lying sunbaked On the beach surrounded by Fossil shells and shrimp at Sables d’ Olonne, With the feet of the famous resting gently on you. And the marble fireplace in our living room - He can still see in his mind’s eye The Carrara quarries in bygone days….. Why, some of his great-grand-daddies were Hacked out of there and taken to Rome for the Via Appia. Oh yes, stones have feelings too. My carved ship-of-the-line from Nelson’s navy With her masts and spars and decks and cabins Lies awake at night thinking of her days In the pine forests of Norway; and next to her This old cedar jewellery box, with intoxicating Smells of the coast at Prince Rupert Where she lay on the beach for weeks Before the saw mill changed her shape and sent her to me. The new sapele door in our hall spends hours Wishing for his buddies in the jungles of Uganda Where the ants would tickle you Half to death with their constant scurrying Up and down your branches, building this or that. Listen closely and he’ll boast that some of his relatives ended their days as propellers on German zeppelins, I kid you not. Everyone has to feel special. And what about those unassuming steel forks in my drawer who can still tell stories Of their days as iron ore in Finland, And how their brother Ernie became A bumper on the President’s limo (supposedly). Or my wife’s copper bracelets with their pathetic tales Of being shipped from Cyprus and remelted into ingots in Bimingham. I have overheard the wings of a 747 Recollecting in the hangars at night How their existence as bauxite in Jamaica was so idyllic, “Wit all dat reggae and smokin’ and god knows what, man.” They too have their memories. And, man, de smell in dat hangar!