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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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Lost in history’s places That was then, when, and now is now. The point now, need not – somehow – come from way back when, for then, for if it does ?, there is no point, the point becomes lost when you go back – try the join then – when all to be, became, and all that should have been became lost, at a cost to all who became involved and have seen, who have been a part of what is, instead of what should be. Then is but circles without beginning, without end, no exit to see, that can take then out of now, and how can that be the path to the point ?, the point now – the answers for me must come from here and now, not yesterday and come straight, not at the end of some long, long, long winding freight train that has stopped many – far too many times, to take on life’s baggage. So much baggage, so much confusion, so many circles throughout the age of so many winding roads, twists and turns towards the point, never to reach the answers to straight forward, simple questions that I did beseech. Laughter Nervous sounds abound, they ring out their experiences, their life, they want to shout. They want to be set free, fly from your nervous mouth so they, that hear, that listen, can have no doubt what you, your sounds, your being is all about. To know, to see, what is buried beneath all those nervous sounds, sounds that dance upon the wings of all those sounds your voice, hesitatingly, sings. Songs of sad tales, of a troubled life with all its woes. And which of us ?, is he, or she, that truly knows. Life’s withering soul My beautiful Daughter, – Child of mine, this fragile rose bud- will bloom in time !, ? Sadness do I feel – the experience sublime ?, not in any reflection, not in this rhyme, for I see not but a severed broken stem and nothing I might do, nothing that I am will bring life’s forces from the roots to nourish, to give hope, to heal the shoots, feed this unrealized Rose, in bud, ready to bloom, whom I seldom see, talk with less, who hides in her room. I now see this unfulfilled Rose, withering on the thorny stem of her life, cut off by the selfish hand of this horny old man – a so called man – The reasons my life is so stormy. At times, the reasons – I do believe – for my troubled Child, are emotions, hormones, beliefs, desires and needs running wild, and from time to time, run me over, slap my face, knock me down. Nothing I say, nothing I do stops this cycle from going round and round with such force and energy, it knocks me to the ground as pain / anger, uncertainty / anger. frustration / anger become the sound that rings in piercing tones, from time to time, shattering my ear. It is so overwhelming at times, it is all that I seem to be able to hear. So the pain and heartache, I try to keep at bay, along with all my fear, as I wonder what will come, become ?, and fill the spaces of each year, for this Child, of my ancient seed, this Daughter, to me, so dear. My Blood, I would like to know, her soul I would like to be more near than a passing moment on the fly- pleasantries indicated, in passing by like scattered clouds- out of reach and vaporous –high in an uncertain sky as I watch – wondering why ? –, eyes filled with tears, trying not to cry. Praying that one day – before long – changes come, come before I die. B. J. “A” 2 July 9th 2002

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Lost In Historys Places Laughter Lifes Withering Soul

Lost in history’s places That was then, when, and now is now. The point now, need not – somehow – come from way back when, for then, for if it does ?, there is no point, the point becomes lost when you go back – try the join then – when all to be, became, and all that should have been became lost, at a cost to all who became involved and have seen, who have been a part of what is, instead of what should be. Then is but circles without beginning, without end, no exit to see, that can take then out of now, and how can that be the path to the point ?, the point now – the answers for me must come from here and now, not yesterday and come straight, not at the end of some long, long, long winding freight train that has stopped many – far too many times, to take on life’s baggage. So much baggage, so much confusion, so many circles throughout the age of so many winding roads, twists and turns towards the point, never to reach the answers to straight forward, simple questions that I did beseech. Laughter Nervous sounds abound, they ring out their experiences, their life, they want to shout. They want to be set free, fly from your nervous mouth so they, that hear, that listen, can have no doubt what you, your sounds, your being is all about. To know, to see, what is buried beneath all those nervous sounds, sounds that dance upon the wings of all those sounds your voice, hesitatingly, sings. Songs of sad tales, of a troubled life with all its woes. And which of us ?, is he, or she, that truly knows. Life’s withering soul My beautiful Daughter, – Child of mine, this fragile rose bud- will bloom in time !, ? Sadness do I feel – the experience sublime ?, not in any reflection, not in this rhyme, for I see not but a severed broken stem and nothing I might do, nothing that I am will bring life’s forces from the roots to nourish, to give hope, to heal the shoots, feed this unrealized Rose, in bud, ready to bloom, whom I seldom see, talk with less, who hides in her room. I now see this unfulfilled Rose, withering on the thorny stem of her life, cut off by the selfish hand of this horny old man – a so called man – The reasons my life is so stormy. At times, the reasons – I do believe – for my troubled Child, are emotions, hormones, beliefs, desires and needs running wild, and from time to time, run me over, slap my face, knock me down. Nothing I say, nothing I do stops this cycle from going round and round with such force and energy, it knocks me to the ground as pain / anger, uncertainty / anger. frustration / anger become the sound that rings in piercing tones, from time to time, shattering my ear. It is so overwhelming at times, it is all that I seem to be able to hear. So the pain and heartache, I try to keep at bay, along with all my fear, as I wonder what will come, become ?, and fill the spaces of each year, for this Child, of my ancient seed, this Daughter, to me, so dear. My Blood, I would like to know, her soul I would like to be more near than a passing moment on the fly- pleasantries indicated, in passing by like scattered clouds- out of reach and vaporous –high in an uncertain sky as I watch – wondering why ? –, eyes filled with tears, trying not to cry. Praying that one day – before long – changes come, come before I die. B. J. “A” 2 July 9th 2002

Book: Reflection on the Important Things