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 the photo graphic, 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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The Evil Eye
The darkness, now descending, floods the city as it dies while shadows lurk in legions 'neath the looming Evil Eye. Its frozen stare envelops all, it penetrates and pries, denouncing loathed dissenters to the keepers in the sky. One’s inner thoughts are well descried before they’ve passed one’s lips and cruelly crushed with grim contempt twixt despots’ fingertips; but if no taboo-idea’s found, with which to come to grips, the stymied Eye dispenses pus as fabrication drips. The Eye peers down upon us now, to conquer and control, and mark our every movement, whether hiding in a hole or preening like a purple parrot perched upon a pole. Our welfare and our happiness? No, certainly not the goal. While phantoms fade, then reappear within the urban sprawl, the gloom (adorned with Evil Eyes which pierce the livid pall) pervades the ache and agony that poets sometimes scrawl of plenitude to penury, how life endures the fall. And should the herd dare whisper words of freedom's fragrant bloom or murmur sighs of worriment at earth's impending doom, the Evil Eye will squint a bit at those who so presume, condemning nascent unchained thoughts to wither in the womb. The Evil Eye bores everywhere, a tattletale to Kings, who scrutinize their puppet people, strumming on their strings, extracting secrets of their souls like spiders plucking wings that flutter with the hangman’s knot as the corpse of freedom swings. Yes, Princes rule with tungsten fists wherever they may roam and sip from golden goblets, nectar, sweet as honeycomb while peons (stripped of mind and soul) stray never far from home, with faces 'neath the iron boot, thrust deep below the loam. And peasants pass, parading by to fill the golden urn with pennies for the afterlife wherefore the faithful yearn, though screams of babes with empty eyes are never of concern to those who covet silver coins, eyes cold and taciturn. To hide the pains of purgatory, far-flung distant shores (on islands of containment) cache the dingy dungeon doors and inquisition water-boards that buoy their holy wars, while sandmen drape our eyes with dust, with rainbow metaphors. We’ll know the party's over when there's little left to eat and all the learned scholars, lean, stay silent when they meet - the Eye, withal, will spawn distrust on matters indiscreet. The signs are all around us - even sheep no longer bleat. Epilogue One sightless seer scans the skies and mourns the heretofore. Nine limbless men descend the stairs to find there is no floor. Eight tongueless women babble, telling tales of nevermore. Four earless children drown within the ocean's muted roar. When hope becomes defiance, ask: Will bedlam soon arrive? Will doves appear above us all? Or drones to guard the hive while fed with milk and honey by the Queen and kept alive to gut the gale below them? Will we let the Eye survive?
Copyright © 2020 Terry O'Leary. All Rights Reserved