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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A View From A Window
The dawn unfolds beyond my fractured windowpane and breezes tease while drapes, like serpents, slip aside exposing worlds that race and run aground, insane, displaying scenes obscene that savants strive to mask and hide. Outside, the streets are stark (last night they seemed so cruel when demons danced as lanterns 'lumed the lynching tree - its shadow shuddered, lurking in my vestibule - within the night, I sense these things I sometimes cannot see). Perdu in darkened doorways (those which watch the ones that weep) men hide their shame in crevices in search of cloaked relief. The ladies of the evening leave (their time to sleep!) the alleyways, retaining bitter tastes of untold grief. Soon drifters (distraught dregs that stray from street to street) abandon benches, squat on curbstones some call home, appeal to strangers for a coin or simple bite to eat - refused… gaze down… left empty-handed in the morning gloam. Observe with me, beyond my fractured windowpane, the boy with crooked smile - the one who's seen the beast - with tears, he stoops and clasps the cross while wiping off the stain - the abbey door along the lane conceals a pious priest. While at the mall, Mike sees some cigs, and stealth'ly steals a pack; the Man, observing, thinks ‘Hey Boy, this caper calls for blood’, takes aim, then shoots the fated stripling eight times in the back. Come, mourn for Mike and brother Justice, facedown in the mud. Fatigued and bored, some kids harass the alley now - to pass the time, Joe smokes a joint and Lizzy snorts a line; computer games (which quake with doom) can help somehow, so Eric plays with Dylan on the road to Columbine. The shanty towns have hunkered down as if in mortal sport while broken bodies' shattered bones repose supine, and mamas (now bereft of child) in anguished pain contort, their eyes drip drops of wrath which wither on a twisted vine. Now Mr Baxter, private bankster (cruising down the road, pursuing profit pushers, waving magic mushroom wands), adores addiction to the bailout (coffers overflowed) and jests with all the junkies, while he's dealing with the bonds. Marauders man the marketplace (with billions guaranteed) while kids with swollen bellies beg neath hollow sunken eyes, and (cut to naught) the down-and-out (like trodden beet roots) bleed. Life's carousel invites us all, though few can ring the prize. A washerwoman, timeworn, totters from the tram - she shuffles to her hovel on a lonesome distant hill, despondent, shuts the shutters, downs her final dram - a magpie quickly picks at crumbs forsaken on the sill. Jihadist and Crusader warders faithfully guard the gates, behead impious infidels, else burn them at the stake (yes, God incites each side for good, the other side He hates), with saintly satisfaction gained provoking pagan ache. The watchers pry behind our fractured windowpanes inspect us all, tear down the walls of privacy controlling every point of view opinion entertains, forbidding thoughts one mustn't think, with which they don’t agree. Come, cast a furtive glance… there's something in the far… from towns to dunes in deserts dry, the welkin belches sudden death by dint of soulless drones that stalk beneath a straying star erasing life in random ways in freedom’s final breath. But closer lies an island, where the keepers keep the wards. No sense, no charges nor defense - a verdict? Yes! … grotesque - the guiltless gush confessions, born and bred on waterboards. Impartial trials? A travesty instead, indeed quite Kafkaesque. Now dusk draws near beyond my fractured windowpane while mankind drowns like burnt-out suns in fading lurid light; and scarlet clots of grim deceit and ebon beads of bane flow, deified, within the rotting corpse of human night.
Copyright © 2020 Terry O'Leary. All Rights Reserved