Atomyriades
Nature, it seems is the popular name
for milliards and milliards and milliards
of particles playing their infinite game
of billiards and billiards and billiards.
Related quotes
We're playing strip billiards.
quote by Roger Vadim
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Simple Enemy
Simple enemies collide when drunk as drunkards,
They play with their souls like a game of billiards.
poem by Naveed Akram
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I learned to approach racing like a game of billiards. If you bash the ball too hard, you get nowhere. As you handle the cue properly, you drive with more finesse.
quote by Juan Manuel Fangio
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thus so wretched is man that he would weary even without any cause for weariness... and so frivolous is he that, though full of a thousand reasons for weariness, the least thing, such as playing billiards or hitting a ball, is sufficient enough to amuse him.
quote by Blaise Pascal
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It is impossible to imagine Goethe or Beethoven being good at billiards or golf.
quote by H.L. Mencken
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Butterfly Rests on A Cannon in The War Zone
Hey! My little creature
It's not a tree trunk
And not the perfect game.
(Hitting of two balls in one shot in billiards.)
Please go away and rest somewhere.
Be alert! When handsome Man operates the Toy!
You hear the nasty sound
And the fire ball flies and hit on the other side.
Do not get misunderstand
That inferno isn't a New Dawn!
* Merry Christmas to our brother soldiers who play with Human conspicuously!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Any Other Time
ALL of us play our very best game—
Any other time.
Golf or billiards, it’s all the same—
Any other time.
Lose a match and you always say,
“Just my luck! I was ‘off’ to-day!
I could have beaten him quite half-way—
Any other time!”
After a fiver you ought to go—
Any other time.
Every man that you ask says “Oh,
Any other time.
Lend you a fiver! I’d lend you two,
But I’m overdrawn and my bills are due,
Wish you’d ask me—now, mind you do—
Any other time!”
Fellows will ask you out to dine—
Any other time.
“Not to-night, for we’re twenty-nine —
Any other time.
Not to-morrow, for cook’s on strike,
Not next day, I’ll be out on the bike —
Just drop in whenever you like —
Any other time!”
Seasick passengers like the sea—
Any other time.
“Something . . I ate . . disagreed . . with me!
Any other time
Ocean-trav’lling is . . simply bliss,
Must be my . . liver . . has gone amiss . .
Why, I would . . laugh . . at a sea . . like this—
Any other time.”
Most of us mean to be better men—
Any other time:
Regular upright characters then—
Any other time.
Yet somehow as the years go by
Still we gamble and drink and lie,
When it comes to the last we’ll want to die—
Any other time!
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Life is short
It seems you forgot, our life is short.
There is no time to beg or extort for support.
Learn how to live yourself.
Take a book from the shelf and…
Delicately leafing page after page
you will find a wood sage.
People are like books,
some of them are good,
some of them are bad,
some of them are just mad,
some of them are not sassy,
they look more glassy,
they are not gassy,
they are classy
like books on the shelf
waiting for a warm hand.
Milliards of people are on the Land,
each one needs the right hand
so that to open it like a book and read.
If you manage to do it
you’ll succeed to learn a lot.
Remembering that life is short
you’ll learn how to burn the useless things,
how to leave the one without a gun
who troubles brings,
how to live with those you adore,
And… much much more.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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The prisons bless
It was the happiest week
for him,
who 10 years has survived in trap of Siberia.
ex-oligarch who sacrifaced
own milliards for justise and future great nation.
The comendant of prison
suddenly after sanrising
did sent him nice slice of chocolade
and ordered
for often meeting with relates
on the eve of Crismas.
Who knows
what fanny things got run
right now
on the far Moskow?
Maybe he is relly
the future president of Russian
this new Nelson Mandella?
Dasnt history want to play with us new trick?
Let fhanks us and forgive if so.
If we did sometimes wrong things for him
according with secreet demand of high body -
forgive, please us, for holly blankness.
Maybe we need to prepare
to open the myzeum of modern history of Russian
just In this place
where such man as Khodorkovski so long prisoned?
Heaven cake.
What is the iron ironia of history!
poem by Zamir Osorov
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A Great Player!
Is man playing with Nature?
Or Nature playing with man?
Man by his mind wants all;
He wants all under his control.
But can man control Nature?
Action and reaction are equal!
The more man plays with Nature
The more Nature replies by play!
Winter snow is too much for man;
Summer heat is too much for man;
Why have they become too much?
Man has meddled with resources
Nature has provided for man
And the reaction of Nature is high!
Rules of game man has to learn;
Then only he can win in the game;
Until then Nature is the great player!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Milton
with apologies to Lord Tennyson
O swallow-tailed purveyor of college sprees,
O skilled to please the student fraternity,
Most honoured publican of Scotland,
Milton, a name to adorn the Cross Keys;
Whose chosen waiters, Samuel, Archibald,
Helped by the boots and marker at billiards,
Wait, as the smoke-filled, crowded chamber
Rings to the roar of a Gaelic chorus—
Me rather all those temperance hostelries,
The soda siphon fizzily murmuring,
And lime fruit juice and seltzer water
Charm, as a wanderer out in South Street,
Where some recruiting, eager Blue-Ribbonites
Spied me afar and caught by the Post Office,
And crimson-nosed the latest convert
Fastened the odious badge upon me.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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The Poet At Seventeen
My youth? I hear it mostly in the long, volleying
Echoes of billiards in the pool hall where
I spent it all, extravagantly, believing
My delicate touch on a cue would last for years.
Outside the vineyards vanished under rain,
And the trees held still or seemed to hold their breath
When the men I worked with, pruning orchards, sang
Their lost songs: Amapola; La Paloma;
Jalisco; No Te Rajes -- the corny tunes
Their sons would just as soon forget, at recess,
Where they lounged apart in small groups of their own.
Still, even when they laughed, they laughed in Spanish.
I hated high school then, & on weekends drove
A tractor through the widowed fields. It was so boring
I memorized poems above the engine's monotone.
Sometimes whole days slipped past without my noticing.
And birds of all kinds flew in front of me then.
I learned to tell them apart by their empty squabblings,
The slightest change in plumage, or the inflection
Of a call. And why not admit it? I was happy.
Then, I believed in no one. I had the kind
Of solitude the world usually allows
Only to kings & criminals who are extinct,
Who disdain this world, & who rot, corrupt & shallow
As fields I disced: I turned up the same gray
Earth for years. Still, the land made a glum raisin
Each autumn, & made that little hell of days --
The vines must have seemed like cages to the Mexicans.
Who were paid seven cents a tray for the grapes
They picked. Inside the vines it was hot, & spiders
Strummed their emptiness. Black Widow, Daddy Longlegs.
The vine canes whipped our faces. None of us cared.
And the girls I talked to after class
Sailed by, then each night lay enthroned in my bed,
With nothing on but the jewels of their embarrassment.
Eyes, lips, dreams. No one. The sky & the road.
A life like that? It seemed to go on forever --
Reading poems in school, then driving a stuttering tractor
Warm afternoons, then billiards on blue October
Nights. The thick stars. But mostly now I remember
The trees, wearing their mysterious yellow sullenness
Like party dresses. And parties I didn't attend.
And then the first ice hung like spider lattices
Or the embroideries of Great Aunt No One,
And then the first dark entering the trees --
And inside, the adults with their cocktails before dinner,
The way they always seemed afraid of something,
And sat so rigidly, although the land was theirs.
poem by Larry Levis
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La Lune Du Midi
C’est une moitié de l’hostie sacrée
Dans le firmament bleu clair;
Un demi-cercle suspendu dans l’air
Comme un cerf-volant entouré de nuées.
Cet appareil enregistre tout: la nuit et la journée.
Tous les événements en sont bien documentés:
Les crimes contre l’humanité,
Les grandes et petites vêpres, les péchés
Des tyrans, les injustices, les assassinassions,
Les bonnes et mauvaises exactions.
Ce miroir qui luit le jour
Et qui, la nuit, éclaire les épines des orangers,
Est un énigme pour
Les astronomes et les poètes intoxiqués.
La lune du midi est souvent inaperçue;
Elle est mystérieusement subtile.
Elle enregistre les choses utiles et inutiles
Naturellement avec sa longue vue.
C’est un cerf-volant suspendu
A dix milliards de mètres des ondes en chimère;
Un demi-cercle sacré, une hostie semi fondue
Sur les papilles des jeunes visionnaires.
poem by Hebert Logerie
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To a Friend
ADAM, because on the mind's roads
Your mouth is always in a hurry,
Because you know odes
And ways to make a curry,
Because you fall in love with words
And whistle beauty forth to kiss them,
And blow the tails from China birds
Whilst I continually miss them,
Because you top my angry best
At billiards, fugues or pulling corks out,
And whisk a fritter from its nest
Before there's time to hand the forks out,
Because you saw the Romans wink,
Because your senses dance to metre,
Because, no matter what I drink,
You'll hold at least another litre,
Because you've got a gipsy's eye
That melts the rage of catamountains,
And metaphors that pass me by
Burst from your lips in lovely fountains,
Because you've bitten the harsh foods
Of life, grabbed every dish that passes,
And walked amongst the multitudes
Without the curse of looking-glasses,
Because I burn the selfsame flame
No falls of dirty earth may smother,
Oh, in your Abbey of Thélème,
Enlist me as a serving-brother!
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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The Village Green Preservation Society
We are the village green preservation society
God save donald duck, vaudeville and variety
We are the desperate dan appreciation society
God save strawberry jam and all the different varieties
Preserving the old ways from being abused
Protecting the new ways for me and for you
What more can we do
We are the draught beer preservation society
God save mrs. mopp and good old mother riley
We are the custard pie appreciation consortium
God save the george cross and all those who were awarded them
We are the sherlock holmes english speaking vernacular
Help save fu manchu, moriarty and dracula
We are the office block persecution affinity
God save little shops, china cups and virginity
We are the skyscraper condemnation affiliate
God save tudor houses, antique tables and billiards
Preserving the old ways from being abused
Protecting the new ways for me and for you
What more can we do
God save the village green.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Of Dust!
and so, this morning,
we talk of dust...
tiny particles
that contain universes,
cosmos, and non-thought.
formed from nothing,
to nothing we return.
infinite nothing...
and love be but the light,
shimmering,
on tiny particles
of dust!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hearts That Love Nature
Hearts that love nature
will be eternaly young,
eternal and immortal
like the nature itself,
which never dies to this
loving, beating heart,
nature that is alive
in the air that we breathe,
in the crowning glory of
the sun rising from
amidst the depths of the horizon;
Nature that is immortal,
the songs of the nightingale
and the cuckoo and the songbird,
will ring out in harmony
for infinite years,
the melody will keep playing
even when dust is created
and destroyed to dust,
hearts that feel nature
will become nature and live on,
amidst the vast sky
of splendour and elegance,
within the deepest corners
of the infinite oceans,
along on the breeze
that blows across this land;
Hearts that love nature
will be eternally young and immortal,
will strive in peace and silence,
the calmness and tranquility,
of merging with mother nature,
born again with
the leaves of new birth,
those fresh blossoms of spring,
whose scent is divine perfume
to this awakening earth,
and our hearts will be one,
playing gently on those meadows
surrounded by diasies that
once intrigued great poets of the past,
and we remain young and
immortal, forever...
poem by Amatulla Mohammadi
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Cheap Date
wasted youth on
being wasted
tasting the lips of liars
with checkered pasts
playing the game
not playing the game
being game
taming
the shrew
I liked to shop
hunting for bargains
hunting for game
game over
he was no bargain
what is the price
you'll pay?
at what cost?
poem by L.K. Thayer
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Infinite Consciousness
Perception of solidity
is the brain’s interpretation of
various frequencies
Received as biochemical and
electrical signals from the
physical senses
Which the mind weaves into
the beautiful illusions of
reality
Consciousness energy creates the
universe by projecting through
the interference patterns of
waves of energy
We and all we perceive are manifestations
of the consciousness which created
this - our universe
In fact, we ARE this consciousness that always is,
that is never gained or lost, that only changes form
We are part of Infinite Consciousness while
physical form is just a receptacle, particles
which began as infinite possibilities in the
wave-interference-pattern
When conscious energy is applied like light
shining on a three-dimensional holographic
image, the particles become fixed in time
and space to create the illusion which
we call The Universe
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The Unmoved Mover, see who am I!
The Unmoved Mover!
The universe that moving,
The universe that is changing,
The universe that is playing,
Projecting and hiding,
Playing that hide and seek,
Who is that hides and who is that seeks,
Who is that moving the infinite universe?
The one, who that can Be moved by prayers,
Does he really move,
And can He move, before He move worlds for us?
He is infinite, filling all space,
Can he move the universe,
can he move it without the space
Can He move it without 'Time'
When He fills the space,
how can he move himself
or how can he move something in space?
He is the Unmoved Mover of universe,
He himself created room,
He Himself moved Himself in Himself
Creating Himself the time and space,
He Himself manifested at different points
And keeping space between these points,
Infinite He split himself into elements
five or a few
And created particles and forces between,
That expanded matter and space,
Created events,
so that the time has any meaning,
He Himself became nucleotides and cells,
Joined them as building blocks,
To build house for himself,
And became homesick always,
Yet wept for his lost glory and beauty,
Wanted to have back all that lost and hide,
When He was busy in building a nest for own!
He was thinker without brain,
And He is that,
He is I am,
'I am' is he,
If you ask 'who are you thee and
where are you thee? '
He replies, Iam tree in this tree,
I am the stone in this stone,
I am the star in this star,
Iam the air in atmosphere,
Iam the water in rivers and ocean,
I am the bacteria in this bacterial house,
Iam the bull in this bulls body,
I am the grass at your feet,
I am you in your body,
I am that in which I feel,
When you ask me who are me,
I say I a proud Hindu,
Or I say I am a proud sikh
Or I am a proud muslim
Or I am proud Christian,
Or A proud Aryan But I fail to say,
I am humble human,
Iam like point in infinite
universe, and is a child of God, all
are his children, so we are
brother and sisters!
And I am that infinite when I am in my own infinite glory and infinite beauty!
Look through you, I look at myself,
Look around, I look at myself from all around,
Look I am talking to myself,
I am that call myself as you when I see from that point from this point of space and time, both which have no existence without my folly in wisdom or wisdom in folly!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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