Write a letter to your 100-year-old self.
Dear Me,
As you know, this isn’t the real letter.
Check the notebook, you know which one.
Love & Hugs
Myself & I
P.S.: Arigo’s and The High Sem ❤️
So, about that…
What were your parents doing at your age?
So there was this planet, see.
It was a pretty blue and a mountainous green.
It had weather and nature and ecosystems,
White rhinos, coral reefs, and bees.
And there was this generation.
A very numerous generation.
So numerous, they were named after their numerosity.
And The Numerous had everything they could wish for, materially;
In comparison to everyone else before them, that is.
And this Numerous Generation looked at the blue planet
So pretty and healthy and green
The planet with the good weather, the ecosystems,
And all those necessary bees
They looked and probed and satellite and decided:
Nice little planet you have there.
Shame if something would happen to it…
And they happened to it.
All at once.
All the time.
Everywhere.
Now, The Numerous (and their 2.0s) will tell you:
Everyone uses plastics!
Cars are amazing!
You’re one to talk!
How were we to know?
Why are you making this a thing?
Or they will use words like “ungrateful” and “whiny” and “weak”.
Some (many) do love the blue planet dearly.
And they try, sincerely, to save it
To keep it clean.
But too many of The Numerous (and their 2.0s) couldn’t give two figs
About whether the only home we have still exists
Once they no longer have use of it.
And that is a crying sin shame.
© 2025 threegoodwords
1.01
I am growing my garden
Tomatoes, potatoes
Carrots and peas
Pumpkins and squash
An orange tree
Lemons and roses
Flowers for bees
And apples in the orchard
I am growing my garden
Tending and touching
Digging and cutting
Laying out straw
Hoping the slugs don’t eat it all
I am growing my garden
Now the world broke apart
and is ready to fall.
© 2025 threegoodwords
Night Owl
There is a silence at night, a deep stillness, that allows the mind to open wide into the universe …
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Listen…
This space where
rather than converse
we talk write text
at each other
not to, forget with
one / another
masses of individuals
so many I-s so many Me-s
screaming soundless
endlessly into the void
hoping for a response
but all that bounces back ping-ping-ping
is the echo of our own voices ding-ding-ding
ricochets and rebounds
off of each other
over and over and over and over and over
(why am I so tired?)
and over again
until the onslaught of words
congeals;
that deafening silence.
In the distance
longed for desperately
written about once again
murmurs of actual conversation –
©2021 threegoodwords
three good words 