While re-reading this poem I began to consider just how much power those words have in my life – may, might, should, could, would, must. How many times have I said “blah blah should have …” or something similar?

It is words like this that are invisible forces creating pressure in my life. Instead of either doing or not doing, these words put me into a place where I live in the past or the future but not in the present.

But the real question is what will I do now? First step is to stop dwelling on the past – out go “should have”, “could have” and “would have”. The second step is to stop living in the future, so out go “may”, “might” and “must”.

Now I will do some things and not do others – that’s it. After all every moment is a chance to make a new choice, and I choose not to be like Effie.

here is little Effie’s head

here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs

stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did-
you imagine his surprise

bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
-to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said

whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song
might i’m called and did no wrong

cried the third crumb, i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don’t punish us for we were good;

and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God, my name
is must and with the others i’ve
been Effie who isn’t alive

just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie’s little, in

(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjective crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs;
picture His peering biggest whey

coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way-
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed

with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering damned)
-staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day

cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread

ee cummings