Memories of 1968: The Silent Bells of Spring

In 1968, the news each night showed violence.  It was the beginning of social change.  What did man do to humanity?  The war in Vietnam brought tallies of total killed on each side, morbid.  Afterwards, clips are shown of riots of war protestors with some violent and others with “Hippies” sticking flowers in the barrels of the guns of the National Guard who were there to keep the peace, ironic.  Another kind of movement was happening.  For a country founded on freedom where all were not free, the battle was just getting started.  From the ghettos of large cities, men were coming out rioting for freedom and equality.  The evening news made it look like the nation was full of violence.  We watched the riots every night.

In Puddin Swamp, S. C., it was quiet.  As in many small rural areas across the country, there were no riots and life went on as usual.  In our small town, we were losing young men to the war in Vietnam and many young men dreaded the draft while others joined the military with a patriotic heart.   On the farm where I grew up, we did our work, went to school, enjoyed playing, attended church faithfully, and prayed.  There was a small forest beside our house, and I had a special tree in those woods where I would sit to daydream and try to make sense of the world shown on the evening news.  It was on the branch of my special tree that I found my own answers to life with only the whispers of the woods and wind around me.

In April of 1968, a man who loved his people, nation, and God was killed.  He was a great speaker and leader.   He asked for no riots, but the youth with no hope rioted anyway.   As news spread of his death, many grieved quietly and others took over the streets of large cities.  On the evening news, I remember how his death was overshadowed by the rage of riots.  I remember feeling sad for his family and tried to understand why riot and destroy.  It was impossible for a young girl in the rural south to understand, because I did not grow up in the ghetto where there were no jobs and no hope for a better future.   So, I wrote a poem for this man, Martin Luther King.  I have never shared it, so on the weekend that is set aside as his day, here is the poem I wrote in April 1968.

The Silent Bells of Spring

On this dark windy night,

The whistle of the wind on the trees

Is a part of the life of mankind.

In the country alone it becomes

A close friend to the man.

The crickets, once again,

In their joy for the warmth of the Spring,

Are a singing to mates of a new.

In the country alone the old man

Does listen with a smile.

As the word of the death

Of a man of great freedom and peace,

Go to the ears of the world; the silence

Of the death is around the small world,

In the country a weep.

The whistle of the wind

Is all gone.  The crickets are silent.

Do they know of the loss of this man?

If they do, it is told by Silent Bells,

Which do ring for lost men.

                                                by Rose Ellen 4/4/1968