Secrets of a Women’s Circle… a poem

There is an old magic that is reawakened in a circle of women.

A serpent of wisdom coils herself around the throats of those who sit in the spiraled dome.

She is called from ancestors past and blesses the voices of the ladies who bow to her grace.
Hurricanes of heroic emotion poured into this spiraled mouth.

Unfiltered. Honest.

 Each queen inhaling the other’s breathe.

They share breath.

They share a heart.

She shares her Self.

There is an old magic that is spoken in the circle of women.

Stories of pain are weaved with wells of love, knitted with tightly bound secrets.

These are the secrets of women.

Secrets that create worlds.

Secrets that spellbind men.

Secrets that shake shadows.

These spoken words are the milk they bathe their spirits in.

A vibration of wizardry that is swallowed through the chest, sung through throat and cackled out of the belly.

Ah, the cackles. Witch’s medicine.

Heads thrown backwards, forwards, sideways and twisted into one another with orgasms of laughter.
Bodies jolted, tresses whipped and dripped, chakras reunited and hips opened.

They are wild once more.

Animal totems step forth as walls disappear.

There is no time. No place. Only spirits.

Only women.
Only a magic that is so old it was carved by the stars.

A sorcery of sacredness that has long been swimming in their blood.

There is an old magic that still exists in the circles of women.

It is here.

It is to be honored and sealed by the devotion of sisters under the watchful protection of Luna.

It is a seeker’s practice.

It is for the maiden, mother and crone.

It is tradition.

It is connection.

It is history.

It is yours.

Step into the women’s circle and you shall know it’s secrets.

Become the women’s circle and you shall hold it’s magic.

… by Tara Minshull (used with permission)