by Maura A. Conlon Her body could wait no longer. That’s how it happens, how a woman Leaves for the hills or the sea, when the One she loves is lured by quicksand,  The quest for heroics, needing to be a lauded one. But far below his crown ascendant shimmered  the sweetest red rose, Perhaps you can smell it, the one—in another lifetime—he might Have draped along her smooth thigh  at night, Peering into her eyes,  Trusting, finally, his own tidal song, how She’d stood at the water’s edge, all along. Waiting. –September swirls, and the sunset sea bathes her body...

by Maura A. Conlon Her studio glows like Grand Central Station in the middle of a plaza in the middle of some Ocean in the middle of the world Astronomers come by for coffee, unfurl their charts Metro bus drivers pull up seeking change for a $20 while composers and candle makers wire light with music as they sit atop the dark. Wild blue wind stirs jagged palm fronds as fashion designers circle Matisse-like pillows and speak of new lines of tartan skirts pleated just above the knees. At the end of the day which never ends Ireland hums a...

Vince Scully was a bard, a storyteller, a conduit beaming out to many the athletic prowess dancing upon the green fields below him. My parents had moved from NYC to Los Angeles in the 1950s, the same time the Brooklyn Dodgers made themselves similar transplants. An eager journalist, I called Dodger Stadium one day to inquire if Mr. Scully might be available for an interview to be published in Orange Coast Magazine. Honoring this conversation with him in the Dodgers press box from nearly 40 years ago. Rest in the green fields of peace, Mr. Scully. Read the article here...

Images tap into the root of our soul, the place of our longing, where we remember how we belong to a force of love greater than what can be uttered upon our tongue. A simple bow to the light that sustains us, to the flow that reminds how each step we take with our hearts illuminated creates new hopeful patterns within the dance of life. Love, Maura...

Our family has loved and lived close to the ocean for generations. Here, sitting, are my great grandmother, originally from Germany, with her daughter, my Nana, and then her daughter, my mother, Mary (maybe age 18 then) all upon the sands of the Atlantic Ocean. Along side stands Uncle Mike. Breezy Point, NY was our family’s ocean place for decades. Family and friends enjoyed the beach bungalow on Oceanside Avenue from1933 to just a few years ago when it was time to let it go.  “All you need in Breezy Point is your bathing suit,”my Nana once said. When my...