Monday, November 24, 2014


"The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night,
Ya-honk!  he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation:
The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer,
I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky."
-   Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1855, I Celebrate Myself, Line 238

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

My ETSY shop is open again!

I have finally opened my ETSY shop again after having it closed for 4 months while I moved. Much of my work was in storage for 2 years so it hasn't been available all that time. But I have it all together now thankfully. I still have a lot of work I will be listing in coming months that was in galleries previously and never available on ETSY so I am excited about that. I need to get my camera out and start photographing it all for the listings. Here are a few samples of my collage and jewelry work from my ETSY shop.

Come visit! https://www.etsy.com/shop/MaureenTillman?ref=si_shop











Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Queen Anne's Lace


I've been away from this blog too long. I moved this summer and it has been taking me a long time to get settled, thus I have been neglecting my blog.  I chose this place because it backs up on a forest and I can expect to see lots of wildlife. I saw a fox in my backyard the other day.



This piece is my newest compilation. I started by taking photos of the Queen Anne's Lace that stood so tall and elegant along the forest edge bordering my yard. I was delighted by all the different, beautiful, delicate stages of the seed heads. Truly breathtaking.


Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Among Women by Marie Ponsot

What women wander?
Not many. All. A few.
Most would, now and then,
and no wonder.
Some, and I’m one,
Wander sitting still.
My small grandmother
Bought from every peddler
Less for the ribbons and lace
Than for their scent
Of sleep where you will,
Walk out when you want, choose
Your bread and your company.

She warned me, “Have nothing to lose.”

She looked fragile but had
High blood, runner’s ankles,
Could endure, endure.
She loved her rooted garden, her
Grand children, her once
Wild once young man.
Women wander
As best they can

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

An April Night by Lucy Maud Montgomery

The moon comes up o'er the deeps of the woods,
And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills,
Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds
Over the pools and the whimpering rills;

And with her the mists, like dryads that creep
From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid springs,
Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep,
With the wind on the hills their gay revellings.

Down on the marshlands with flicker and glow
Wanders Will-o'-the-Wisp through the night,
Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago
By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light.

The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear,
Akin to all eerie and elfin things,
Who weaves about us in meadow and mere

The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.

Friday, March 7, 2014

Thatched Cottage at Sunset

Just a vestige of my ancient Irish roots in honor of the upcoming St. Patrick's Day!
                                       Erin go Bragh!

http://fineartamerica.com/featured/thatched-cottage-at-sunset-maureen-tillman.html?newartwork=true

Saturday, February 22, 2014

February: Thinking of Flowers by Jane Kenyon

Now wind torments the field,
turning the white surface back
on itself, back and back on itself,
like an animal licking a wound.

Nothing but white--the air, the light;
only one brown milkweed pod
bobbing in the gully, smallest
brown boat on the immense tide.

A single green sprouting thing
would restore me. . . .

Then think of the tall delphinium,
swaying, or the bee when it comes

to the tongue of the burgundy lily.
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