Larry Garland - not in Kansas any more . . .
 

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Larry Garland in Brief

There was a time I sought to be a poet/
Believing verse was in my soul, wanting out/
But to become a bard I had to intuit/
Poetry is my soul, winging about/

I’m a wordsmith. I’ve written or edited the words of leading CEOs and the reports of global companies destined for stockholders or regulators of the world’s largest financial institutions. The technical writing and editing are my advanced training. But, I’ve also authored nationally appearing poetry and short stories in print and online media. Still, when it comes right down to it, I’m just a Southern storyteller. Now, that’s where my heart is, and that’s what I'm all about.

Feb
8

Paris Found, Paris Lost

written by Larry Garland
- February 8th, 2009
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Recently, my partner and I went to see the movie Revolutionary Road, which stars Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.
 
As a married couple with young children, the protagonists have settled for less in their lives than they imagined they would—settling, literally, in suburbia. The wife dreams of moving the family to Paris, finding their true paths, [...]

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Posted In: Shattered
Feb
6

written by Larry Garland
- February 6th, 2009
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GARLANDblog
 
 What follows are my Southern-tinged observations (a blog, if you will) on the world around me, largely in and about New York City—my personal Oz. 
 
THE JOURNEY
Artists can take black and white, divvy it up and parcel it out in shapes and shades of gray that paint the past, or just some rural scene—depicting times and [...]

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Posted In: dreams

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From One of My Book Manuscripts …

"Why pay large salaries to older, more experienced employees who may have lost their religious zeal when there is always a fresh market of beautiful, youthful men and women, novitiates cloaked in exuberance, who can be primed by use of just a few dollars to contribute an offering of long hours and weekends in their own search for the Holy Grail?"

… And Another selection From A Different Book to Come

It was more of a vibration right at the cusp of hearing than a definite sound. It possessed a unique tone that suggested human voices just out of range, as if those moaning morning presses had their own story to tell—if only man’s senses were a bit more acute.

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