I remember my first semester in grad school taking fifteen hours.

I remember working in a just opened pub checking proof and reading A Clockwork Orange.

I remember reading twelve hours a day with a baby and another one on the way.

I remember the job became an everyday of the week thing as the bar took off.

I remember not sleeping.

I remember how that made me feel.

I remember my draft status at that time changed from 2S to IA which meant I was Eligible.

I remember what that made me feel like.

I remember that my thoughts were becoming jumbled, hazy, mixed up in class and out.

I remember listening to the college clarion chime the early morning hours as I read another endless Victorian novel.

I remember literature into movies, my favorite class.

I remember Mixing up sentiments from Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist and Traven’s Treasure of Sierra Madre and somehow the observation about negative influence Catholicism was pertinent to both books.

I remember feeling like the two men and a woman in Jules et Jim driving off the harbor to drown together.

I remember seeing Who’s Afraid of Virgina Woolf at the Stanely Theatre in Utica.

I remember how the audience thought it was a comedy, laughing all the way to just before the end.

I remember them not getting the question and answer, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? I am.

I remember thinking I was too; afraid that is.

I remember seeing The Good, the Bad and the Ugly there as well, my first Eastwood movie.

I remember the first time I heard Warren Zevon singing Knock, Knock, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.

I remember the first open coffin funeral I went to.

I remember it was a Sonny Corleone experience I never wanted to relive but here I am doing it.

I remember thinking I could write books, novels in the modern Barthelme, Coover mode and make money doing it.

I remember how many years it took to disabuse myself of that absurd notion.

I remember playing The Association song, “Requiem for the Masses” and the B side, “Pandora’s Heebie Jeebies” on all the college bar jukeboxes in Utica.

I remember in grad school hearing that Kurt Vonnegut’s brother taught Physics at the State University of New York at Albany that I was attending.

I remember Bernard Vonnegut, the Physicist, was largely responsible for the theory and execution of cloud seeding.

I remember never meeting him.

I remember almost meeting Kurt but not quite.

I remember Kurt worked at GE Schenectady and lived there  though not in the same neighborhood I was living in.

I remember Vonnegut’s novel, Player Piano, as a fictionalized account of working for GE.

I remember how much he hated it.

I remember how GE outsourced twenty or so thousand jobs from the plant in the 70’s and effectively killed the city.

I remember thinking Kurt would have said, “So it goes.”

I remember hearing Kubrick planned to move Australia after releasing Dr. Strangelove.

I remember Kubrick fearing for his life, career, and his family’s security after filming Clockwork Orange.

I remember the first six times I saw Strangelove in a theater.

I remember Seven Days in May.

I remember Fail Safe.

I remember the Cuban Missile Crisis.

I remember thinking I would not live to see 25 years of age.

I remember when I was 25 at The Blue Note record shop in Albany buying Vintage 45’s to put on my jukebox in the tavern I now ran two years after reading Clockwork Orange checking proof at the door.

I remember scoring a Philadelphia orchestra conducted by Ormandy version of the Star-Spangled Banner.

I remember putting it on the jukebox under the title Fear and Loathing in America.

I remember playing that every night at closing along with “moving music” Blues in F.

I remember that no one ever found it on jukebox.

I remember thinking it wasn’t really that hard to spot the ringer but no one ever did.

I remember some extremely tempting offers from sorority pledges to reveal the secret location but I never would.

I remember submitting poems and stories for three plus years while working and alternately attending and dropping out of grad school.

I remember nothing ever being accepted.

I remember how excited I was when The Iowa Review, edited by my literary hero at the time, Robert Coover accepted my story, “All the Coney Islands of the Mind.”

I remember the hand-written rejection for the Chicago Review comparing my story favorably with Samuel Beckett’s writing the same week.  

I remember the handwritten not I got from Iowa Review assistant editor at the time, T.C. Boyle, regretting that the Review had to trim the acceptances for financial reasons and mine was one of those to go.

I remember keeping that note and thinking I should frame it the way Byron had a human skull on his writing desk he often drank wine from.

I remember when Woody Allen movies were funny.

I remember phone calls I got at work where I told no one ever to call me.

I remember my uncle telling me my mother was arrested.

I remember he told me in a matter of fact, composed way I could never summon under those circumstances, that she tried to kill their mother and that the hearing was later that week.

I remember that was the longest chapter, a prelude, or the hell portion, leading up to my personal book of the dead.

I remember six or seven years later the call from the New York City Police department with regards to the case of BJC.

I remember asking the detective, “What has she done now?”

I remember him telling me someone from your precinct will be by to deliver the news in person.

I remember telling him we don’t have precincts Upstate.

I remember thinking for the first time that no matter how worldly, how streetwise most NYC policemen were, they have an extremely insular frame of reference and near total ignorance of all things not immediate NYC metro area.

I remember the detective told me that someone would be by from your department then to tell me the news.

I remember I knew what that meant.

I remember the rookie, fresh faced, nervous as all hell, kid from the police department ringing my door bell and not knowing what to say.

I remember saying, “She dead, isn’t she?”

I remember how relived he was that already knew and he wouldn’t have to break the bad news.

I remember how relieved I was and that it wasn’t really bad news.

I remember thinking a few months later that you never know what troubles are until the real troubles begin.

I remember a line in my first chapter in my Books of the Dead that said, “There wasn’t enough        scotch in Manhattan to completely drown that feeling (of what it was like to imagine what he life had been locked into a dismal dark hotel room in midtown Manhattan) And there never would be.

I remember when No Trump was just a bridge bid.

I remember the first time I formed an opinion about Trump was when an TV interviewer told him how beautiful his new wife, Marla Maples was and Trump replied, “You should see her naked.”

I remember high school.

I remember how much I hated remembering high school until I finally had a girlfriend my junior year.

I remember writing a poem in English class , An Ode to a Shopping Cart, as a joke and Sir Sev, Marty to his friends after graduation, allowed that it wasn’t half-bad.

I remember thinking maybe I could do better if I actually tried.

I remember of such humble beginnings an apprenticeship begins.

I remember thinking despite having hundreds of poems accepted in the early 80’s, I really had no idea what I was doing until I wrote a series of poems about seeing my mother at Pilgrim State.

I remember how those poems came, almost whole in a white-hot stream of elevated consciousness unlike anything I had ever experienced previously.

I remember the chapbook of these collected poems was first runner up in The Looking Gladd Chapbook contest and was published by Pudding Publications.

I remember the titles poem, Visiting Day on the Psychiatric Ward was the most republished poem I have ever written including in an anthology by the NIH.

I remember after a decade of frustration and book rejections publishing two chapbooks and a full-length “bar book” in consecutive months in the early 80’s.  

I remember the full-length book was to be the first of a five-volume set of bar-books to be called Animal Acts after the first volume.

I remember the contract the publisher sent em, to sign for those books that he hadn’t signed yet.

I remember not thinking at the time maybe that was a bad omen.

I remember the assistant football coach who came into the tavern I was working in after a division three contest with Albany State.

I remember how he took an ungodly amount of loose change from his pocket and put it on the bar and ordered, “the cheapest draft you’ve got.”

I remember him counting out exact change in dimes and nickels for each beer.

I remember he was the only person in the bar at the time and we shot the shit.

I remember  making the mistake, it’s always a mistake, of saying I wrote when I wasn’t working.

I remember he asked me if I knew T.C. Boyle who was Tom when he was an undergrad.

I remember Boyle had changed his name to T.C. to, if nothing else, to disassociate himself from the crazy over-the -top drunken drug abusing wild man that he was.  

I remember telling him we had briefly corresponded when he was a grad student but I didn’t; keep it up.

I remember coach said they were good friends when they were undergrads.

I remember trying to envision what that one-sided friendship must have been like.

I remember thinking what could the enfant terrible of, rising star of the literary world have in common with this terminal jock type who had risen to the pinnacle of his career as an assistant coach at a division three school?

I remember thinking it couldn’t have been much more complicated than beer, booze, and babes.

I remember after about a dozen of exact change cheap beers, coach scooped up what remained of that ungodly pile of change and stuffed it in his pocket.

I remember he didn’t leave a tip, not even a stray penny or a lucky quarter.

I remember thinking, I bet Boyle actually does know this guy.

I remember wishing I got his name but thinking, somehow, Boyle would just know who it was if I ever got to talk to him which wasn’t likely.

Sounds of Work

Works going on down the street.

I can’t see it, but there’s plenty

Of noise coming this way. There’s

The noise of machines and trucks

Coming and going – grinding and

Whirring and crunching, the usual

Sounds of men at work; no, better

Yet – the eternal sounds of work

Getting done. The gangs of slaves

Slaving over the pyramids must

Have sounded like this. All that

Sand and geometry playing out.

Or the sound of that day they built

Rome. The Colosseum alone must

Clamored, like this, for attention. 

I’m feeling what all those Pharaohs

And Emperors must have felt with

Noise playing out down their streets.

My gathering may be smaller, but

With all their machines and voices

Raised in the eternal workmen’s

Chorus about building, the sound

Must be almost the same.

         $50.20

The amount is there

Hanging in space.

I owe them

This amount.

It’s overdue.

I owe an overdue

Amount.

They’re sure I do.

This second notice

Seems serious.

They’ll offer a plan

To pay the amount

Over time

Monthly installments.

When I ask why I owe

This overdue amount

They become vague.

I just wonder

How I can owe and

They can’t tell me

Any details about

What they did or

What I might have done

To get this

Now overdue amount.

                   11:07

11:07 it says, even though 11:08

Is ready to pop up, a foregone

Conclusion. It does that, keeps

Moving up, moving along. It’s time

And never waits, is never polite

About the way it treats us. There

Once was the minute hand always

Sweeping along, chasing us as we

Made the best of what’s happening.

Now the numbers in the bottom left

Corner of the screen measure us

Push us, pull us, threaten us, cajole

Us, remind us, remind us of these

Numbers piling up. Am I late again?

Early? Then, what’s next to do, to be

Done? 11:07 is moving fast, is getting

Away, became 11:08, 09 …. While I

Was sitting here trying to still their

Shifting, their forever mounting up.

It’s now 11:26. 19 minutes have gone

By, disappeared into where I’m going

Moving into time, becoming part of

The past that’s kept carefully by my

Laptop, down in the left-hand corner

Just above the day/month/year that

I’m stuck in.

We Are Children!

We make the world go round

but we are taken to the ground

We make ourselves ready to be used

but we are abused!

We make the world a proud place

but we are pushed aside in many ways!

We make up the figure

but we  are not shown the gesture!

We make forgiveness our priority

but we are faced with cruelty!

We make the truth our watch-word

but we are influenced by the Liar’s Rod!

We make the world one

but we are treated as none!

We make freedom play out itself

but we are stuck in the growing years of  self!

We make ourselves happy at school

but we are not just cool!

We make our elders better brethren

but we are children!

(E)

Family

I am the symbol of unity

I am the showcase of magnanimity

I am the reason for marriage

I am not regarding age

I am the room where my members rage

(Yet) I am the reason for the home

I am the husband’s and wife’s foam

I am the reason man and wife stay warm

I am the inspiration behind children

I am the very society’s pen

I am “Love Reign Supreme”

I ensure all members are at their prime

I put the very needed effects in the home on time

“Who are you?” asks Mr. Rhyme.

I simply reply: I am Family.

Nervous

I was always a nervous 

little boy, negotiating 

playground perils,

the bigger, louder 

boys, girls, figuring 

when and how to kiss

Patty under the wild 

cherry tree. (The why 

remained an enigma.)

My apprehension 

loomed from more

malevolent origins: 

a dark violence,

a cruel neglect, 

too many horrific events,

a long list efficiently 

repressed. (But we won’t 

get into that, will we?)

My symptoms manifested: 

my belly, a perpetually 

clenched little fist;

my frequent and 

spontaneous bloody

nose on the school bus; 

my peculiar and relentless 

obsessions and compulsions.

Now gray, nearly sixty, 

that small, anxious child 

huddles, cringes, 

desperate for a quiet, 

unobtrusive corner.

The Dead Man

When she was still young,

When we were yet a family,

My mother found a dead man,

A very dead dead man,

On her way home from work,

Drudgery at the carry-out.

Old Mr. what’s-his-name

Had been raking leaves

In his yard, that tiny red

Bungalow on Martinsburg Road.

I could guess at her usual

Oscillation between shock, curiosity,

And annoyance over the bother.

Did she poke at him a bit, feel

For his pulse before seeking help?

(Years later, a girl I danced with

In the Pleasant Street Junior High

Cafeteria made her first home

With her new husband there.

I imagined the dead man still

Breathing, raking, poking about.)

In the kitchen, after supper,

Mom and Dad whispered

And joked over her adventure.

I thought, as there was no one

But my mother to find him,

Shouldn’t we be a little sad, a little 

Thoughtful over the dead man,

Old Mr. what’s-his-name?

How was it when, her turn,

Someone found my mother dead, 

Alone in her bed long after her 

Mania and violence split us apart?

Did they whisper and joke about

My mother at their kitchen table?

What If You Were a Psycho Poe?!

 Inspired by Boston-born poet Edgar Allan Poe

What if you were a psycho Poe?

Would you read poems to me as wolves howl by moonlight?

Would you be that “uncle uncouth kook”

who scurry around with a black cape at night?
Would you read to me about your obsession with your

  elderly neighbor with the “evil eye” and

  how in your madness you dismembered and buried him below your thighs ?!

Would you tell me about your pet bird “Raven”?

And that you often think about stuffing it in your oven?

Would you tell me incendiary tales of lurking males whose

                murderous prowess never fails? 

True! VERY true-you could be a shadowy vision in the night
Hiding in your own fermented fright
No friends or foe abide in your sight
Only you seem to be the lone one under the cover of night
HAWK! HAWK! Who goes there?!

And in that moment truth be true,

why you’re undertaking your own entombment

Resulting from autonomous nervous system reactions to loveless threats

Resorting to becoming a kook who cooks his pets!

An embodiment of dysfunctional patterns of psycho prototypes

Practicing man-made madness archetypes

    negative neurological feedback loops succumb to lunacy

Living on chilling hills in your ominous haughty chateau

Where you’re likely to take down your victims

disguised as guests with just one blow!

Below you sit a body of water where bare bodies are submerged

      and nightmares come true

And as mounting bodies are stacked,

To Boston you’ll turn your back too!

Your traumas, your wounds your trials

Lead to your passions your purpose

That which makes your pig lust hideous heart beat faster at midnight

Amidst the night when one longer stick lie atop a shorter stick and the

Coo coo c (l) ock COMES oooouuuuut to flip you his bird!

A ghastly desire that you must retire

Sunken shadowy “eye” peeping peep holes

Maladroit cataracts heal their woes

Oh! good god! this tell-tale is finally told!!

Now this heart no longer bears a confession to behold…–

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and a literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…  He has been published in prestigious publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.–

The bird in the blue sky pauses wing motion and hovers, glides, surveying something. Those fields are open and not. They are interesting to imagine from a Carlos Castaneda type view, a would-be mystical lens. Sky and ground and sky and ground what’s all around? There are impossibly tall hydro lines, looking like stationary monsters, and their wires go down just a little bit, right?- if you watched them from car windows long ago you know this and you probably know this anyhow. They are comprising something from another world in the midst of those lands. A copse of trees near, winter branches barren and lonesome, jutting upwards in airs, also still and bereft of life. Grey. They are grey and I wonder if anything besides the black and grey squirrels traverse ‘round them. 

Hawk. The bird is a hawk. Another one arrives and they seem to sway as if on invisible strings in a cosmic play. Then they move along and soon disappear. There is then nothing. Water flows along a stream, as a stream, and on the inside ridges are formed icicles half melted and looking for some reason like champagne glasses, dozens of them in each group as one goes along.

There must be deer and coyote that go past at some point. Nocturnal? Coy? Like some spirit totem animals. Rabbit. The summer snake, dragonfly, butterfly maybe also. Other things. There is always more than one thought. Other worlds. Could be spirits if metaphysics is true. What then watches?- deva, sprite, fairy, limbo soul earthbound spectre happy angry or sad phantoms?- I don’t know. Pebbles. Stones. Some bricks at certain passages. Places where water traces lines on hills and follows them down into the larger water. Sojourns for precipitation. Beingness. The natural world of wildflowers and animals, of flora and fauna plus the ground in any season and the skies, are better than social constructs and the infrastructure of metropolis and even the quaintest of towns. 

Hue. Realm. Language gives the possibility of poems and poets, so that’s good, the benevolence of idiom, diction, slang and formality both,  doesn’t go too much farther than that, or so I would think anyhow. 

Existence raw. Those hawks. Flowing water. Those things were before and will be after. We just enter for a little while. If there is the transmigration of souls, a continued journey after, fine, good and well. If not, it’s a win-win situation as there would be no ‘us,’ ‘soul,’ or consciousness to be disappointed anyhow. If we are dust and ash, far less than the beautiful winter hawks, far less than even a field mouse, far less than a part of a dying flying falling petal, then so be it, and that world, which is the real world, universally and scientifically, physically, is okay, has to be okay. It has its own eternal flare, glare, and stare. 

Soon the wind arrives and goes along the branches and distant lakes, around tall golden growths like wheat proud and together in the middle of somewhere. But it’s cold. It doesn’t carry the true and desired warmth that spring air can sometimes, the type of warmth that assuages the trouble of many souls for a minute, and inclines them to shift perspective towards minor but important comments such as, ‘Spring is coming,’ or, ‘I heard it’s going to get really warm next week,’ and, ‘I’d like to clean the outside places of some leaves soon…’ no, the wind is not from an auspicious poem them, but still cold and it is also like this: winter, a guest that one thought left but hadn’t. Thought: ‘Oh, they are still here. They had left the room momentarily and I took it that they left the greater house and grounds. But they are here. What’s more, they don’t even look like they getting ready to leaving.’ 

Oh how  it goes like that. But it’s nice, the company of the competent bird there. Hover again just like then, no?- over the hydro lines monstrous, above the stream, perhaps as spirits watch on, by the great glen that leads to wide and wild side boulders. Hover and glide for a few seconds more. 

Θέμα: Poem – Writing from a situation of war

It’s a deeply tense and uncertain time here in Jammu and Kashmir, India. Any moment could escalate into something devastating. Still, we must hold on to faith. Let’s pray for everyone’s safety… and if this turns out to be my last day here, may we find peace in our hearts.

I am writing my poems  

I Carried Books into the Silence
When we first shifted to this new home,
I walked into my new room and felt the emptiness settle in me.
The silence was loud, the walls unfamiliar.
But I brought my books all of them 
as if anchoring myself to something deeper,
something eternal.

I became stubborn, defiant 
refusing to leave behind what feeds my soul.

Now, even in the shadow of war,
with chaos looming and choices shrinking,
I carry books not clothes, not comforts 
but books and my laptop.

If this is a battlefield, let it be known:
I march armed with words.
And if I fall,
let me fall as a martyr to learning,
to wisdom,
to the stubborn hope of a modern philosopher 
one who chose peace and prosperity for the generations to come,
who spoke of the oneness of humanity,
so that somewhere, someone,
who dreams of making this world a better place,
may do so with peace, with purpose, and with passion.
Because even when the world forgets the quiet fighters,
those who choose thought over violence,
books over weapons,
and creation over destruction 
their legacy lives on,
not in monuments,
but in minds they awaken,
in hearts they soften,
in the light they leave behind.

Let my life not be measured by survival,
but by the seeds I planted 
of kindness, courage, and consciousness.

Let the next generation know
that amidst all noise,
someone once believed in stillness.
That in a time of breaking,
someone chose to build.

And if my story ends here,
let it echo not with sorrow,
but with the soft turning of pages,
the steady tap of keys,
the whispers of wisdom
still moving forward 
for I lived not just to breathe,
but to leave behind breath for others.

And if history forgets my name,
may it remember my intent.
That I lived not as a bystander,
but as a bearer of light 
choosing books when the world chose bullets,
choosing words when silence grew cruel.

For in every page I carried,
I carried hope.
And that,
perhaps,
is enough.

If It Had Been My Last Day
In the shadow of war, where time is fragile,
Where every heartbeat could be the last,
I stand, breathing deeply in the storm,
wondering:
If this were my last day,
what would I leave behind?

I see the faces of those I love,
flickering like candle flames in the wind,
tender and fleeting.
Would I have said enough?
Would my silence have spoken louder than the cries of battle?

In this chaos,
where bombs drown out reason and fire burns hope,
I hold onto something deeper 
the quiet power of love,
the unshakable belief that knowledge, compassion, and peace
are the only things we truly carry.

I would not leave behind riches,
nor the hollow comforts of fleeting life.
What value would they have
when the earth quakes beneath us
and all that remains is the echo of our choices?

But I would leave behind words 
words that refuse to be silenced,
that rise from the ashes of destruction.
Words that seek to heal, to build,
to light a path through the darkness of war.

And if my life ends here,
let it be known
that I lived not in fear,
but in defiance of the chaos.
Let it be known that I chose peace,
even in the face of the storm,
and that I chose books 
the eternal flame of learning,
the salve for a broken soul.

If this was my last day,
I would not ask for glory or accolades.
Instead, I would ask that somewhere, someone,
finds solace in the words I left behind.
That they carry them into a world still torn apart,
a world that has yet to heal.

And when the war ends,
when the dust has settled and the smoke clears,
may they remember not the weapons I faced,
but the wisdom I chose to share.

For in the end, it is not the fight that defines us,
but the peace we dare to pursue
and the love we choose to leave behind
to guide others through the wreckage.

If it had been my last day,
let it be said that I lived
not just for myself,
but for the possibility of tomorrow,
a tomorrow where kindness, courage, and knowledge are the legacies we build.
– Author Haroon Rashid

Biography:  

ABOUT AUTHOR HAROON RASHID

Haroon Rashid is an internationally celebrated Indian author, poet, and humanitarian whose soul-stirring words transcend borders, cultures, and languages. Revered as “a movement of thoughts” and “a soul that breathes through verses,” he is a global ambassador for peace, education, and sustainable development. Through literature, he fosters empathy, cultural harmony, and a collective vision for a better world.

KEY LEADERSHIP ROLES
• Global Ambassador & International Member, Global Federation of Leadership & High Intelligence A.C. (Mexico)
• SDG Ambassador (SDG4 & SDG13), World Literary Forum for Peace & Human Rights
• National Vice Chairman, Youth India – Mother Teresa International Foundation
• Peace Protagonist, International Peace Forums – Mexico & Greece
• Honorary Founding Member, World CP Cavafy

AUTHOR & LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS
• We Fell Asleep in One World and Woke Up in Another – poetry book, translated by 2024 Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Eva Petropoulou Lianou
• Author Haroon Rashid Quotes – A soul-deep treasury of reflections
• Works translated into: Greek, French, Persian, Urdu, Arabic, Chinese, Tamil, Hindi, Sanskrit, German, Indonesian, Bolivian, and more.

GLOBAL HONORS & AWARDS
• Diploma de Honor al Mérito – Mexico (2025)
• World Art Day Honor – Indonesia (2025)
• Friedrich von Schiller Award – Germany
• 4th World Gogyoshi Award – Global Top Vote (2024)
• 1st Prize – Silk Road International Poetry Exhibition (2023)
• Golden Eagle Award – South America (2021 & 2023)
• United Nations Karmaveer Chakra – 2023 & 2024
• REX Karmaveer Chakra – Silver & Bronze – India
• Global Peace Award – Mother Teresa Foundation (2022)
• Cesar Vallejo Award – UN Global Marketplace
• Honorary Doctorate in Humanity – La Haye, France (2021)
• Sir Richard Francis Burton Award – European Day of Languages
• Prodigy Magazine USA Award – Literary Excellence
• Certificates of Honor – Greece, Serbia, Indonesia, Mexico
• Honorary Award for Literature & Arts – Trinidad & Tobago

GLOBAL PRESENCE & RECOGNITION
• Invited Guest on The Oprah Winfrey Show
• Featured in O, The Oprah Magazine
• Speaker at:
• International Peace Day – Mexico & Greece
• 3rd International Congress of Education – Mexico
• Paper Fibre Fest – Represented India in China, Greece, Mexico, Peru
• UN SDG Conferences, Global Literary & Peace Forums
• Work featured in education campaigns, peacebuilding initiatives, and cross-cultural literary dialogues
• Admired by global celebrities, educators, artists, and policymakers

CULTURAL AMBASSADOR OF INDIA
• Embodies India’s timeless storytelling, spiritual ethos, and peace traditions
• Bridges Indian philosophy with global consciousness
• Revered as an ethical thought leader, visionary poet, and global voice of unity

PHILOSOPHY & SOCIAL VISION

Literature, for Haroon, is a sacred space for:
• Healing, empathy, and consciousness
• Advocacy for:
• Mental Health Awareness & Emotional Resilience
• Climate Action & Sustainability
• Spiritual Depth & Interfaith Harmony
• Youth Leadership & Cultural Preservation

He aims to inspire changemakers, dreamers, and peacemakers across generations.

GLOBAL PRAISE & LOVE

Described as:
“A movement of thoughts.”
“A soul that breathes through verses.”

Celebrated across Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas, Haroon is loved for his:
• Authenticity
• Emotional depth
• Literary brilliance
Honored by governments, universities, and global literary councils.

TITLES & GLOBAL IDENTITY
• Global Literary Icon
• Award-Winning Author & Poet
• International Peace Advocate
• Global Educator of the Heart
• Cultural Diplomat & Ethical Leader
• SDG Voice for Education & Environment
• Voice of Peace, Passion, and Purpose

QUOTE BY AUTHOR HAROON RASHID

“It’s our responsibility to create a better world for our future generations.”

CONNECT WITH HAROON RASHID
Follow and engage across all platforms:
@AuthorHaroonRashid
(Facebook, Instagram, X/Twitter, LinkedIn, YouTube, Threads, and more)