Hour Twenty Four- Sunrise

The ruby and the sunrise are one.

Nothing can help me but that beauty.


Every night, bewildered in love.

You laugh like the sun coming up, laughs at a star that disappears into it.


To praise the sun is to praise your own eyes.

I live for that first second In the morning.


You are the loudest and brightest colour of my life.

The universe is a brilliant writer, it wrote your name in my stars.


If you wish to hear, I’ll keep going on.

You are the peace after wars.

I wake up dusting away my sins.


We belong nowhere and everywhere.

Isn’t it breathtakingly beautiful?


Source: A remixed poetry composed from poetry collections by Noor Unahar, Rumi, and Rupi Kaur.

Hour Twenty Three- Feathers


You are like the bird with those countless feathers.

Like the feathers,  life too has countless stories!

Some unrevealed and some like the open book!


You are the bird migrating from barren lands to fluvial waters.

In this expedition of yours, you will seek nothing but parched acres at times,

Where you will quench for thirst and you realize you have to fly anyway!

Life too is like the bird, where you need to make it through the sterile lands to gratify your thirst!


Your feathers are like the countless stories, some unrevealed, and some like the open book!

In this journey of yours, you will shed each feather.

Leaving behind those stories to incarnate new ones.

And while you flew across the meadow, the shepherd found your feather!

He gazed skyward and there was nothing but the summer sky and Fohn Winds,

While you take flight from the corners of this world, you will come across many shepherds finding your feather.

Where they will wonder which bird did this story belong to.

You are the bird with your share of unrevealed tales.

The stranger, like the shepherd, will pick your story.


While you take flight across the skies, may your wings have fortitude.

May your story lift the feet of the dreamer from the ground!

And even though you shed each feather,

May your story remind the dreamer that it is ok to lose a few feathers.

May the shepherd find those feathers,

May the stranger know your story!


-Vidhi Ashar


Note: This poem was written with reference to Prompt 22 which was an image prompt.

Hour Twenty Two- Bed of Lilies



I am done with looking at this ceiling.

It looks like an empty diary to me.


I want to go to that place,

Where it has a bed of yellow and white lilies.


I am done with switching sides of this cotton bed.

The bed of yellow and white lilies is infinite.

On the bed of lilies, I want to laze around in ten spots.

Five spots on the yellow ones

And five, on the white ones


I am done with  looking at this ceiling,

It looks like an empty diary to me.

I want to switch between those spots

Where the sky shifts along too.

As I lie down, I turn another page.

The sky writes ten poems for me.


Vidhi Ashar


Note: This poem is written with reference to Prompt 20, writing about something we long for.

          In this COVID 19- pandemic, most of us yearn to travel right now.


Picture Source: Pinterest

Hour Twenty One

trust the voice

that is important to the world.


Source: A blackout poem composed from the excerpt of the Book, The Zahir by Paulo Coelho.

Hour Twenty- Unwind


Come closer to the door, where the ray of light calls upon you.

 Loosen those knots, get closer to the world!

Unwind, look at the sky with white paint smudged all over.

Unwind, weave your imagination and tell me what you find!

Does the cloud look like a pony?

Or does it look like a pup playing fetch?

Does it look like a lion in deep thought?

Or does it look like the wolf that howls?

Unwind, get out of that black room

Somewhere far, the northern lights await you!

-Vidhi Ashar


An AfterthoughtI am from India and it is afternoon right now. But the beauty of darkness always lingers within me.


Note: This poem is written with reference to Prompt 20 which involves writing about the light of any kind.

Hour Nineteen


The eye with its frayed edges,

something in me can

deeply unfold


Source: A collage+ erasure poem composed from the cutouts of the Traveller Magazine Series.

Hour Eighteen- European Breeze



Winter was not always about icy mountains, snowflakes and Santa.

Sometimes winter was about a walk on Charles Bridge,

Where the cold European breeze mystified the ancient vicinity,

Where the waters underneath swayed, when the gust of air nudged along!

Where the breeze reminded me of wind chimes,

Where the wind touched prayers of the soul, along with morning Church bells.


Winter was not always about icy mountains, snowflakes, and Santa.

To me, winter was about strolling on this boulevard, beautified with hazy mornings.

Where I wandered aimlessly during quiet hours,

Where the street lamps shed light over the dew that sparkled like diamonds on the window pane.


Winter was not always about icy mountains, snowflakes, and Santa.

Sometimes winter was about being right here, in this place called Prague!

-Vidhi Ashar


Note: This poem  is an imaginary one, written with reference to Prompt 18, a narrative poem set during a holiday



Hour Seventeen


The poet can wait for her.

That night, I understand a little about life. 


Source: A blackout poem composed from the Excerpt of the Novel, The Zahir by Paulo Coelho



Hour Sixteen- Special Chords

The audience had dispersed.

The claps have ended.

The spotlight is still on him.

As I close the door of this chamber,

 All that remains is dust, his silhouette, and me.

After each show, he remains in that same spot, continuing to play the piano.

I wonder as to why he stayed back.

Does the spotlight cast a musical spell on him to keep him etched with it?

My curiosity is not as enormous as my acceptance.

I observe this set of chords.

The chords that he plays in the show, are swift and smooth.

They seem like runners on a marathon or

They shuffle like the dance partners for different pairings.

 Right now, he plays mellow ones.

The ones that feel like an old couple singing to songs of their time.

These chords feel like white silk draped over me.

Where time is still and my conscious is at warmth.

To be in silence with him was my acceptance of him.

His smile answers many of my questions.

Maybe I am the one casting a spell on him.

Maybe I am the one he stays back for. 

These specials chords are only for me.

And only this chamber, dust, and his silhouette shall know.

Vidhi Ashar


Note: This poem is written with regard to Prompt 16, writing a poem about love, without using the word in it.

Hour Fifteen- Clouds of Wisdom

It’s 9:06 am now.

An hour at this flight has passed.

Outside, I  see tiny dots.

They look like sapphire stones floating at the sky ocean.

And below, the world looks like the colorful leftovers of a dish.

Why does everything up high feel gratifying?

Perhaps, the mind is also the same.

The higher you go, you will be at an unwavering stance.

Living in this world will get a lot easier.

Look around, the smoke shall not choke you,

As you, have the clouds of wisdom within you.

-Vidhi Ashar


Note: This poem was written with the reference to Prompt 15, about a plane trip