We’ve all heard of someone having a comfort zone. To our own extent we all have one. It’s a place where the planets align, we feel connected and the world and words flow through us. All is write with the world. That’s not a typo. We as writers have our own “zone”. It’s the place where we write our best poems. It is a certain subject about which we write. It can be a particular form that gets our expression through every time. Maybe we write with a purple pen (wink, wink), or we wait until the house is quiet where our muse is waiting. We all have a comfort zone.

Today’s prompt is to use a similar example or find something that gives you comfort or makes you comfortable when you’re writing poetry. Write your poem about your space and what brings the best out of you. Get in the zone and write what it feels like. We’d like to know.



Glides to and fro,
my backyard swing,
as if it knows
the rhythm it brings

matches my heartbeats,
catches a breeze–
even in afternoon heat.
My pad on lap, upraised knees.

If I need inspiration,
garden statues are on hand–
White Rabbit’s postulations,
Mad Hatter’s brand of grand.

I envision a wacky tea party,
guests dressed in yellow bows
laughing, drinking–some tardy–
as I glide to and fro.



next to me on couch.
Pillow on my lap, pad resting
on top, thick-lined, fresh page,

waiting for my pen to write
purple words and thoughts conjured

from imagination, daydreams,
and real life’s present sights.

(C) Sara McNulty – 2016




I sit in the Lazy Boy,
making it earn its name,
playing this game of find
the poem in the minutia.
One foot on the floor gentling
rocking, undulating while waiting
for my words to hum. Earl Grey
steaming in the cup beside me.
It provides me with the peace I seek.
With each sip I take, I break
the silence of my mind. Every time.
My rhyme finds its place,
and it fills my space perfectly.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

162 thoughts on “PROMPT #182 – IN THE ZONE

    Drive On Drive On

    A drive can empty my clapboard thoughts,
    tumbling lines when I drift and drown.
    I have my pencil. Paper. Always here.
    You drive, and I’m your passenger.
    Drive on, drive on,
    hear those tyres, so lost in their hum,
    they speak, associative preening,
    it seems to me, and I’m addicted to words,
    my perpetual pills, so
    drive on, drive on.
    It’s the simple things that bring you on.


    My head wrapped tightly in day-dream gauze
    I hardly notice the rest of me
    Floating in outer space, far away
    From words strung together in poetry

    Ransacking the silos of my mind
    I search the dusty waiting boxes
    Filled with ideas begging to be lines
    That dance and sing across the pages

    I am the boy let loose in Candyland
    Who fills his knapsack with verbs and nouns
    Leaping from storage in the wooden darkness
    Crying out to be taken away

    Through the gauze I see the world unmoving
    A still life frozen in timelessness
    Somewhere a country song reminds me
    You gotta go away to come back home

    on the poet tree I hang some words
    to save the lost from loneliness
    perhaps we can join voices and sing
    and those of us who wish can dance

  3. Thought I’d drop this one in before church. Something I wrote a few years back. I’ll gen up something fresh when I get a chance.
    How the mind of a writer behaves

    The words flow freely on Monday late
    When busy shopping with my love
    No pad or pen
    The mind too weak
    To remember the details
    For later

    Then Tuesday morning early
    With cobwebs in the brain
    The ideas flow
    But all for naught
    So I scribble notes
    For later

    Then time allows me to sit
    Screen on and fingers ready
    To pen the words
    That others will read
    Then my minds shuts down
    Until later

    I wake from a sound sleep
    A story sparked by a dream
    I power up the PC
    Ready fingers and brain
    The dream will resurface

    Then while checking my email
    The flood of words overtakes me
    And I tear up the keyboard
    Writing page after page
    In a trance that lasts
    Until later

    No proofing, no spell check, or grammar
    No worries ‘bout how it may sound
    The word flow so free
    No break time for me
    And I can always rewrite it

    • The point: I really don’t have a favorite place. The trouble is, and I’m sure many can relate, that the ideas and words come at the most inconvenient times (like driving in heavy traffic, on the throne, in the shower, when there’s no way to write it down or even make notes, in a dream, or any of many other situations). And the thought tend to flee before the computer is booted up or one can find a pen and paper. I’ll bet we’ve all lost thousands and thousands of great ideas and words over the years. And many, and I mean very many, never seem to return.

    • I’ve often tried to remember dreams, thinking some might make good poems, and I can NEVER remember them. I know exactly what you mean.

    • They say keep a dream journal, but eyes do not clear quick enough and seconds from awakening, the dream is gone. So instead of dreams, I’m writing real life and they’ll take a toll on me. Or fantasy takes over and … I understand fully Earl!

    • ah, the age-old dilemma of poets..pen but no poetry then poetry but no pen! I think many relate well to these scenarios! thank-you for sharing.

    • When muse, pen and paper all do get-gather, I can not worry about my unique way of spelling and grammar. ” “…can always rewrite…”. THANK YOU WALT for bringing spell check to the garden. 🙂


    winds blow,
    hypnotizing call
    away, come away, come away

    A Musing About Writing Space

    My muse cares not for neatness, nor for clutter.
    When irritable, she makes my pen run out of ink.
    And if my computer crashes, she will be all a-flitter and a-flutter
    and she’ll sniggle and giggle. But then she says, “Oh…all right.”
    In fact, at that point, “Let’s get to work,” I’ve heard her utter
    (on occasion, anyway.) But the truth is, it doesn’t really matter
    whether it’s at my desk or in the gutter
    (well, not really) because, when inspiration comes ‘round, I think,
    It’s time to write, and not just sit around and putter.


    Poem Zone

    Like reclining in a plane seat
    jetting off to fun places,
    I recline in the living room and
    venture to the land of poetry
    where anything can happen
    with no need to pay $7.00
    for a sandwich or settle
    for pop instead of hot tea
    with sugar and cream, or be
    squashed between passengers.

    Sometimes take-off is difficult
    so I play a few games of WWF
    and borrow the best words
    for lines for my poems,
    exploring the landscape,
    playing and having a little fun.
    Sometimes there’s turbulence
    or long layovers of busyness.
    But overall the trip’s short
    with a soft landing.

  7. Good challenge. I’m looking forward to reading how everyone gets in that zone and what it looks like. Love that we have three pushes in the right direction with the three interesting examples.

    The Oh-Zone

    Windows facing north and east
    Coffee poured, a poet’s feast
    Oh, the lovely countryside
    As dark yields to morning-tide

    Turn computer on, here goes
    What will be? Nobody knows
    Close my eyes, grit versus grace
    Shift my chair…type…hit back-space

    Lend the will of word to jot
    Befriend the venture of thought
    Where and how and why, oh my
    Troll the deep and touch the sky

    Startle the page with a prayer
    Grapple with hope and despair
    “Tock” says clock and “Ach”, says I
    How a poet’s hours fly!

    Want and will and whispers war
    Taunt and thrill and groan implore
    Vexation and pleasure vie
    Dawn expands and fills the sky

    Fear and courage interlace
    Oh, the bliss of grit and grace
    Shift my chair…type…don’t delete
    Task and tsk-tsk-tsk compete

    © Janet Martin

    Splashing words

    I have no idea why
    water organizes my words
    but when my feelings need to become poetry
    I take a shower and verses come out of me as the day washes away.

    Of cours I can’t write
    while the shower nozzle splashes
    so the words repeat in my head like an echo
    becoming a permanent expression of all I wanted to say.

    INVENTION’S FOE (a Sonnetina Tre)

    What right have I to claim a poet’s heart?
    What write have I inside this heart I feign?
    What depth of wisdom have I to impart,
    Or story that’s not dreary, nor inane?

    Perfectionism is invention’s foe:
    Methodically it stalls, then stops me cold.
    I want to breathe and let the words just flow –
    Exhale a poem exquisite to behold.

    My only hope to fight perfection’s sway?
    Curl up in something soft at end of day.

    © Marie Elena Good, 2016

    Among the Petunias

    My thoughts
    are flying
    and in the space
    between my fingers
    and the keyboard
    an emotional
    of tempting nectar
    my fingers to
    till they drip
    every sweet
    onto the page.

  12. Today a morning walk got me “in the zone”

    Morning Glory

    A patchwork of clouds says welcome,
    With hints of lilac sifted through the air;
    And the sun slows to make its presence,
    Giving nature a chance for prayer.

    The grass whispers of our disturbance,
    While strolling a path through pastures green.
    The field that slept is now awakened,
    With glory expressed in what is seen.

    Uncountable lenses glisten.
    Constellations placed at rest.
    Morning’s dew placed auspiciously,
    While the sun slipped deeply west.

    As the songbirds call and seek answers,
    Collecting morsels, and crafting nests;
    The mouse and hare seek sheltered slumber,
    Winning once again, owl’s nightly tests.

    Spring budding trees adorned in color,
    Orioles flirting, darting about.
    Distant meadowlarks in full chorus,
    With an occasional pheasant’s shout.

    Along the creek a stork like heron,
    Steps carefully, inspecting its meal.
    While the squirrel and blue jay squabble,
    Over who got the better deal.

    The dog pulls in hurried emergence,
    Sensing trails of long gone, passing game.
    And the geese fly overhead laughing,
    While they gracefully, glide from frame.

  13. Pingback: The Write Stuff | echoes from the silence

    The Great Big Candy Dish

    The shagbark elm branches shake in the breeze.
    Half a dozen squirrels are chasing a fantasy tail,
    spiraling to the tippy leafy top. Round and round
    and round they go. Where they drop only the poison
    ivy knows. I can laugh now at their antics outside

    my window which is open to the platitudes of crows
    sashaying on the back fence. Their seasonal scoldings
    are directed at me—get back to work, you infinite loafer.

    I am staring at the Great Big Book of Verse—a wonder
    of images overflowing in print. My mind drifts into
    the poet’s world. My left hand fumbles with the pages,

    while my right hand rummages through the Great Big Crystal
    Candy Dish for sweet/sour/salty/intriguing/boring/luscious/
    kanoodling/soothing/surprising phrases, contrary and

    I show them to my pen.

    And suddenly the white page is no longer my adversary.

  15. I’m really enjoying all these poems. My “zone” is not so much a place as a time–I love mornings. And I like writing in tanka style. But mostly I would consider my family to be my muse, especially my granddaughter. She is the Calliope that puts me in the right “zone.”

    My Calliope–
    carefree creative muse of
    mine, awakens the
    dawn with colorful laughter;
    fills my heart with wooing words.

  16. Pingback: Just Give Me One Swift – Slipping Minute | Metaphors and Smiles

  17. The Mind of Me

    Somewhere inside the mind of me
    Where words and thoughts and memories
    Converge upon my emotional wits
    With jabs and barbs and temper mental fits
    All daring me to organize
    Then rationally categorize
    These words and thoughts and memories
    Spinning ‘round inside the mind of me

    I try and try to classify
    To relate, to remember, to quantify
    To put these words and thoughts in line
    To write what’s right and truly mine
    For if I succeed in penning well
    My memories will live to tell
    Of moments in the life I’ve lived
    These stories will be what I give
    To those I’ll one day leave behind
    Stories from deep inside my mind

    I will enter into the mind of me
    And write these thoughts and memories
    That one day may an inspiration be
    To others with a mind like me

    © Earl Parsons

Comments are closed.