I write without ink, I vanish in rain, On black I am white, Yet leave no stain. What am I?

I cover ground but claim no land, And clouds rise only at my command.

I can be made of paper and float through the sky, or made of metal to carry or hang by your side. I am a trusty companion to any traveller and house a flickering soul. What am I?

Small and worn close to the heart, I open to reveal what you keep dear. A tiny place for memories or faces. What am I?

A pendulum pivoting around a single point, out on yonder playground as a popular pastime. Ah, how the youths propel themselves to such ponderously great heights.