On occasion you might see me sweetly striped, I'm a friend to the unsteady. You might need me year round, or hang me up when you're ready. With nothing to hold me, I'll take a spill, but if we work together as a team we rarely will. What am I?

I act as a vehicle to transport clothes, Though some of you might treat me as laundry's place of repose. If you're mentally unsound you might be said to be my case. Once made of woven fibres though, now plastic is often my base.

You might use these to drink out of. Velma Dinkley is always losing them. They help correct a sense that is impaired. And come as a pair though they're together as one.

A mark drawn with purpose, not with flair, A secret sign shaped from thought or prayer. Silent in form, yet a symbol of power I show.

I am a berry though not the sort you pick in a bowl,I wear a yellow coat that freckles like old scroll. I hang in hands but never learn to clap, and every single one of my small teeth is dead a ghostly map. What am i?